nine sentences

perhaps it was the cup of coffee at 3 p.m., or the hundreds of black and white photos – the tattoo artist, the bucket of fish, the sky over the ocean – or the puddle of melting snow i stepped in that purged me of my tears. or maybe it was last night’s insomnia or, more likely, my menstrual cycle who always manages to fuck with my emotions. all those things could have been the catharsis of the tears that dripped off my reddened nose and cheeks as i hurried along congress street to my door. but they weren’t. all i have to blame are nine stupid sentences. and one dumb bitch.

love and farts

Perhaps my latest love disaster could have been avoided if I’d remembered this important lesson from adolescence: real friends are the people you can fart around.

this deep thought is dedicated to molly shea, a true and beloved friend

silence

Lately, I’ve forgotten what’s so good about silence. I know silence, like green vegetables, fiber, and sleep, is good for me. I can vaguely recall a time when I actually scheduled “quiet time” into my day. I’d purposely find a place with no distractions, sit myself in it, and do and, more importantly, say nothing. I convinced myself I liked it (much like green vegetables, fiber and sleep). I convinced myself it was good for me. I convinced myself I ought to go about acquiring more of it. And then, somewhere along the way, I forgot all that.

The woman I love stopped talking to me about a month ago. The story goes something like this. We met. We started hanging out. We started making out. Then we started hanging out a lot more and making out a lot more. We spent hours in each others arms talking, kissing, falling in love. Sometimes I would wake in the middle of the night and find her hand still tenderly holding mine. I would kiss her back and whisper the question I could only utter in darkness, what if, my love, this does not last? I would fall back asleep peacefully, neither expecting nor needing an answer.

Then silence set in. First it was a few days. Then a week. Then more. She needed time, she said, time to herself. Okay, I replied, take your time. And I told myself to recall my comfort with silence. But as the silence goes on I cannot for the life of me remember what about silence I was once comfortable with.

For now though, when I wake in the middle of the night with no hand to hold and no ear to hear my whisper, it is enough to recall that I might remember again someday.