I lost a baby two years ago, still thinking of that lost body in my body, its cells permanently shed into the lining of my stomach and lungs, while I sit in front of the Tbilisi Galleria sharing a strange concoction of beef, lamb, onions, parsley, and eggs rolled into a lumpia-like roll...
The text read: BUG, your Rx is due now. Reply REFILL to fill, HELP for more info, & STOP to opt out of Rx alerts. I did not reply. A woman behind the counter asked if she could help me, and I stepped forward to hand her the orange USPS delivery slip.
Iris is a tortoiseshell cat. Because so much of my house is mismatched patterns, it is difficult to photograph her. In most she will exist as a blur, a momentary interruption of a couch or rug.
On a summer night after my father did or did not die, I sit with the boys at night on the lakeshore across the highway from my house.
Most people would prefer not to have to look at, or be aware of at all, people with disabilities. But if they have to, they want to break into applause as someone manages to cross a room without falling down. They want to remain in a superior position, and most importantly, they want to believe that it's not that bad.
Dwelling. To dwell. From the Old English word dwellan, which means “to lead astray, hinder, delay”. Later, the word became associated with the state of abiding, or continuing for a time, in a particular place, state or condition. A dwelling, then, is a space between two different states of being, a place of dallying, of pausing in thought.
But I am tired, he has exhausted me and I understand now how parents just give in and buy their kids bad ideas and feed them sugar and let strangers watch them while mommy ducks into the local pub at high noon for a quick shot of numb. And it’s in the sale bin for $5.88.
Correct him, even when he yells at you. He’s always been absent-minded, but this is different. Stand your ground when he denies it. It really happened. You were there. He was there, just last week. Last Monday, to be exact. Show him where you wrote it on the calendar.
The only people who speak about the parts of history I’m interested in are drunk older cousins at parties. Unfortunately, they also happen to be the least reliable narrators, on account of their drunkenness, as well as their fondness for exaggeration.
Within the spectrum of chaos and abuse, others have dealt with far worse than me. Anyone that has taken in feral kittens knows that some adapt and others don’t. Sometimes claw marks on the arms of loved ones are the cost of sheltering a wild thing.
"YOU HAVE THE BODY OF A WOMAN BUT THE FACE OF A GIRL"
after a while you won't be able to turn on the wim wenders film paris texas just because it is streaming on demand and it is friday evening and you are living alone because he who has bale coloured hair and sensitive skin is interstate for the time being working for the man you won't be able to simply watch movies that too heavily dramatise male loneliness
Under oak trees, on a table surrounded by two small bouquets of chamomile, I watched Shylah Hamilton, a filmmaker and fiction writer, and rapper Vreni Michelini-Castillo perform a ceremony designed to facilitate creativity and self-reflection. I listened to their thoughts on creativity, racism, and colonization--how these topics affect marginalized artists--and wondered why my life isn’t right.
We’ve been touring Israel, my mom and I, for almost two weeks now and until this point everything’s been agreeable. The crusader fortress in Akko, the Bahá’í Gardens in Haifa, the visit to Kibbutz El Rom, the winery in the Golan Heights (which I skipped, more of a beer person). Even St. Peters Church had weakened me.
For many, the sun-sparkling Atlantic, the clean-as-seashell beaches, and the freshly-caught seafood of Provincetown are a vacation paradise. For gays, it’s a liberating mecca where kissing, hand-holding, and public displays of affection are smiled upon.
Sharks do not sleep as mammals do. Many shark species must keep moving in slumber, bodies restless even if minds are calm, to push oxygenated water past their gills. They are drifters. They, too, are restless at night.
I just re-remembered: Mama told me and Mark not to say “cancer” in this house, everyone was keeping it secret from Baba Galya that she was going to die. Deda Vitya says, “Lina told me, after Galya died, that Galya told her she went to the doctor on her own and asked him how much time she had. Galya put cards under her clothes, and later I found them: ‘These are for Lina, these are for…’ So Galya knew, and kept it a secret from all of us…”
Over the course of my eighth-grade year, my exceptional hearing paid off, earning me a couple of eavesdropping sessions between mom and dad. They argued with low voices in the morning, careful not to wake me.
"Well, that shut me right up. He had told me before that I sounded crazy, that I was acting crazy. This time was different. I was crazy, plain and simple. I excused myself to use the bathroom and turned on both the sink faucet and the shower head. I was not going to let him hear me cry."
When I was boy, you were a planet. Then you weren’t. You disappeared from the solar system, relegated to “other,” to “dwarf.” But I remember you, distant one. You are part of a family of the forsaken. In the end, you revolved around the sun like the rest of us.
As a child in Ohio, I only heard so much about this war. I knew that there had been suffering. I knew that Ammah was affected by it—seeing her home after almost twenty years, her birthplace, broken apart in many ways. I understood that war meant irreversible change.
When your dentist pulls the wrong tooth, you will hold your own body at a distance. When your dentist lies about it, you will question what you know to be true—you will question your own sanity. When your dentist pulls the wrong tooth, you will sob for weeks about the pattern in your life of men taking something from you and insisting that they didn’t.
Did you know you can hear it? It’s the simplest thing. Adjust an old radio or analog TV; listen for the static between channels. There, nestled in the white noise between the country music station and talk radio, are the echoes of creation.
“Les escargots, s’il vous plait,” I said confidently to the waiter. “Such a tourist,” said my dinner companion once the waiter left with our orders. “Better tourist than exile,” I replied. “Better exile than stupid,” he said. You’re paying,” I said. (We ended up splitting the bill.)
i am the face of asian american racial justice, a mockery composed of: displacement and internal insistence on hegemonic modes of dominance, negation, and death familiar to the geopolitical histories of asia proper.
The news is full of apocalypse. The girls are full to the brim with confidence, lightening, fear. Facebook sends me into spirals of anger and anxiety.
I’m eleven or twelve, the oldest grandchild. I’ve lingered with the grownups. My mother asks me to clear. I stack two or three plates at a time, walk them into the kitchen. Then butter dish, bread basket, serving dishes, silver.
I was nineteen when I first heard the artist Cat Power. A friend had put the song “Nude as the News” on a mix tape, and I listened to it over and over. Sometimes this meant I’d fast forward the tape until I found the song. Other times, I’d listen to the whole mix just to get there.
As a young girl, I did really well in school. But at every parent-teacher conference, the same thing was always said, every year, from every single teacher, to my mother: she’s a good student but she doesn’t talk enough. Sometimes, more specifically: she needs to ask more questions.
What’s your weirdest poop story? I ask K while we’re eating seven-layer dip, watching Lady Gaga swing from buildings at the Superbowl. When K was young she used to pick up every poop she made. She would study its consistency, roll the stool between her hands like clay, toss it back and flush.
I keep the postcard with me, and I let my grief travel.
It is February in Minneapolis, a month of frozen mud and sodden wings, except now oddly warm enough, it rains an iron rain. My wife, Christi drives. Her tires sluice. Exhausted windshield wipers perform accidental beauty; the patterns they leave fracture our light.
What does this say about me? Except for that I don’t mind pain, enduring pain, so long as it’s in view of others.
I’m fairly certain no one has been struck by lightning in the shower in the last fifty years, since water pipes
I would like to be romantic and call my eight-month stay in Paris a personal exile from Trump, but I moved because I’m a coward.
Married now and fully Amerikèn, I could enjoy the freedom of having weekends all to myself. I no longer ran errands for my parent’s siblings; I no longer braced South Florida traffic on weekend trips to my family members’ homes.
What can I tell you about her home in Lahore? Only what she told me: We lost everything.
It’s a delicate process, but easy once you get the hang of it. If it’s done wrong, things curdle. If you do it just right, simultaneously whisking and adding warm to cold, it comes out smooth and resilient to hot temperatures.
i got the next round and after that she invited me back to her place. when we got there we were met at the door by 2 barking doggos. one was hers, a dark brown/reddish wiener dog mix who really doesn’t like guys.
On TV, we watched a Showtime series called Shameless. I’m easily bored by TV, so instead I looked around his apartment. On a shelf sat a colorful, glass hookah. Seeing it, I asked, “You smoke?”
But if I look at the etymology, I find the Greek, nemein, "give what is due" and that nemesis literally means "retribution". So why has it become intertwined in my memory with a forest of black mirrors?
This Skank Woman has no choice but to surrender to the hospital ambiance; the noise and patronizing nurses with good intentions, most of the time. The TV is showing the treatment of rhinos in Africa.
Family legend has it that one day I walked into the kitchen from the two-car garage, my hands cupped piously as if carrying a communion wafer. I approached my mother slowly and opened my hands to reveal a mouse in my palms.
You have to understand. Loneliness is both the white knight and the dragon. To outlive each of them, you must slash down from crown-to-kneecaps. I threw their hours away. They couldn’t thrive on time anymore, couldn’t ricochet my body with fear.
It was nothing more to me than a mantra, and I didn’t see then that the motto was the invention of a school run nearly entirely by black women—teachers, school safety officers, the principal and assistant principal—designed to help us, we hundreds of black and brown children, to affirm our own dignity, while we were young, while school still served as a kind of shield, however insufficient, from the rest of the city, its hard facts and violence.
My first sexual encounter with a woman was homecoming. It was a trip to Disney World after winning the World Series. It was prying the Oscar out of La La Land’s cold white hands and relinquishing it to Moonlight. It was a tweet going viral despite a typo. It was everything.
Tendrils of dark hair dangle from her bun; refusing to be ordered and catalogued. She is wrapped in a dark sweater that has no end and drapes over itself. If she was a color, she would be lavender and the sky at dusk. She does not contrast with the dusky oranges and sun-streaked pink tones. She compliments them.
The sky is the colour of a sketch artist’s thumb when the bus sneaks its way out of the bus station, headed for the port town of Kisumu – home; a place so distant it requires at least a week of mental preparation and enough love for those whose existence make up that word.
I never slept in this bed, though at one time I longed to. Instead it was left unconsummated. The summer when I imagined sleeping here, I went to have my tarot cards read over and over and over again.
“Guadalajara!” she said to me a couple more times in that locker room, with the showers thundering in the background and naked women slapping their suits down on wet benches. “Guadalajara.”
When I’m young, it’s the season of the rabbit—cute, horrible, skinny, sprinting under the sagebrush when a truck comes up the dirt road.
He, on the other hand, actually did meth, which was less cool that I thought. He looked more like a coke guy to me, but what do I know about what a coke guy looks like? As a child I smelled pot on my street and wanted desperately to call 911, so I'm not exactly what you would call "street savvy".
“Sturdier than the old one,” my mum said, “and it’ll keep the draft out.” A new door to cover the evidence that our house was not secure, but permeable. Walls like sieves, find a hole and enter.
I only remember my friends as having little teeth as so I can’t comment on their current state or the orthodontia sagas they may have endured. I should add here that I was also a thumb-sucker.
Post-coital tristesse (PCT) or post-coital dysphoria (PCD) is the feeling of sadness, anxiety, agitation or aggression after sexual intercourse. Its name comes from ...
When the girls started to stand apart, trying to hijab their modesty, we saw jamarāt all around us, & lined our hands with bits of rock to hurl at the devil.
I was 5’9 and 265 pounds, and my body was a creature I was still, am still, learning to domesticate. Dieting worked until it didn’t. Creating dream books of all the clothes I was too fat to wear worked, until it didn’t. I was tired of changing, of waiting for change, of trying to find the junction of comfort and confidence, of obfuscation and suggestion.
We were a family of women watching men kill each other, nothing new. CNN streamed a video on repeat. The luckiest man in Iraq crossed over a bridge that fell to pieces behind him. He looked over his shoulder. A laser-guided bomb had swallowed the bridge whole.
Take a seat and invite the class to ask whatever they are curious to know about you.
When dragged against your volition to an improv show, down two whiskeys in ten minutes then point to one of the comedians on stage like Babe Ruth’s called shot.
The feral twin brothers Rem + Rom come born from the Columbia river delta, fathered by a rogue member of the «Clueless + Lark» expedition + reared by a she-wolf, before morphing into various permutations of Native American hero-twins including Hunahpu + Xbalanque. They currently «ride» A Raft Manifest (Calamari Archive, 2017) + guest-blog about their riding process on 5cense.com.
On cold days, I dream about wearing my socks with warm rice inside so I can walk in them until night, especially on those running days where I am an ice cube under hot water.
There is a photo of me holding that analog alarm clock. Smiling. It is Christmas morning. I am in a red and blue flannel robe. My two front teeth are missing. I am six years old. It is 1979.
Vitamins from fruits and vegetables are concentrated most densely in the stems. Eating the raw stem of a zucchini is more beneficial to your health than eating all the other parts, cooked or uncooked.
Several years ago, an image of a drawn face circulated furtively through the internet — a slightly balding man with ample eyebrows over wideset child eyes, a slugshaped mouth
Try to imagine leaving a 19-year-old boy, a British subject, and returning independent, a 32-year-old man educated to rule. His heart, still strong then, swelled at the possibilities: Nigeria is indeed a new place! You have no conception of the degree of change and conflict. What took Britain or the US 100 years to achieve is taking [us] less than five!
Also apparently Cage wasn’t hearing his blood, it’s just that it’s impossible to make something 100% anechoic. Nothing is as poetic as I’d like it to be. Tomorrow morning I’m flying south for the spring. I’m supposed to see you while I’m there. I hope I do.
KETCHUP On the phone we decide to check out the mansion of the condiments empire heiress—the intricate brickwork and the midnight guards who sleep outside for $10 an hour. [...]
Now when the screen summons up Politician X, I do a start. Not because I'm dreading your elation at his latest surge, but because you're dead, and I will never holler at another human like I did with you.
Unable to snore like others while sitting up, I resorted to drumming a HB 2 pencil on the table, and stared at the ceiling. With the slanted angle at which the fluorescent light penetrated the air, I could see elongated trapezoid shapes laced with dust suspended a few inches off the table.
My spiritual heart is lying on an immaculate table in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the forest wilderness, and I am all alone, completely alone and this life or this physician called God is trying to jumpstart my heart back to life. And each shock starts with a crying episode.
“Ridiculous,” my father says. “Guilt is for people who have done something wrong. All we have is survival.”
You and me: sweetness in our ears, honey on our bread, glorious views in every direction, comfortable and secure; contained in madness.
When I took the number six bus downtown—close to perfection: All that time to read, all that window to look out of and all those trees, all those frozen moments at red lights, all that speed on Lake Shore Drive, all those people, all that segregation I didn’t understand, all the difference; nothing is perfect.
TO KNOW ELAINE KHAN IS TO SPEND TIME IN HER BED I take the train to Elaine Kahn’s apartment. I mean Elaine and Kit’s apartment. But, I erase Kit [...]
6. The kind that waits until his child is eighteen and about to leave the roost before unpacking his Derrick Rose jersey and handing it over, folded and stained—Love this as I have.
Those things didn’t happen at once, me seeing her body and hearing the child soldier, and yet I remember them simultaneously.
Eva was our only teacher those first few weeks. She had a quicksilver mind and a passionate spirit. Colorful earrings dangled against her jaw where her skin sagged just slightly, the only clue to her years of experience. She pushed us to take chances—to communicate in whichever way we could.
Being a writer is all about making mistakes and managing disappointment. Let’s say you are going on a road trip. You get, say, a hundred miles down the road and you realize that you have left your wallet back home on the kitchen table. You have no choice but to go back and get it. But how’s your attitude?
In 1979, I glanced into a store window and saw an old guy with enormous glasses strapped to his big, bald, egg-shaped head sitting behind a large desk surrounded by leafy plants and book cases arranged in a sort of diorama.
I went to the Yankee Candle Factory with Joseph. I bought a candle called “Autumn Leaves”. By the time I reached the bottom of the wick, all the leaves in my yard had changed colors. I had not expected this.
Housecat misses Thanksgiving, Christmas, Father’s Day, Sunday Brunch, Grandpa visits, birthdays. Housecat almost misses Grandma’s funeral in Harlem. Housecat misses paying you back when you loan him a hundred dollars for weed. Housecat misses your call when you need a ride to the airport.
There’s always more work to be done. My book still isn’t finished. A happy ending is only so happy. If the cancer doesn’t return, then something else will finish the job.
But this may become, especially in the context of our contemporary theaters of war, increasingly difficult. As war technology advances exponentially and we become more and more able to replace human effort, skill, and sacrifice with robotics, we risk also displacing our essentially human ability to recognize ourselves, and—even more dangerously, in the context of war—others as human.
Cleve and I met in eighth grade where we briefly “went out” before breaking up, because I thought he had a crush on one of our school’s cheerleaders. We remained fairly close, carefully dodging an intensity we were too young to address. We lost touch after high school.
She tacks the quote on her wall. Not the virtual kind, but the smooth white one with the round corners. The sound of a kettle whistles in the kitchen. Outside, the rustle of a few trees. This is Montréal in the spring. It is the sound of being nine hundred and eighty kilometres west of the Atlantic Ocean.