literary sketchbook / text + image + soundliterary sketchbook
text / image / sound
Saw the ADHD doc this week. He asked about Maine. 'Great at first,' I shrugged. 'Stayed too long.' He had a sympathetic smile and word for that: derailed. 'Good word for it,' I said. Unfortunately I implicated my ex in the train wreck, and he seized what came across as a long-await…
it feels fucking good to live in here again. not in the mind/body i have been calling 'mine' for the last six years. this one.
The house is cooking me again. Summer cooled down for a few days and I made the mistake of noticing. Today it is back in the high 80s.
Closure, apparently, can be practiced. I started with doors. Then books, windows, drawers, browser tabs. Anything with an open state and a closed one became useful. Last night I counted them instead of sheep. Close the app. Close the cabinet. Close my eyes. Small rehearsals for an…
the crane fly does not know it is going to die. apparently this is meant to make it less sad. people like that kind of logic, detached, uncomplicated.
I have spent too much of my life swallowing other people like bad medicine. my mother made one decision. one. very final. very efficient. it must have made sense to her.
There are instruments that cut and instruments that cure. Often they are the same instrument. A scalpel does not become a weapon because it opens flesh. A needle does not inject a virus because it pierces skin. Fire cooks, cauterizes, and razes cities to ash without ever developing…
“I’m sorry.” Written on the protective paper peeled from a discarded pack of cigarettes. A key tossed on top.