four of my favorite quotes.

"Only once, and very late at night, did I run downstairs and out into the street with my pajamas on, gasping and watering, waiting for something-- a car? an angel?-- to come rescue or kill me, but there was nothing, only streetlights and a cat."    
Lorrie Moore, Anagrams

“I don’t belong here. I know that. But I don’t belong anywhere else, either. And that is at the heart of the black depression pressing down on me, flattening me. I have no place. No home. Sex, but no real affection. I am kept, but not cherished.”
Ellen Hopkins,  Tricks

“I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place.”
Michael Faudet

“I’m just dying to say, “Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?” or “Do you feel an emptiness inside your chest at night that is going to swallow you?” But you can’t say that at a cocktail party.”
Paul Gilmartin, The Mental Illness Happy Hour

we made it out to the other side.

I'm trapped in bouts of feeling everything and then nothing at all. If I let it go, I feel it in my gut. I close my eyes and I hear his words and all of the great things he stood for, and then I look at how rapidly that deteriorated. But to put all of this on a man is absurd, inaccurate mostly. Because as wonderful as that path seemed, I was never really following it out of a desire to reach the destination… but moreover because it seemed like the expected thing to do. Still, consciously making the effort to give things a try, to commit to someone (especially with my personal struggles against physical intimacy, being touched, being held) was big for me. Something about being bitten the first time I reached out rings in my mind, but it’s not even that… because if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not really that upset over it. I’m frustrated at the lost idea of what could have been one possibility, one of many.

I’ve been drifting apart from many of my friends lately. It isn’t that we’ve grown apart, even that our interests have suddenly changed. I feel this burden in myself, this raw edge that seems to taint everything I touch. Small and beautiful gestures make me angry, and I don’t know why. People asking me if I’m okay frustrates me, makes me want to bolt. The sadness kind of creeps in on me, and I get angry with myself that I let it affect me so much. Mainly.. I feel like I’m seeing things in a different scope, hearing things on a different frequency, and I can’t even begin to describe the slowness, the speed, the heaviness, the weight, the ache. And that’s what this is—my attempt to understand it, to write it down. Because maybe I’ll make it through to the other side and I’ll be able to look back at this and think oh yes, it was difficult, but it shaped me. It did this to me. It made me better.

Feeling nothing is not better—I’m not disillusioned enough to believe that. The numbness makes it hard to function, and I hate feeling like I’m crazy. I’m so tired, but I can never sleep. I’m existing.


A part of me is happy when I feel it all. The pain reminds me that I can feel things, and I write the best, sing the best, understand the most when it’s there. But it’s taxing, and as intense and bright as it can be, just as suddenly, it vanishes, and things are grey.

I'm drinking my coffee bitter because it suits this day.

They failed to realize that the perfume, the lipstick, the crisp dresses, and white smiles were all just wallpaper over rotting walls. Flimsy barricades against the shame and disgust.

Each day, each morning, she grew weary, waiting for the stains to seep through, for everyone around to see and be horrified. Still today, the anticipation of that moment coils deep inside, whispering fear and regret and grief.

and maybe she just really wanted to go dancing again.

He reminded her so much of a candle she’d long extinguished. His brilliant mind, his quick, brilliant mind.. oh, how it brought back memories! Memories of her love, her husband, of his smooth words and steadfast embraces. Memories of contraband whiskey, of tipsily dancing and leaning further into his embrace as he spun her. His grin was true, and each rotation brought that smile closer. Her heart fluttered at the very thought of it.

But this was years ago, and he was long gone. She’d been there, in the end, to hold his hand. They’d lived a beautiful life together, an exciting life, though she couldn’t help but feel robbed. Beautiful as their time was… it just hadn’t been enough. He’d told her once that he had a theory—people like him weren’t made to live long lives. They lived fully and greedily, consuming all of live, devouring it. What was it that he said? She cursed herself, for the words eluded her. She was no old woman, mind you—her mind was sharp. But the words slipped away, just out of grasp— a lost memory.

She looked down at the ring on her left finger; it had been years, but she would never remove it. The ache of a lost love would always be there, but now.. when she looked at the ring, she was reminded of the inside jokes, of conning the world, running, living beyond their means. They had a wonderful life, but God, how she missed him.

And maybe she just really wanted to go dancing again.

She sat there in the dark, let out a sigh, and straightened her shoulders in a dignified way. She rose and made her way to the window to lose herself in the hustle and bustle of the city.

He waltzed in, the delicate shuffle of his shoes on the wood echoing in the hallway.

His voice called out to her

She turned to face him, a delicate smile on her face.

“Over here, darling.”

He looked at her and saw—the two of them always saw, always had such an understanding. He reminded her so much of her love in that moment. Her eyes burned, and she fought to keep his gaze, to not look away. To look away would provide instant relief, but looking into those brilliant eyes of his… it was a drug within itself. And the pain of looking away wasn’t something she could take.

She’d never had children, but she imagined her child would be just like him. But no, he was so much more than that. He was the portal to a world she'd left behind, a world that had dissipated when her husband died. He was as much a part of her as the ring on her left finger. He was a friend, a kindred spirit, what she needed, and in exchange, she provided stability that he'd never known. He was a dance, a slow dance, a burning candle, a white-hot flame.

He took a step toward her.

“May I?” he asked, extending his hand. She smiled.

There’s no music, she almost said. Instead she gently rest her head on his shoulder, and the two of them swayed to the music of the city, of the cars. If he felt the tears on his shoulder, he didn’t say anything. He just held her closer.

more myth than man

The following is an excerpt of a short story I'm working on. I came to a friend of mine with the piece, and she created a staggering illustration to go along with it. 

It was a Friday evening, just past seven o’clock. It had been an uneventful day, characterized by its ordinance.  He’d read the paper, a past-time that young men his age didn’t really appreciate these days, had walked briskly to the convenience store just down the road (he’d needed sugar), and had spent his afternoon browsing the religion section at a local bookstore. Reading about other religions made him believe that pieces of those religions, the words and feelings of holiness, could stick to him.

All in all, the day had been simple enough. There was no cause for him be anything but content. Nothing bad had happened to him. Even the sun was shining. Flowers were in full bloom. Birds were chirping.   

Regardless, he felt an ache in his heart, something he couldn’t quite explain. It was the sort of twinge that was ingrained in his being. To say he had become accustomed to it was generous; he had learned to set it aside, to compartmentalize his emotions. Nevertheless, when he closed his eyes, the words were there, imprinted, embedded: alone, alone, all alone. His mind seemed to mock and remind him; it was a cruel place, a frightening place, at times. 

Truly, though… was there anyone who could see? He wasn’t a loner by intention; , he had a tendency to build people up in his mind in such a way that they could never live up to the myth he’d created of them. Granted, he was surrounded by friends. There were people in his life who captivated him, though only peripherally. The outlines were tantalizing, though the characters themselves were lacking. This perception, all the while lending to his habit of building the myth and adding unrealistic shading to two-dimensional peers, awarded in further isolation. Nobody was what they should have been, in his mind, and reality could never live up.

Friends took him places, bought him coffee, and occasionally, he would succumb to the aching thud, the unrelenting weight he carried. In those fleeting moments, his eyes would tell. That was one thing that everyone noted about him; his eyes. Even with a smile, his eyes carried a heaviness to them; these eyes were wise and childish and grown and broken. They saw and peered into people and places, seemingly pulling the spirit from things, taking energy and sucking strength from the world in a futile attempt to dull the aches.   

Still, he would succumb and would voice his woes on rare occasions-- occasions of the mundane, of the ordinary, of the utterly simple. He would give his time away, accept invitations (that seemed forever pouring in), take it all in. Still, he felt an inexplicable sadness that he could never quite place; how he wished he could understand it.

The darkness seemed poetic in the sense of drinking your coffee black at midnight in the rain with a candle burning. On paper, it sounded melancholy and deep and haunting, but to live it… to live it was a hell in itself.

Others would describe him as a kind person, a warm person, if not a controlled person. He never gave all of himself, and he only said I love you when he was drunk. Even then, in the slurred drawl of sweet nothings, he held back. 

One time, on a Tuesday night if he was recalling correctly, he’d longed to reach across the table, to comfort his friend, to say hello with the brush of lips on soft lips. He didn’t and instead cleared his throat, offering to get the next round of whiskey. He felt that he didn’t have enough of himself to let any go, to give any away.

And really, who could accept someone as fucked up as he was anyhow?  

At least, he thought bitterly, he would never be alone. The ache would see to that; with each thud, he would be reminded of that. For as long as he lived, for as long as he could write and speak and until his body decomposed, he would have the sadness. Could he even exist without it? Such a self-fulfilling prophecy this was that, fearing he had nothing to give, he held back. By building up the ideal people in his mind, by romanticizing his friends and relationships, and by his overzealous expectations, he isolated himself, ensuring that nobody could live up to his paradigm of perfection. He yearned for a rescue, but the small forms of salvation slipped past him day after day for they weren’t the grand gestures he had imagined. And so, nothing could compete with his mind, the brilliant mind that poisoned his heart. 

Sadness lingered -- it was his ghost -- but at least it lived up to the myth.

Illustration by Ali Hval

my empire of dirt

Hello, friends. I've been dabbling in a few more instruments lately (mainly, the mandolin and the cigar-box guitar), though this is my attempt at a country song with my trusty ukulele. I've never tried singing country before, although I do love the folksy-bluegrass country of the past.

Johnny Cash-- Hurt (cover)

Atoms, once drawn into the torrent of living matter, do not readily leave it.

I'm feeling very overwhelmed and discouraged. Everything is changing, and it's all I can do to hold on and ride it out. In the back of my mind, there is a ticking bomb. My senses are overwhelmed, and it's almost like I can feel every atom, every molecule. The weight around me is magnified and I feel like it could crush me.

Artwork by Julia Geiser