Monthly Archives: October 2014
One year I was Santa Claus. That worked pretty well. But then the next year I couldn’t think of anything, so I just went as Mrs. Claus. People still thought I was Santa.
a wind has blown the rain away and blown / the sky away and all the leaves away, / and the trees stand. I think i too have known / autumn too long
I passed through hallways and doorways and stairwells, amazed at how these old spaces came back to me, the feeling of moving through them. I still find myself here in my dreams occasionally.
I attend graduate school, work as a nanny, and live above a bakery. This is an easy and compact answer to toss, like a Tic-Tac, at the question I too often hear: “So, what are you up to?”
We have to rail against injustice and doggedly lament evil. We have to mourn and cry out and punch the air and scream that this is not the way things are supposed to be.
But if that’s true, how long will it be before we stop riding the train of mere suspicion and arrive in the new, dim empire of total social, political, and spiritual agnosticism?
As we took turns praying, my father, mother, and brother would say a special prayer for me. Hearing them say sentimental things about me was embarrassing, but I tried to keep my eyes shut.
…yell things like “Heyyyyy Burrito!” to which we would yell “guacamole and cinnamon twist!” get up to swing a couple dance moves, then continue to eat our raisin bran as if nothing had occurred.
I’m not sure what the secret is to knowing you’re in the right place or on the right track. I’m not sure there is one. The song helps to remind me that it’s okay not to know exactly what I want yet.
I simply cannot call something finished, whether I’m re-checking a final exam for the fifth time or strategically placing a seventieth sprinkle on a Seurat-inspired Christmas cookie.
What if I told you there is a way to travel through time instantly using only items you already own? What if I told you that you probably already time travel several times a week?
I want to defy convention. Break molds. And at the same time I want to be with my husband. And have children. And bake lots of cookies. And I hate shoveling the driveway.
I fill a basket with crisp lettuce and Swiss chard. A raspberry finds its way into my mouth. I close my eyes, breathe deep, and finally feel my shoulders relax.
A herd of cows killed a hiker in Tirol. This might not seem newsworthy, but the hiker was German, which necessitates at least a small degree of suspicion of foul play.
September 18, 2014. I can imagine the dinner conversation now: “Is it just me, or does this macaroni salad have more parsley in it than usual?” My bad.
Things are always ending and beginning, simultaneously and separately. It’s not that an end leads to a beginning—an end is a beginning. They are the same.
I used to play the guitar. Never well, but I used to play. I did it because I had to—during the application process, I ticked a box that said “I know a few chords.” My fate was sealed.
I miss the energy. The companionship. The routine. I miss the rah rah school spirit and the constant activity and the sense that I was always accomplishing something (seemingly) important.
Somehow, years before, I’d put myself in a box. I could either be pretty or a bad-ass soccer player, not both, and it was obvious which the superior choice was.
In English, I am precise and quick with words. In Arabic, I am earnest and confused, funny not because of wit but because I am fumbling a language everyone else understands.
If you’re someone who doesn’t like to help people, who is selfish, and who is like me, you hate reading this stuff. “SO what, Bart? Make me feel bad for walking past a homeless person?
To be honest, I’m not even that big a fan of his music. But here is the thing about Andrew W.K.—he is such a relentlessly positive person that you can’t help but love him.
I invite him up to my apartment after our french toast so he can tell me if our apartment is crooked. (Water spilled last week and began running swiftly towards the front door.) It is.
But this is efficient, I tell myself. Hot food requires a stove, and a stove requires money, and I am a sophomore trying to backpack Europe on a budget. Food seemed like the best place to cut corners.
As a student, especially as a student new to this community, this is a fast-evolving and confusing situation to be caught up in. I feel the need to guard what I say and be very careful with my words.
Somehow in the concision of this story, Kafka manages to touch eternity and in doing so touch what has always, since childhood, freaked me out about eternity.
Elena’s need for the “dazzling, terrible” Lila is so powerful that it can be felt in the writing: if some parts of the novels drag, it is because Elena, without Lila, is herself dragging.
13. DO NOT FORGET THEIR LOVIES IN THE LOCKER! You will have to drive back to school in a panic!
imperfection and yes, ickiness, are byproducts of exactly the system we are supporting: small farmers rather than industry giants, produce that flaunts its small-scale origins instead of hiding in plastic packages.