Veins, feathers.

April 30, 2010

I lay my arm out as instructed, palm up. My skin is so vulnerable-looking, like a baby’s. I look at it, blinking, not thinking.

“Uncross your legs, dear. When you are asleep, we don’t want your limbs going numb. You’ll only be under a short while, but still. Now relax. Is it easy to get a vein in your right arm?”

I nodded, squeezed my eyes shut, waited for the pinch, the feel of my vein giving itself up to the surgical needle, the slow spreading of icicles through my arm that would signal sleep floating down on me. Feathers in a breeze, caught mid-air, somewhere between wakefulness and the unfurling of heavy velvet curtains. A hand moved to untie the gold silk braids that kept the stage in sight, and —

When I came to, the nurse’s voice slapped at my ear. “You did beautifully. You’re fine, fine.” The surgery was done. I was fine. A week to recover. Feathers in a breeze.


You there.

April 21, 2010



No, not you. You…the one in the looking glass. You, there, little woman. Take a good look at yourself. You are divided and pieced into something different than you were a year ago, but you still exist somewhere beneath that image in the mirror, beneath skin and bone structure, flucuations in weight caused by stress or comfort eating, hair in a refined french twist or left to drift, abandoned, about your shoulders. You are still you.

God’s gonna give you something, believe it. Some kind of sign beyond a face awash in salt water, the sudden flood of tears that confronts you during your morning commute when you lose focus on the road and allow yourself to drift, where you imagine your phantom spectre waiting for you at your office doors. The phantom stands, cigarette dangling from a frown, leaning against the wall, arms crossed (rebel-style), and a helmut at his feet. You’ll get a sign beyond the punch in the gut you get every time you remember, bone-level, that the person you loved was not a person, never, not at all.

Nobody will ever be like the phantom spectre, it’s true. But take solace in knowing that, too, nobody will ever be like



The bend in the road.

April 15, 2010

She was driving, and the vehicle was familiar–a longtime companion, slightly in need of some bodywork. But reliable. Through very bad weather and roads that weren’t roads once she viewed them through her rearview mirror (they’d become muddy troughs when her vehicle’s rubber tires ate through them), through coughing engine problems and aeration pumps that failed, the car had somehow delivered her around the bend in the road.

It’s pretty here, she thought, one hand in her lap. One hand on the wheel.

A fledgling smile played with her mouth, and if there were a passenger with her, that rider would have heard the sound of humming.


Le mot juste.

April 12, 2010

It was exactly the word to describe it.

Taking glee in someone else’s misfortune, a prior person’s hurt, gossiping like sneering girls, mocking words that are written (and the history behind words), playing the workaday sleuth…all this, all caramel-candied Schadenfreude.


The vanity.

April 11, 2010

The vanity of blogs is that the writer supposes that the reader cares about the inner working of the poster’s mind. The vanity of (some) readers is that they imagine themselves somewhere between the lines of the sentences. If I write that this post is aimed at a reader somewhere across oceans, a reader somewhere might think, “I’m an ocean away. This is about me!” Perhaps that reader is correct, but often, the reader cannot know the truth. Suffice it to say…this blog is dedicated to the myriad influences in my life, and is in no way a journal aimed at any one person. That would be much too much, and much too simple.

(You’re so vain. You probably think this blog is about you.)

In other news, I’ve recently done a revamp of my writing submissions through In doing so, I dredged up some writing I drafted years ago. It’s exciting to revisit it and I may be posting some of it here soon, or on my alter-ego blog…facebook.


When the endings end.

April 3, 2010

Endings still hurt, though she has had her fair share, and surely a thin layer of protective numbness should have moved in by now? This ending still hurt, a hard-packed snowball hitting a naked and bent spine. Was it the cold of it or the punch of it that caused her to shiver? Even the memory of warm whispers (a lyric, from a song, from a playlist, on a device) cannot combat the icy abrasions from these April storms.

Endings still hurt.