This week, I stepped into The Arena, an addressless destination for creative freedom. I entered hoping to find the accountability and grit to grind towards an exceptionally praiseworthy and shareable piece of writing, but stepped away with something even better: the permission to have fun.
I recently purchased the URL and website hosting for this blog, pleasantly and humbly surprised by how many of you read it. As the primary source of proof that I do actually have thoughts, posting here brings me a great deal of joy and satisfaction. It also intimidates me.
Over time, I have come to expect a certain level of writing from myself -- some personal blend of apologetic pretension, mild quip, and weary but resolute optimism. (Perhaps you have come to expect something similar too.) At my best, it comes easily; I am naturally annoying and prone to oversharing, and also believe in you very much. Other times, attempting to write in this particular style of “good” feels so insurmountable that I simply opt to write nothing instead. This seems like a bad system: either continually one-up myself or stop trying altogether. It's just that I respect you so much, dear anonymous reader, and want to deliver you The Best Possible Content.
But ultimately, I know that I am incapable of producing dazzling truths and hot takes endlessly. I can only offer you what I have, and sometimes it will be of middling quality. Kind person that you are, I think you will allow me this trespass, especially if I assure you that I had a nice time doing it.
Here's to finding the zest and sucking the marrow, to playing, to spending a little time everyday just making something. Here are seven poems, one for each day of the week.
crows
though my main responsibility
is trying to keep
the magic alive,
i sometimes have a spare moment
to practice a duet
i wake up at dawn
to scream about unfairness
the crows
scream right back at me
napa house
new renditions
of the breadcrumb trail:
my half-drank cups of water,
your fallen curls
forming perfect circles and
getting stuck to the side of the tub.
the free full-length mirror
wedged diagonally between
the two front seats of
my too-tiny car
like the slash mark in a percentage sign,
our bodies partitioned like the dots
on either side
the misassembled bed frame
you left behind,
my nicest glassware
on a one-way trip
across the bay bridge.
by the stairwell,
a black scuff
in memoriam of
the whole last year.
my most reckless show of optimism,
paying for half of a mattress
i will never sleep on.
confessional approaches to greeting
i didn’t want to come Truthfully i’d much rather be at home watching
Legendary Vines 2018 (Part 1) **ULTIMATE** TBT VINE COMPILATION
but since i am here
hello
nice to meet you
walking in the schoolyard during kagoshima october
my big clobbering steps
rouse the grasshoppers.
they spring away
like released rubber bands,
like the whole field is theirs
to romp on through.
christmas, 2021
a man smoking a cigarette in a santa claus suit hands me a cookie
which i find at the bottom of my bag one week later
and split with two other men
neither of whom are interested in me,
neither of whom are capable of it.
as i chew
i wonder why i am so fascinated with being irresolvable
so obsessed with turning my grief over
like a smooth rock in my palm.
sun wish
i want the sun to shine on every part of me -
my flat nose and
square fingertips and
the cavity in my midsection where i store small daydreams.
To answer your question,
I have been thinking about
life one million years from now and
how everything is so perfect it hurts.
When the weather is nice,
I purchase an ice cream cone
and try to guess what patch of sun will teach me peace best.
Or else
when the weather is bad,
I make soup from powder and
consider my mistakes.
Do you mind waiting here
while I find less painful ways to say
I love you?
Here’s what I have so far:
Of all the days I’ve spent searching for
new shades of green
and proof of my loveliness,
my favorite was the one where we did
nothing much at all.