Posts tagged prose

Thoughts on summer’s twilight.


I can embrace fall.

Give me pumpkin everything, apple everything, over the knee everything. Give me fat sweaters with sleeves that I can pull down over my hands. Give me knit beanies and brisk walks and sunflower bouquets from the Korean grocer. Give me exhilarating runs on the river and cheeks flushed from the cold. Give me desolate shorelines and neoprene. Give me football and more football. Give me crystal clear and no humidity. Give me a color riot and crunch underfoot. Give me indoor time: to read and cook and play records. Give me mornings that stretch into afternoons. Give me clouds of down and tangled limbs and not one good reason to untangle them.

Summer girls can embrace fall. I can. Let’s do it.


There is a sacrificial element to working in an office. As if the ancestry in our DNA quietly rejects the notion of cubicles, fluorescents and recycled air; as if the only way to please the gods of our forebears is to heap every scrap of paper, every stick of furniture and every bit of computer hardware into a giant bonfire; as if by dancing a ritual round the massive flames choked with poisoned, chemical smoke we might finally find the freedom to become human again. We could have that freedom again, whisper your thoughts in protest. All you have to do is tear it down; if you start, the others will follow. Those words give you a smile that tastes like the sickly underside of a greasy coin stuck to the floor in a public subway restroom because every part of you knows this is true. And still you resist because you know the first one to stand is always the sacrifice.


The management prowls out of their offices, thinking themselves alphas, apex predators that circle desks with micromanagement suggestions. Every part of us screams that a single pen could end them, a stapler savage their flesh, that they who insist on meetings are little more than scavenging jackals with delusions but we just type, do corrections as though partaking in obscene mating dances. You know the true apex are the shareholders, that the managers are little more than herbivores tasting so foul no one will eat them. The president of the company emerges like a rhino, all fetid breath and thick-skinned to bombast with sexist comments no one will ever report. We could be free, you think, but the walls of bureaucracy are thick shields against the madness of the world, and you slink back into your seat. Freedom is never safe, seldom worth the price. It could be the company motto. It is written in the restrooms. You could be more. You know this. But the cost. The cost. The cost.


the situation turned all the stars i used to watch into dead zones and all the dead zones into war zones that watched down on us from seven stories high

keeping us compressed and lost in both our flighty self worth and snapshot lovers, that never came close to lovers

adapting was always the tricky part, told by the types with arthritic minds overworked until their collapse turned their bills to apology letters 

We Are All Members of the Dead Dad Club (Eventually)


Maybe there really is a Jungian super consciousness that our minds all float upon, like ice atop a still liquid lake. Maybe it’s just that some ideas are so obvious that everybody has them. Whatever the reason, I keep running into other people, other women specifically, who speak of their membership to the Dead Dad Club.

The idea first occurred to me very shortly after my dad died. I was eighteen, living in the freshman dorms at The Ohio State University. He died randomly of unchecked diabetes after a two-year period of mutual estrangement.

The whole thing came as a shock, but an easily buried one. I kept it a secret from everyone around me, except for my then-boyfriend, who was on a Valentine’s Day date with me the moment I got the news. I went upstate for the funeral, I invited a handful of childhood friends, none of whom came, I got drunk and crawled into bed with my little sister, I went back to the dorms, I didn’t miss a day of class, I didn’t miss a day of work, I said nothing. I felt so much. I cried so little. 

A few weeks later, a girl down the hall lost her father. Heart attack. I had met the guy; he had a pleasant, square face with handsome features and rich bronzed skin. Their relationship was good. A widespread email told everyone in the dorm of her troubles. We were all encouraged to go to the funeral, to give the girl our regards. People rose to the occasion. She took a few weeks off.

I resented the massive embrace that she received and I had not, even though it was my fault for not telling anybody. I resented that people were warm and sympathetic to her. I resented that my boyfriend forgot about the death in no time flat. I resented, even, that her relationship with her father was healthy. But I could not hold it against her for long. After all, she was a member of the Dead Dad Club. 

One of my sister’s friends lost her dad relatively young, sometime after this. She had a strained relationship with the guy, but lionized him after his death. This hypocrisy irritated my sister immensely, but she didn’t raise the issue. After all, her friend was a member of the Club. 

The Club has burdens. You can’t bring it up, if you’re young; people get far too uncomfortable. You must act like it is not tragic, that you are fine. You must not be visibly annoyed when people cry and complain and mourn the loss of their grandparents or great-grandparents or their fucking dogs and cats. You must not speak of the Dead Dad Club to a non-member. You must not bring someone into the club if they are not ready. You must not let membership to the Club visibly taint your relationships, lest you become someone with D-word Issues. That is the worst fate of all. 

In graduate school, I made friends with a girl whose mom died when she was a child. I tried to bond with her over it; she belonged to the Club! But it was not the same club. She lost her mom young, they had a good relationship, it was her mom, not her dad, and so on. I tried to tell her about the Club anyway, to commiserate.

She told me that sometimes she suspected her mom was still alive, somewhere out there. I tried to tell her that I had never seen my dad’s body, there was no urn or coffin at the funeral, and sometimes I thought I saw him, too. But she was too busy talking.  She could not stop talking about her dead mom, herself, her sorrow, her few memories, herself. It never became a conversation. 

Recently, I was reading the comic Sex Criminals by Chip Zdarsky and Matt Fraction. The protagonist is a young foxy librarian who can stop time with her orgasms. She lost her father when she was very young. In a flashback, she says, “I was the first kid at my school to become a member of the Dead Dad Club.” 

Reading that, everything inside me dropped a few inches.

I had a similar leaden feeling when I read Fun Home by Allison Bechdel. In it, Bechdel recalls the death of her father. She was nineteen, away at college. He was a troubled man with a temper. He died in a way that might have been intentional. 

Bechdel and I belong to a very small, very specific subset of the Club. We are in a Club within the Club, a Club perhaps consisting only of Allison Bechdel, my sister, and me. The parallels are so enormous that I can’t tell anyone how much or why I like the book. When I met Bechdel at a book signing I made excessive, plaintive eye contact. I wanted so badly to tell her I was in the same Club. She seemed a little weirded out, and reasonably so. 

My sister is in another kind of Club: a sorority. Each year they have Mom’s Day and Dad’s Day, celebrations with scheduled events and potluck meals. Each year the attendance is lower on Dad’s Day than on Mom’s Day.  Our own mom attends both.

There are other girls in the sorority with dead dads. When a new girl with a dead dad joins, the rest are hesitant yet excited to welcome her. Eventually they get the courage to ask: “Do you want to be a member of the Dead Dad Club?” Once, a new girl mentioned the Club on her own, without prompting. They were just sitting around hanging out and she said it: hey, we’re all members of the Dead Dad Club, or something like that. 

How does everyone know? 

Dads are a funny thing. So many of us have strained relationships with them. Dads are unknown sometimes; sometimes they are distant or ill or very disordered. Some do not know how to love. Some know only how to hurt. Some are mediocre but try very hard. Some disappear. Some lose contact through no fault of their own. Some die too soon. Some die at the appropriate time. Some never exist. 

 Some people believe that your relationship with your parents determines your political leanings. A motherly government is a Democratic one; a fatherly government, Republican. Some people think individuality is created by having a strained relationship with one or both parents. Some people think your relationship with your father determines your beliefs about God.

 I don’t know that I agree, but mine do track: I see both God and Dad as hapless, unreliable, unreal, dead. I see a lot of men that way. I am one of those girls with D-word Issues. I suspect that everyone I know might reject me at any moment, verbally abuse me, and suddenly die.  I am sick of acting like that’s not true, or that it’s shameful. I have decided that “getting over it” means simply absorbing your trauma and what it’s done to you into your broader sense of self. 

A childhood friend just lost a father to prolonged illness. He was on dialysis for a very long time; his death was salient long before it came. 

He was a good man. They had a good relationship. He was a sweet, expressive, creative, and kind person. I think his death was “good”: it brought peace, and came at a time when all his children were on good terms with him. 

Based on social media, my friend seems to have made her first, tentative peace with the loss. I want to see her. I want to send a message, saying Welcome to the Club. Let me know if you need anything. Let me be your mentor. 

But I will not. Every member of the Club must recognize the Club and declare her membership herself. 

Outstanding read.

Slow Time



Memories are the currency of our lives. 

Those special moments where the brain saw fit to record something forever are the building blocks that make up our remembered past. 

For many of us, the brain’s parsimonious nature seems to record time with less fidelity as we age.  What happened in 2004?  2006?  Do we remember a hundred things?  A thousand?  Ten? 

We can count on our brains to record those things that are critical to our survival – the exciting, the new, the dangerous, the touching, etc.  As children, almost everything falls into one of those categories – those endless summers where a single day’s adventure lasts forever. 

But, as we age, experiences often migrate from the new to the familiar and eventually, end up as routine.  And “the routine” has a slim chance to be remembered, except in the aggregate.  Thus, when we look back over those days, we often can’t remember much…time seems to have flown by. 

All is not lost!  We have the opportunity to bring back that “child’s mind” of discovery, growth, novelty and lush memories.  Unlocking this secret is incredibly straightforward: change things up.  Try something new every day.  Vary your routine.  Or, even better, go on an adventure!

A decade ago, I ran into a friend who had just returned from biking through Vietnam.  He went on and on about all the things he saw and did every day.  I couldn’t believe his stories.   It was as if each day was as eventful as a month back home.  That’s when I had the epiphany: I could slow down my life by traveling more.  And, I’m here to tell you that it works. 

In 2008, I left my full-time job in technology to become a photographer.  And I’ve been on the road ever since…traveling about half the year, taking pictures and creating memories. 

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

- T.S. Eliot

I can only offer you my flask


I can only offer you my flask
and whisky lips that taste of want.
Let them find us panting
in bus stations
and dirty stairwells
with tongues that drip an ancient honey
and the moisture that pools in the small of your back.

I can only offer you my hand
and greedy tentacles that will part your thighs.
Let them find us gasping
in bathroom stalls
and commuter trains
our fingers glistening with spit and come
with eyes that see only dark corners and opportunity.

I can only offer you my mouth
and whispers that kiss your neck like rain.
Let them find us laughing
in soapy bathtubs
and tangled motel sheets
reciting bedtime stories with lips that smell of sex
familiar as the toothbrush shared by lovers.

I can only offer you my heart
and the secrets recorded on my skin.
Let them find us holding hands
on barstools
and in crowded airports
celebrating a life composed of stolen moments
because that is where love is born.

(c) gibson grand

And from the still burning wreckage
rises yet another version of the story:

They met at the end of summer sols-
tice. Free, wild and naïve as everyone
else in their town was when they were
young. Picture this: Ext. Abandoned
Town Hall – Dusk
|The clouds slowly ignite
vividly, setting the sky on auburn flames.
A young man’s silhouette walks toward
the mirages of the scorching pavement.
On the far right side of the screen, awaits
a young woman. The wind suddenly
goes insane and the young woman’s
hair becomes the waves of the ocean.
Total silence. Between them is the picture
of a day about to end and a night about
to rise. The distance gradually shrinks,
inward, as the two slowly walk toward
each other. Heads looking down their
feet. Hearts roaring louder and louder.
Breeze calming the chaos inside of their
ribcages. Heads gently tilt up and the
momentum pays off. In their silhouettes,
their eyes twinkle like stars, and slowly
their lips touch and burn like the pavement.
A yellow superimposed “FIN” rises from the
bottom of the screen. A piano starts to play
a poignant melody. End credits roll.
XY&XX | (j.d.a)

Ascend ( in blue )


I am a seed, nurtured deep within the ancient depths. A trickle of tears came flowing through the veins of time; both of sorrow and joy, helped me, shaped me, I grow strong. I’ve broken free from my earthly cradle, I can see the light from our sun, it warms me, blinds me, fills me with hope. My wings are coming in now. Evergreen my feathers, dressed in full summer splendor. For the first time I’ve left the ground, swooped past my neighbor trees, above the clouds I go. I have never seen the earth from such heights. Above me lay only the stars, where I will find my way…

Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit



He turned the music up loud, letting it vibrate through his earbuds and being, while gradually being seduced to the place he enjoyed living the most these days. Lost in music, but observing her discreetly as she moved around the office as if she was a movement from one of his favourite Bach concertos.

He had as a matter of fact been doing that. Observing her. From the very first day she had walked through the doors of what he called his day to day living hell, where he was mentally shackled to his desk while trying to stay on top of life. When in reality, he was like an old living sinking battleship taking in water from every gun port that had now lost its mortal force as they had been stripped away by life.

She was air. She was sky. She was lust wrapped in a fire of life that fascinated him daily, making him lose his concentration more times than he cared to admit. He shouldn’t for many reasons, he knew, yet he couldn’t resist the sinful temptation of at least letting his eyes rest on her, and take her in, but of course they never really stopped there, his thoughts.

He wanted nothing more than to unbutton, slowly, each of her blouse buttons, making her wait in anticipation for his lips to reach the sensitive skin and fill his mouth full of it, as he played and kissed the pink flower buds to make her sigh and moan while his hands continued, teasingly, travelling towards the warmth of the south. Preparing her, for one of his hands, and tongue, to make her body arch and writhe sensually in lust…

Do you still want me to prepare those files you asked me about earlier ? I have the time now….”

He stared at her, unable to answer instantly, so lost in thought as he tried to rein in his visual of her naked body on his desk being ravaged to the full extent of his wants and force.

“ Mmm….you do that”  was the only sensible thing he could say as he then dismissed her, a bit harshly and unfairly so. To try to compose himself while staring out his panoramic view of the city like a captain standing on the bridge of his sinking battleship as Bach brought the last image of his sinful dreams to a close.


Her mind was still filled with Bach’s Crab Canon on a Moebius Strip, urging her to hum it, back to front, to meet the other voice, precisely, a contrapuntal perfection of bodies entangled, hers and his.

And she wondered if he ever noticed the abyss that opened behind her big brown eyes. If he ever realised that inside of her there are no green pastures, stilettos or tube skirts hugging her hips. Would she ever dare turning herself inside out for him, and let him see that there was but chaos inside of her?

As she lifted her eyes from the files, she lost herself on him, and the absence of him for he obviously was not there, albeit staring out of the window; she tried to guess what was behind his eyes, if there was this vertical drop, where he lived most of the time - just like she did, inside of her - somewhere dark and deep, or if there were meadows matching the outside of him.

The absurdity of it all were the letters she used to write to him at night, in her small flat, on the outskirts of the city. The letters that spoke the truth or what she wanted the truth to be. The truth of her feelings for him. Letters that she would keep in a small shoe box under her bed, closed with a drop of perfume, and made ready, ready to never be sent.

Going into his office she deposes the files on top of his pristine desk: paperless, objectless, but for a desk lamp, a pen placer with its fountain pen and a photo frame framing a smile that does not belong to her.

Slowly turning, he smiles and she knows then that she’s not worthy, for his fingers in her hair are beyond her dreams.

A © collab between redeactivated (II) and c-o-l-l-i-n—s (I)



God called me Fish Heart. Lily Mouth. I was an evening sort of girl. He liked me better ripped up, bar bathrooms, bar peanuts, skip the small talk. We’re both Adam. We’re both Eve. In the mornings, swallowing bait, swallowing nails, pulling apart the microwave, two forks and an empty socket. Baby, there is always a limit. Hours spent rubbing my belly, waiting for watermelon trees, or orange bushes, or flowers heavy with green apples. And now, this is what I can dissect: his fingers in the gut of the fish, his fingers in the core of the flower, always pulling. Like it wasn’t enough to feel, like He had to see, to know.