We interrupt this program

#12: You can tell yourself that 365 somethings will happen.

You can swear against the interruptus that is; hold yourself accountable for future somethings, and nothings, and everythings. In fact, I encourage it. I’ve always had a thing for failure.

For once, I’m just glad my excuse is that I have been living.

Between us chickens, the actual pursuit of life is heady, man. Real heady.

Re(w)ise

#11: “Writing workshop is like cultivating a fire for months or even years and having a bunch of people go whoosh.”

I’ve only been a graduate of my MFA program for six months, but I’ve been out of touch with the workshop game for nearly two years now. I am relieved. I’ve never been able to articulate how I felt about the experience until my friend Daniel gave me that genius little quote. He went on to say that the writing people bring to workshop is often half cocked and barely baked. First drafts, if that, instead of revised work that the writer has taken as far they can conceptualize. The writer has done the composition, but is now in need of a symphony.

You almost never get that symphony. You’re lucky to get a few on key squeaks. Eventually, I thought it fun to see the mythos deconstructed before my eyes, even when the process was painstaking and unhelpful.

And while I often didn’t find the writing or words in the way I wanted or needed, I think I found myself.

Also several bars.

What was this about again?

“Take, take, take–“

#4: I can still feel you next to me.

I hate that when it gets dark enough in my room, or in my head, that I’m there again–sophomore year, in a dorm room that smells like dueling man musk, with the glow of The Godfather video game for Playstation 3 (or was it 2???) hovering over our bodies. I was already drunk, but you pressed that bottle against my lips until I complied. You did it again, and again, until the images surrounding us were well-past muddled. Transcendent, even. You waited until I was pliant enough, when resisting felt as if I were pushing against the rock collective that make up Stonehenge.

I hate those words, prey and predator, because they imply an inevitability. They’re ingrained in the notion of eventual victimhood, but that’s what you did, right? When you told me to stay after everyone else had disappeared, when you smiled, when you chose to drink nothing because you were sick–you waited. Back when I used to think of waiting as a passive activity.

I’m not that foolish anymore.

Instead, in my dark, there are pinched nipples and cold hands down my jeans. There are words that you don’t hear. That you ignore.

And then there are things I remember and choose to forget.

But what you told me after killed me. I almost laughed, would have, had I not been so angry. They came at next day’s end after you spent hours chasing my ghost all over campus. You wanted to explain before I told someone ‘important’. I never did.

“I always liked you,” you said. 

That had I been your sister, a mythical being for you to foist your culpability upon, that you would be furious with that ‘other guy’. You gave these sentiments in between nervous apologies, but you might as well have said nothing. I would have preferred it.

You ruined me for a while, you know. I used to think you ruined me for other men, but I know better now.

I have evolved.

The Workplace Panopticon

#3: I’m in constant fear of being fired from my job.

While I’ve done nothing to upset the boat (in fact, the boss folk [with their alien heads] have been complimentary of the current workplace dynamic since my arrival), I still feel aloof. I crack lame jokes.

Someone let me into a secret club that gives money and healthcare and they haven’t noticed yet that I don’t belong.

I have a tail.

Un peu grande vérité

#2: I miss you, too.

You close your eyes when you laugh. For brief moments, you lean and hunch your shoulders; your arms cross. Your body is so beautifully overwhelmed with life, that it becomes concave. As if its natural response is to contain the expulsion. But why?

A laugh from you is joyful disintegration.