I am reminded of fruit cocktail; All those radiant, fluorescent colors standing out. The zinging orange of the peach, the pale green of the pear, the bright Santa Claus red of the maraschino cherry. All these fruits drained of their syrup and placed delicately inside a glass cocktail glass. This aesthetically-pleasing mixture is a work of ready-made art. Spearing the fork on the pear and it tastes so sweet. Better than it could have tasted in reality. This fruit salad is like some strange, surrealist dream. This mixture is heterogenous.
I make my protein shakes with a variety of ingredients. I usually start with vegan / plant-based vanilla protein powder and unsweetened vanilla almond milk. I then will add a tablespoon of raw cacao, a tablespoon of flax seeds, a teaspoon (or two) of chia seeds, a splash of vanilla, and a dollop of maple syrup. Sometimes if I’m feeling risky, I’ll add in a handful of spinach, but this does not occur often. Ice is always the last ingredient; for thickness and coldness. I secure the lid and press the buttons on the blender (for Frozen Dessert, which it pretty much is). Once it gets going, it loudly chops up the ice, obliterating all the other ingredients in its wake. When it’s done this now homogenous mixture gets a foam at the top that I enjoy. I usually make these in the summer months, where a meal replacement like this can be deliciously refreshing. It tastes chocolatey, nutty, and sweet. The glass feels cold in my hands.
As a child playing with wet sand on the beach or in the sandbox. The joy of it, but the frustration when you couldn’t get it out of your hands or clothes. No matter how many times you tried. Taking a straw and giving your iced tea a stir after adding honey or sugar. Will the cold dissolve it? Or is it a lost cause?
La scrivania. Oaken, wooden, mahogany. Heavy, gorgeous woodworking. Smells fresh like it was just carved and painted. I run my hands over the rings and wonder how some genius got this beautiful piece of furniture to succumb to this shape. It is a deep brown color. It is large and expansive. It is rich and smooth to the touch. This desk will be my launching point or pad, it will be my diving board, it will be my dock where I will set sail every time I write. I desire a desk like this. In a big room, by a window. Over looking the ocean or rolling fields, or something equally awe inspiring; A safe place where I can perch and watch and drift off.
This desk was once a tree, but it is so well designed, I do not think it was made with other en masse. This was a personal project for a specific woodworker. I can see him in the forest now, with his walking stick breathing in fresh air and looking around to see which tree dares call to him. When he finds it, it is large. He puts his hand on the rough bark, gets close, and takes a whiff. A master of his craft, he knows it’s a good one. He circles it a few times, making sure is no damage or termites. He sees none. He then marks the tree with a big black ‘X’ and doubles back to get his car. Soon, he is there with his friends, fellow-woodworkers in arms. And they are in the process of safely cutting this tree down. It smells like fresh wood. They are wearing masks, as splinters split off everywhere. Thumps and crashes as large branches come down. They load up the truck with everything. There is equipment there to help them lift what they cannot carry. The man is pleased as he leaves the forest with more than enough of what he needs. He will make a desk. He sees the undrawn blueprints in his head already. He is excited, high on adrenaline and wood shavings. This is what gets his heart thumping in his chest. This is what gets him excited about life. This is his craft, his calling. He pulls his pickup outside his shop and starts unloading. He gets out his equipment. Turns on some music, and gets to work. Humming and cutting.
Green light handshake car dealership plaid suit. Agreement. Smile through all your teeth. Genuine approach or secret ulterior motive, agreement. Freshly manicured lawn, manicured fingernails, dust dead zone in your home agreement. Each car leaves every suburban driveway at 8:05 am agreement. It’s understood. Smiling 1950s husband provider, uniform nuclear family life. The dress comes down to her ankles. And she looks stunning. For such an early hour with hair and makeup done like a Hollywood starlet, only to do the shopping and clean house and watch the children. No one watches her. But this was understood in her agreement. So what if you want to amend that agreement? And realize you’re capable of something more? There must be discussion. And the possibility might be realized that it will not be agreed upon. And either she was sink further into her shell or defy everything. You can always sink, but the mood’s right, that mood may never come again to rebel. Sometimes in depression, it can be easy to talk yourself out of. If you feel on fire, the truth is you should go for it.
Agree through gritted teeth. When the arm of justice leans on you and will not let up. When it does no good, too much wasted energy to fight back. When sometimes the justice system fails and we must sign agreements that we moral don’t agree with, but must make concessions when it comes to making the most of our future. Even though we morally may not agree, we must buckle down, bite our tongue, and move forward.
Agreements in terms of money. I can taste the sweet saliva filtering through my mouth at the prospect of closing a deal. Hear the ding of the cash register. The motivator. Feel flesh on flesh in my hand. It’s business. “Business is Business” a section of the documentary, Get Me Roger Stone that my mom was watching the other night. Re-watching really; We’ve all seen it.
We can agree that this is a mess of a post. It is scattered and not narrative. But this is how it happened. Life is messy, and only narrative when we mean it to be or reflect back on it as such. Waiting rooms can be as big as you imagine them to be. The choice, perspective and ex
Red and pink Starbursts fall from the sky falling into your mouth whenever you want them to. You just stick out your tongue and they land, unwrapped. Sometimes two at a time, sometimes in combination. Constant warmth and comfort, being your toes feeling. A little, light flutter in your soul to bring yourself back to whenever your mind wanders. Almost drowning, but eventually swimming in lover’s eyes. Deep gaze that could get you addicted, change your life. One touch feeling like tectonic plates moving and shifting. This is what it feels like to be in love. Two souls’ understanding, two bodies wishing to become one. Fulfilling that desire becomes a feverish goal. Seeing beauty whenever there’s not, finding hope in desperate situations. Learning to let go and recognize the little things that are sometimes know to get our goat.
Heart-shaped rose-colored glasses, white delicate doilies as an extra layer around our heart. It’s no use, it will not do anything, but it is pretty and perfect. Holding hands, sharing electricity on satin sheets. The longing and desire when apart. Thinking you hear your loved one speaking, only to turn around and realize it’s just someone else who just sounded similar. The disappointment. The blip of melancholy as you try to pull yourself from irrational thought. The fulfillment of the desire of the heart, should be every human goal, despite it’s sometimes impossibility to find and express it. Because it is better than Valentine’s Day chocolate, roses, and card. When people get strung out on drugs, this is really the thing they are seeking; Love. That blissful feeling and promise that everything will be alright. The comfort in the fact someone loves you back. But these emotional discoveries in Life are not always guaranteed. Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes mistakes are made on us. Sometimes we’re known to spin out and make a bad choice, just to feel okay for one night sometimes has rep-
Move-in day. Jittery and nervous beyond all belief. But I choke it down and pretend like I’m fine. A first day of fresh independence. I need to put my money where my mouth is. But when it all comes down to it, I am scared and afraid of being alone. What if I forgot something? What if I don’t make any friends? What if I hate it here? These immature little questions that reek of inexperience and naïveté. The teenage worst fear that this moment will be forever and I will be unable to change it and I will just have to suffer through it. Because a lot of childhood/teenage years are like that.
My heart is pounding, palms are sweating. I’m introducing myself and being introduced. Getting the last things in my room, arranging things just so. Parents leave. I am left with my roommates and we smile and laugh and talk with each other. We’re trying really hard to be chipper and get to know each other. The threshold of social conventions. Our togetherness lasts for a few months, but start to fizzle out when I grow apart. I remove myself. I’m the stoned artist, insecure, and studious.
I know what that campus feels like in the densest of heat and the coldest winters. Numbness from mountain wind, instant sweat on summer days. It’s all vague watercolor now. Dotted on a timeline of landmarks of specifics, that are probably triggered by memories I have boxed and stored by now. Playing the piano very late at night, where no one is awake but the building was open. Wandering around the forest, avoid Public Safety. And of course, hanging out with friends and finding camaraderie. But my anxiety was so bad then.
Over-accomplishing so much in four years, coming in the top of everything, and yet could not find a job. But maybe depression is just a slingshot. I think as teenagers we sometimes made things harder for ourselves with our realizing. Always so obsessed with unspoken social codes and conventions we thought we needed to follow. And maybe that’s just how we all were. And the real lessons lie in growing older and realizing we don’t have to act like that anymore. Because Life is precious and we are worth s