When I was in my twenties I lived in a bone house. It isn’t true, but it is not a bad way to start a story. I went to a writing workshop once and maybe never again. Thirteen or sixteen seasoned workshopping folks shared their stories in their practiced reading voices over the course of the long weekend. And out of thirteen or sixteen, I faded into the disappearance zone, making myself the one who got away. The girl who stood out was the one with the bone house. Her sentence was quite magnificent and the teacher even swooned. …
It is raining when they had promised snow and Russian Doll is playing on the laptop, my insides artfully being strewn out before me in a way that I cannot yet articulate. Like the transmuting nature of a dream, unwilling to be grasped and ephemeral by definition, so is this magically-real delight conveniently packaged in a Netflix Original series. Call me ripe for the kind of heroism that is Natasha Lyonne’s; it’s 2019 and we can all use a brief reprieve. And yet, this is more like a pleasant, enduring haunting (here I am one week later and three runs…
When she goes between worlds, so do you. This is where I live.
In days weeks months after my mother dies, the ocean calls. I am to be reverse-born, back into waters. In the true middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is an ancient green rock that juts out, bearing life on its crest. It is a rock so old you can feel its age transmit through your tiny human body like some kind of prehistoric current. The waves that crash against this rock’s jagged shores mark three weeks motherless. They are like death to me, the waves. You might…
