thirty-one

m&ms sealed in packaging for more than a decade, crumbling into chalky dust with only traces of the facsimile of food slipping between my fingers. the dog would lick my hands clean afterwards, pressing a moist tongue into the cracks in my palms, filling the gaps gouged by the wind. leftovers went into the trash. leftovers went down the drain. it was harder to return the packaging into the state that it came in than it was to rip open to begin with. how can things seem so much larger on the inside?

trash expands to fill all available space. we are just machines for absorbing nutrients and facts and exuding garbage. once, in the desert, i stood at the base of a growing plateau of trash; in the distant, dump trucks clanked, driving across the top of the mesa until they found an edge. a load would tumble off the ledge until it reached the sandy floor, until it made a platform to support more trash, and more full trucks. sometimes i'd be in the caves underneath and feel the walls groan with bearing the extra weight.

it is hard to forget things; it is easy to add things. living is additive.

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18 February 2018 18:31

slippery

my parents got me a slot in the chinese new year pageant to play the piano. i had never worn my concert dress with that particular bench before, and by the time i reached for the first chord, i already knew i was sunk; the sheer material on the back of my legs made very little friction against the hard black enameled bench, and no one thought to give me a stool for my feet.

i sank continuously from the bench, but maintained rhythm as much as i could; at one point, i played with my hands up by my chin as my feet scrabbled for a foothold against the pedals to push myself back into the position. up and down i maneuvered, until i ended with the last few measures standing, pushing the bench back with my butt in frustration.

i don't remember if i felt embarrassed or worried, only that i locked onto a determination to finish the piece properly. my mother still tells this story, and always laughs herself to tears in recollection.

i believe her when she said it was a riot, but i also hope she was proud of me for sticking to it.

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17 February 2018 23:25

smudges

a rock, painted with a bright pattern, and the word 'GORBACHEV' in bold lettering, left on top of the recycling bin.

dried rainwater in a streak down the wall; a roll of paper, wrinkled. emails reporting flooding.

last night, pushing through lukecold puddles as deep as my ankles, washing fallen pine needles into my socks. this morning, water pooled inside my flat tire.

the leaves that rot leave oily patches on the pavement. black, slimy patches. my office doesn't quite smell like spring.

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16 February 2018 20:50

hiss

i was standing at my desk when i heard it: a soft pop and a sudden loud hiss. 'what the FUCK,' i yelled; i knew the hiss by its pitch, the sound of air whistling out of my bicycle tire.

i turned and watched the rear wheel rapidly deflate, crossing the room in two steps just in time to reach down and touch the valve, which was flapping in the breeze. there was a clunk when the last of the air escaped and the rim crashed into the floor.

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15 February 2018 18:48

how to make friends on the street

he was walking towards me, a big guy with wild dreadlocks spilling out of a black down jacket and a deep hood. i've learned to recognize the way someone holds a vape in their hand, but i could barely see the mouthpiece hidden between his fingers. i have this tendency to stare at people, sometimes, and i was looking for earphones or a headset somewhere under his hair, because he was talking, a lot. people talk when they walk alone all the time these days, into some wires attached to a phone, or some device that projects communication through the air.

but then he held out his free hand in front of me, fingers splayed, in the 'stop stop where you are' gesture, and i froze mid-step. 'excuse me, excuse me!' he said urgently. i worried. 'i love your hair!'

my hand went up to my shoulder; i forgot what my hair looked like. i had two layers of hoods; one for warmth, the second for rain protection, which i pulled up around my dreads. they spilled down the front of my chest, almost to my waist. they were much longer than his.

'thanks, man.'

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14 February 2018 19:29