You almost walked by me as you’d done many times before. What made you ask me for a dollar this time? Why did I stop to consider your blasé request? I was fickle with my handouts to the countless panhandlers in downtown Oakland. There was no pattern to my altruism, but I always carried a single dollar in my front pocket for the perfect, albeit erratic, tug on my conscience to dole it out.
You were one of the faces in the throng that was questionable; were you another unlucky destitute soul or a street hustler eager to swindle an easy handout into a bigger take? You had smooth black skin and indecipherable clothes: a tan jacket that could be second hand, dark baller sweatpants you might’ve snagged from a lost and found, and a grungy white and red ball cap with its tags still attached.…
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The first signs—paper lasted longer, printer cartridges didn’t fade, prelabeled files remained empty. It’s nothing, I thought. Every writer has such times. Word output isn’t everything. I’ve been thinking hard lately—that’s work too.
The next sign, only slightly more distracting, was the intermittent ache in my right arm. Had I slept on it the wrong way? Lugged that last heavy bag of groceries too far?
Then at my desk, I reached up toward the bookshelf and felt a sharp pang. Must have turned too quickly. But the pain wasn’t bad enough to seek treatment and became almost natural. I ignored the apparent coincidence that my arm hurt only when I reached to the bookshelf.
The discomfort increased, but I kept dismissing it and concentrated on more cerebral matters.…
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I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Van Gogh
The Caribbean did a voodoo on me. Until I finally broke the spell, it held me in an iron grip – I had to include a trip to this part of the world in my repertoire at least once a year. My excuse to myself for spending so much money and time on going somewhere familiar while so much of the world lay unexplored was the plethora of different islands I could visit. But in reality, I was simply addicted to it.
I believe that every trip we make – even short and seemingly inconsequential ones – changes who we are, but the Caribbean can give anyone an acute existential crisis. My advice: don’t go there with your loved one.…
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I discovered Nirvana on classic rock radio during my early morning drives to work after Hurricane Katrina and the flooding from the breached levees decimated New Orleans in 2005. I’d completely missed the grunge wave in the 90s. Back then, I spent long days in a medical practice working with sick patients, stubborn insurance companies, and overworked hospital clinicians. In addition, I was dealing with infertility treatments that ended in disappointment after disappointment for a lot of the decade. I put more stress on myself by sneaking outside to smoke, an old habit I picked back up thinking it would calm me. Overwhelm was a dark cloud overhead as I struggled to cope.
Popular culture, including the hottest music of the time, wasn’t on my radar.…
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Have another little piece of my heart now, baby. You know you got it if it makes you feel good. Glenda, my best friend’s mom, harmonizes with Janis Joplin’s gravelly voice like she’s singing the sacred anthem of wild women everywhere. She has a beautiful singing voice, so I try not to be too mad that the song has been on repeat for the last hour, but it’s grating on my already fried nerves. When we finally cross back into Wisconsin, less than two hours from home, I feel like I’ve stepped into my favorite pajamas after a long day. The hurly-burly left in me begins to settle.
Since we were little, Molly and I have lived down the street from one another in a small farming community tucked neatly between sprawling corn and soybean fields.…
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“It is quite possible that an animal has spoken civilly to me and that I didn’t catch the remark because I wasn’t paying attention” – Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
Three or four books lie on my nightstand, commingled with hand lotion, emery boards, and lavender oil. The tabletop suggests the luxury of self-indulgence and the whimsy of arbitrary reading. I always have a thick hardbound book ready, a big long story whose purpose is completion. Self-improvement books also sprawl there, usually by Brene Brown or Gretchen Rubin, explaining how to get happier in my head or in my home. Sometimes I swap out the self-help book for a book about writing, hoping that reading about writing will overnight, subconsciously, develop my skills. A plastic-covered library book gathers dust, my interest as casual as my financial investment.…
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What country did I rule? What pirate did I befriend? Did I know Harry Winston personally? Whatever my past lives were, no doubt, I carried my passion for jewelry with me into this incarnation. I am VS1-clear on how important jewels are to me. Before I could walk, I accessorized. Baubles have fascinated me since day one, and I remember wearing a plastic teething ring as a bracelet. How kind of fate to bring me into the world in the month of the diamond. If only I were born wearing a birthstone ring.
While others carried dolls and toys, I carried my jewelry box with me in my young years. When playing with friends on the front stoop —yes, stoop, not porch, not steps, I grew up urban, inner-city — I’d take each piece out and position it on the top step, rearrange the necklaces, put all the rings together, then lift and coddle each piece before putting it back in the pink, cardboard jewelry box.…
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