Letters, autobiographical stories, essays, fiction and other writings.

Concerning the Morning Pageantry of Couples Making Oatmeal

Her hands must move with outstanding grace as she prepares the last items for oatmeal setting. She dashes Pink Himalayan Salt over the oats still seething in their pot upon the stove, stirs the dish seven times with a wooden spoon, turns off the burner and covers it. Taking a sip of her Chai, she glances a hard stare at the table setting, determining whether the right time has come, and whether she is ready to welcome another soul into her existence this day. She might decide, and this be her natural right, to keep this day her own for a moment longer. And who could blame her, for the oaf in the other room is quite oafish.

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Love begins in the rain

Above her floats a mosquito net, twisted and tied and hung from the ceiling, swaying and sashaying in the fan gusts. In the dark room, with the wind blowing strong against the stone rough walls and through the open shutters, and the sound of water everywhere, there is a strong sense of the sea, and suddenly the mosquito net is a giant jellyfish drifting in deep moonlit waters. So she drifts along upon the tide, and if there is a firefly (as I so dearly wish) then it sparkles upon the ceiling like a star caught in the waves.

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Sentimental religion and a fragment

These days my feelings toward Catholicism, my family religion, tend more toward sentimentalism. I remember the spring mornings together with my parents, budding cherry blossoms, ponds cracking with melting ice.

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Trying to be better

We were not trying to bleed or sweat, but those things appeared out of our enjoyment. At the best of times, we were riding that awesome unknown wave that carries us, and we were content in our ignorance.

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Cricket freckles

Listen, out the open window, as the crickets slow their chirp and singing feet, as they give up serenading the pregnant summer moon, as the freckles fade on their tiny soot-masked faces, as they slink back into the splintered shadows and bare hermitages, where cold will come, but not so cold to kill their crunchy pulsing innards.

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Being blueberrian

Because through my fight for another, for the animals, I might find my own strength. I might discover my own voice. I might realize how powerful I am. And always was. The fight might vaporize all the delusions of myself.

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Lavender

She breathed in the perfume of the tiny sprig until it became brave with her sweet attentions and adored her, and it gave her its everything and bloomed enormous and its smell might have filled cathedrals then.

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Isolation

Knowing myself as being in isolation is a promise that one day isolation will be no more, but only if I'm willing to be honestly human again.

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