How the dead can seem so alive, she had pondered as she moved from room to room and conversation to conversation. Eventually, she had stopped moving. For days on end. The dark of her eyelids transforming into the darkness outside her window. That is when they had come—her friends—and pulled her out of the mud that seemed to be drowning her. The mud that was sucking her under as her arms sat helpless at her side. How easily the body can be swayed by the soul.Read More
Like any writer, I spend a lot of time procrastinating the things I need to say because ultimately, writing requires vulnerability. There is also the balance of writing things that can be monetized versus the things you want to talk about. The collection of essays here represents the latter to its truest form. It is my hope that as you read them, you will allow yourself to be as vulnerable as I permit myself.
Do leave me a comment if something particularly strikes you. Happy reading!
I read Eleanor Roosevelt's love letters this morning. Well, at least snippets of them. Wife to President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Eleanor was a reformist and champion for women's equality in her role as first lady—and the longest serving American first lady. Known for her public persona, her personal life has been a topic of much discussion since the discovery of a batch of her letters nearly four decades ago and the resulting publication of the book, Empty Without You.Read More
There are cities I cannot write about. Cities so full that you cannot hold them in your mouth or hands—spilling over onto sidewalks and tarmac, reaching into the recesses of your blood memories for something you once knew. But how do you remember a thing you’ve never seen? A city you’ve never met? Perhaps it’s the city’s stunning geography or its dizzying history but something stops you before you can put pen to paper that says, “wait, you do not understand… yet.”Read More
He speaks not to me, not to her, but is sound in his resolution. Her, being Angelica, the fierce Honduran American sitting beside me on the beach. Hours earlier, she had driven us to this strip of island on Florida's West Coast so we could stare at the blue. And Ana Maria Island is all blue. A seven-plus mile long expanse of land and sand strewn into the Gulf of Mexico to remind you, yes you, that you are living your best life. It is generous.Read More
** Quote from Meryl Streep's 2016 Golden Globes Speech
2017 is a year for flexing my creative muscles and releasing into the world the things I am not sure of, the ones that feel too vulnerable to make and state. As such, I offer a litany of broken hearts sold as poetry. Of a nonbeliever perpetually in love. The poems (below) are arranged under different titles. The titles themselves, drawn from the work of another artist I greatly admire, Jim Chuchu, whose multimedia exhibit, The Bones Remember, led me to new questions on art and claiming identity.
Feature Image: Taken at Buddy Brew Coffee, Tampa, Florida
On February 8th, 2016, MarShawn killed himself on the steps of the Ohio State Capitol. He was 23, a Black Lives Matter Organizer, and a promising leader who said heaven wasn't worth waiting for if it meant living in hell. In one of his last tweets, he posted, "If we don't don't have to live through hell just to get to heaven. I'ma stay right here."Read More
Nights are the hardest. Drenched with anxiety over yet another night to be spent tossing and turning. A nightly routine predicated on the nagging fear of watching the clock yawn into the night, numbers falling off to be replaced by even more menacing ones. My heart beats faster. Unsure if I am more afraid of suddenly been caught awake in what are the sleeping hours or the fear that there is still much to be done.Read More