Wednesday, July 18, 2018


there are fireworks in the distance as you coast along a highway just south of the ohio and michigan border, grandiose lights and colors off to the north, but not too far, you think maybe perusing your phone you could find the town, the occasion. you remember as a kid on late night highway drives home from chicago or detroit wanting to know what each and every overpass lead to, the lights in the distance of cities and towns and countless stories of people existing in them completely unaware of the camry or mitsubishi you were in barreling down the highway. now you're obsessed with finding these fireworks, who, what, where, but google tells you nothing and at 80 miles per hour you're quickly beyond them and unable to assume they're due north of your location on the map. it's not a holiday and you assume county fair or something but in these northern ohio or southern michigan counties west and beyond detroit and toledo nobody really lives. maybe this was always the writer in you, seeing cars go by and wondering the driver's story, seeing these towns light up all miniaturized when above them in a plane, passing over countless decadent rejections of night time darkness, light pollution blaring louder than the sound of plane engines separated from your chair by just a small wall and window. maybe that's why sitting in an airport and having a drink or coffee and just observing was comforting. you'd imagine stories and be curious and observe and as a teen you used to say you liked the idea of people more than people themselves and maybe part of that is still true but then you meet someone wonderful and you think to yourself "gosh isn't that cynical." it's ok though because all the stories are gone. the blog you write in had the fewest visits in years, 5-10% of the traffic it used to get because you no longer put out 6, 7, 8 entries a month, you're now on... you can't even remember. 1.5 years? 2 years? 3 years? since you finished a short story. the other day you had an idea for a story and a blog post based on all these people, all these lights, all these nights and hushed confessions and observations but it was late and the idea was fleeting, just like the fireworks were, as the car motored down the highway, answer to your curiosity lost in the distance behind you, just another slowly unobservable object in a mirror closer than it appears.

Monday, July 16, 2018


It's been said that "variety is the spice of life" by a variety of people in a nearly endless enumeration of various walks of life. Indeed, similar sentiments can be found divulged in languages and cultures all over the world.

This is, of course, considered very different from spice used in regards to food. Spicy food is a source of pleasure for many, but also a source of heartburn and intestinal issues that render said consumption folly.

In many ways, then, one might say both "the spice of life" and "spicy hell ramen in Chicago" are, actually, extremely similar. For to pursue the former - vis a vis variety - one must often confront intestinal discomfort brought on by anxiety and stress, such that may upset one's stomach, not unlike one who struggles with chili peppers or ghost peppers consuming copious amounts of very spicy food. The end result, the present author supposes, is the same for both forms of consumption; uncomfortable trips to the bathroom and internal questioning of whether this or anything else is, indeed, worth it.

Friday, July 6, 2018

matter of time

every mistake ever made is yours and it's ok because you're used to it right? you messed up the other day and the other day before that and you will again. will it be today? tomorrow? the weekend? who knows. you know because it's all you know and you expect and it will be your fault because it is, and you hope others will forgive you because you won't forgive yourself. each source of discomfort in any arena; social, work, academic, is your fuckup and your fuckup alone and one day you want to be perfect but perfect always takes so long, because it doesn't exist, and yet still you cower in fear of each mistake you will make, by saying or doing the wrong thing, not being enough, being too anxious, being too dumb, falling short of expectations. the next big mistake is a matter of time. you will be there to see it.

Thursday, July 5, 2018

there are things here that you can walk on

we stumbled into a restaurant before hitting the beach in case things closed, stuffed into a simple and crowded bar with a neatly creative menu and the heat and humidity coming in through the single door and emanating off the grill behind the bar. we talked about all the things that looked good but kept it simple with drinks and pasta and an appetizer they were out of, making a mental note to come back for the mac and cheese or burgers or something. the rain came. we sat and looked, me over my shoulder, as trees whipped left to right as the gusts rolled in off the lake, rain pouring down, visibility rendered to almost nothing, people running for cover. after holding hands and laughing and smiling and food we walked. down the main street and towards and pier and then suddenly the skies opened up and it wasn't just rain it was hail, solid pebbles of ice enough to break skin and sting and burn, my towel over her neck a worthless gesture. the seam in the front of my right shoe where the soul has come undone spewing bubbles as the weight of every step pushed the water in the instep upwards and outwards through any crevasse it could find. in the shelter of a marina whose bathrooms smell and were soaked with water and urine we waited until the hail relented. the 92 degrees had given way to 75, and we held hands walking to the beach, walking on the wet sand and then realizing that might be more work than the warm sidewalk, avoiding the pebbles that would pick at our feet at every opportunity. at a picnic table she sang songs with the theme of water and we watched families and friends take group photos and even I sang albeit poorly. we eventually made our way in, 4 foot waves and red flag warning and all, the violent thrust of water pushing us back and side to side, bracing ourselves every time one approached. we laughed at how the water itself tried to strip us to our skin, the water was as warm as the great lake ever gets, we stood and jumped and splashed until my fingers became prunes. and somehow, the storms and hail and rain and wind managed to dissipate enough so that the clouds dispersed and the yellow and orange and red hues of the sunset blasted out forth on the late summer evening, turning everything the very shade of the nearest star. we walked back to the car smoking a cigarette and getting our lips sweet and the breeze tore at our hats and towels like it did earlier. the night drive was full of singing and endless fireflies illuminating the sides of the 2 lane highway almost as if natasha pulley had dreamed up the scenario herself, countless, reoccurring flares as far as the eye could see. in the distance the storms that had rolled through illuminated the sky with lightning that illuminated the clouds enough to make out their intimidating, ungainly shape. everything about life was perfect in that moment.

Friday, June 22, 2018

this job is murder

it has been said that by doing something you love, you will never work a day in your life. given the ridiculousness of said statement; it assumes the ability to do what you love, that doing so as a means of income will not render the love ethereal and transient, and that no other time spent outside of the job consists of work, one might simply choose to wholly disregard the entirety of said idiom and banish it away never to be summoned as hackneyed speech or motivational poster ever again. however, one finds that, given how many people on social media routinely ascribe a desire to die to their existence, such as in the way "i want to die" or "please kill me" one might infer that death is what many users of social media - a sizeable but shrinking majority of which are humans - love. one finds that, unlike all other professions, death is the passion project that has a 100% success rate in ensuring you never work another day in your life.