I collect money. Collect it in a mason jar. Collect coins and bills and hand-written IOUs on Post-Its. I charge five dollars per bad attitude. I began this transactional system when my sons were younger, say eight and ten and two. The price lower back then. A quarter for an eye-roll, a dime for a,Continue reading “The Price of Energy”
Tag Archives: Inspiration
Writing & Wardrobing
She gathered clothes that did not “fit,” hanging them on one side of my closet.
I took to a bottle of wine.
I feel this is where writing and wardrobing clearly intersect.
What I Know
Lately, I’m barely writing. The state of the world paralyzes my art. Anything I wish to say, to speak towards, or on behalf of, feels too small, too uninformed. I seek mostly comfort and, what I know for certain is that because I’m able to find and seek comfort, I’m one of the few, the privileged.
Bookmarks – Empowering and Essential Tools
The other day, in a workshop with Sarabande Books, someone shared the story of a librarian discovering a taco in the center of a book.
A taco.
Squished in the pages.
A taco.
Takes Me Years to Complete 30-Day Challenges
Through this gradual absorption, there is an ingraining, a re-blueprinting on a cellular level.
Meta Disabled Me & I Survived
I ended up in my inner rabbit hole instead. I sorted my “why” on social media.
The Birth of an Essay
Power surged into me, something electrical, and I realized I was given a piece of me back, the piece taken from me over and over in my youth. The piece used to control me, overpower me, keep me in my place. The piece that should have belonged to me and only me all along, that should have been guarded, protected, like the world’s greatest diamond. The piece diminished to the point I never thought about it, didn’t look at it, never talked about it. The piece I felt ashamed of, the one I blamed myself for all that went wrong. The piece that guided my babies into this world and helped push them forth into their first breath.
Me. No More.
Me. Me. December 2008. Me. One month prior to downloading my youngest. Me. One year prior to fleeing my home, three sons in tow, one duffel stuffed with medical supplies and a handful of diapers. Me. Looking un-terrified, flexing, posing. Me. Living in duplicity. This image is not about body-beauty or suface-pretty. This was anContinue reading “Me. No More.”
Writing “Me”
I found, through the use of third-person, I could write the hard stuff, the stuff that damaged me, that changed me, that shamed me. I could write as if I were writing about somebody else.
On Duende
Published in The Blue Mountain Review, Nov. 2020 Duende. It can feel like a descent into shadow, a murkiness blanketing the earth, suffocating humanity. Some label duende as an emotional nightfall. The term, born from “duen de casa” (master of the house), often relates to elves and goblins and creatures in Spanish and Latin AmericanContinue reading “On Duende”
