October 15, 2008

         The smell of tea resonates deeply within me. It reminds me of mornings when I am sick, when I have to succumb to my body and surrender all mental ability to everything that is out of my control like car accidents and who my grandparents are. Tea reminds me of beauty, of Joni Mitchell and old photographs and sleeping in my underwear.
        I hopelessly love silences and seasons and nighttime. I adore instrumental music and French literature and big trees on a city block. I love still water and being afraid and human connection. Drink up (I want to be free). Explore (I want to be boundless). I need to keep writing or else I will be stagnant.


October 7, 2008

The morning light shines through the apartment complex. The illuminated dust, which remains the only source of movement in the restless environment, floats downward. She does not know why she remains tired after ten hours of sleep.

            Listening for a knock on the door to wake her, she waits for Will, the thirty-two year old single man who lives down the hall. They met by passing, engaging in small talk until one of them mentioned D.H. Lawrence. Separating during the day, they exchange books at night, drink tea and wonder how passionate of a kisser the other one is.

            But lying in bed, it’s hard for her keep the window open and eavesdrop on the movement below. The cab-calls, the fall wind, and the café conversation whistle a tune with no concrete rhythm. She promises herself that she believes in life, listening to the noise and wondering why it sings. She’s not afraid of Will, she says to herself. She is just aware of his obligations.

            She’ll pass Will in the hallway and appear to have appointments to go to. A chronic flaw, she must be chased. Fortunately, he always stops to talk, and she focuses on reducing her natural tendency to small talk. She asks, “How are you?” and “Where are you going?” He asks, “How is the collection of short stories you started?” and “When did you chip your tooth?” and “Can I come in for some tea?”

            Over tea one day, her mom calls her. Will sits across from her as she apologizes for taking the call. Her mother asks about the new studio apartment and the promotion while ranting about her younger brother who still lives at home. At first glance, she holds an intelligent conversation with her mom. In reality, she tunes it out instinctively, conversing with Will’s eyes for the remainder of the telephone call. He blinks with a feint smile. She wonders if things have begun.

            When together, they talk of childhood and science and socialism. It’s the kind of conversation that exists when people get to know one another: full of substance and ambiguity. They talk over the neighbor’s creaking bed, and it forces them not to whisper.

            “Best break up?” he asks.

            “There’s such a thing?”

            “Of course.”

            “Senior year of high school,” she snaps back, “We were friends the day after.”

            “First year out of college – I cried for three months.”

            She notices how the monotony of his motions contrasts with his spontaneous speech. He combs his fingers through his facial hair, holding the mug with both hands.

            “Ever been to that 7-eleven on the corner?”

            “The one that sixteen year old girl works at?”

            “Yeah, I heard there was a hold up there. I can’t imagine how that girl reacted.”

            “I wonder what she’s up to,” she mumbles.

            Everyday he leaves, she speculates when he will knock again. She lingers around the apartment like a dog waiting for interaction at the welcome mat. She notices how she reduces herself to desperation or anticipation or expectation, not knowing what she exactly feels. The relationship they have created is as healthy as sixth grade relationships, when one would daydream about a passionate, physical encounter but was well satisfied with a kiss on the cheek.

            Reminiscing on Daniel, the grad student she slowly stopped seeing, she realizes that she held onto the relationship for the promise of routine sex. She can’t recall their first encounter or their first date because she never knows how things begin, whether it is relationships or wars or short stories.

            Daniel called at the same time everyday. While the ringing phone annoyed her with its consistency, the silence peeved her just as well. They fumbled with conversation on the phone, both talking at once. It wasn’t right but it was no one’s fault. Her work dulled her, and he kissed aggressively.

            A single date with Daniel sticks out. They went out for ice cream after a night together when spring was just starting to bloom. Too cold for ice cream, they sat inside, and she learned about his old family road trips.

            “We went to Dairy Queens in every state. I remember the one in Florida and Delaware and middle of nowhere Indiana.”           

            “What did you get?”

            “Dipped cones. Everytime.”

            He liked dipped cones. She remembers this vividly. His dark features and little formation of a belly were lost on her, but she remembers he liked dipped cones and wadded in Lake Michigan for twenty minutes before diving in.



She treks home from the bars earlier then usual now, subconsciously wanting to be home and risk an encounter with Will. On Saturday, he is hand in hand with a petite blonde who wears all black. They smile politely. Although happy with the girl he is with, she still catches him glancing at herself with genuine appreciation in his eyes and nothing hurts, not even the repetitious sound of water dripping from her leaking sink.



September 30, 2008


The stagnant air

reminds her of



summers coming to a close.


Waiting for the wind,

she recalls

her inability to be


to be in control.


Everything reminds her

of Bukowski


he left her

without a cigarette.


Breathing in

clean air,

she notices how

black her lungs are.

How dare he leave her          


without a cigarette.

She will always have

knowledge and words

at least.

Always something to read.


The air waits

for a bluebird

but heartbreak never

shows itself in tears.




Can you feed me?

September 21, 2008

The crayons are wet from the rain. As the paper on the crayons begin to disintegrate, a layer between Jeremy’s fingers and the melted wax fades. Riding the bus home from school, he grips the crayon tightly, drawing the man across from him in a shade of blue.

                The congested bodies, all wet from the indifferent rain, uncomfortably wait to leave the bus that smells of tobacco, sweat and disinfectant wipes. They eagerly crave their home but not Jeremy. He enjoys the bus too much, where awareness pervades him. The bus not only reminds Jeremy of all the people he walks the streets with but connects him to them. Tuning out the concrete scenery he passes, Jeremy instead draws the surrounding passengers with his jumbo crayons, and when he arrives home, he hangs the portraits on his closet wall. The after school activity has not only become a routine but an awaited moment of pleasure. Now, he can remember everyone’s sleeping faces, the bags under their eyes, the awkwardness in their bones.

                Completely unaware, his mother doesn’t know he takes the bus alone; instead, he assures her that he carpools home from school. His mother doesn’t realize the maturity in Jeremy. A single mother figuring out the world, she feels inept at life and naturally does not assume her son knows more than she. And when it comes to Jeremy, he is not rebellious. Rather, his lies are a product of fear that his mom will take away his after school voyages.

                The bus stops at Ashland, two blocks away from his two-bedroom apartment. The walk up to his house faintly washes off his portraits. The people’s faces become full of tears, and he incessantly feels closer to these figures as he watches them cry. Running to his room, he locks the door and enters his closest holding his twin bed. Adding to his collection, he hangs up the portraits and watches his isolated world grow.

                But much is missing, he says. There are no animals. There are tight knit families, divorced couples, jaded children and productive youth but the walls still needs gardens, trees, and elephants.

                Discontent, he walks into the kitchen and watches his mom boil water while on the phone with Mrs. Vreeland. He waits for the spaghetti she is making and a dull moment where he can interrupt.  “Mom,” he stammers, getting her attention. His mom stirs a pot of water with one hand, blindly looking into the pot while focusing all attention to her phone conversation. He can see her shoulder bones through her t-shirt and notices she spent too much time on her hair. She brushes his comment off, telling Jeremy to hold on while she gossips with Mrs. Vreeland.

                “So this was last week?” she questions, “When Mary took the kids on vacation. That bastard saying he needed to stay home because of work.”

                Jeremy doesn’t care about politeness anymore as he watches his mother converse about affairs everyone thinks they don’t already know about. He chimes in, “Mom, can we go to the zoo on Thursday?”’

                His pervasive voice annoys her, and she simply replies, “Jeremy, it’s gonna be raining all day.”

He stares at the empty bowl on the table.

His mother doesn’t notice his discontent, switching attention to her conversation with Mrs. Vreeland: “Do the kids know yet?”

Jeremy interrupts, “Mom, I’m hungry.”

“I’m making dinner, hold on.”

He knows that water cannot boil any faster but asks, “Mom, can you feed me?”

She drops the pot and violently turns the oven off. “If you can’t wait ten minutes then you are going to have to wait until tomorrow morning.” She leaves the room discussing affairs everyone thinks they don’t know about.

He goes back to his closet, wondering if his friends have empty stomachs as well.


August 8, 2008

Kathryn had a perpetual cough. Being an usual kid, she was never sick, never inhibited signs of a runny nose or fever, and never smoked but she coughed incessantly. At times, the coughs came from deep in her lungs. Although at other times, people could not determine how legitimate her ailment actually was.

Kathryn insisted that she met the love of her life as a child, and being too unaware of love, she accepted that her chance was forever missed. She dated guys for pleasure believing that the real thing came and went too early.

Kathryn would go to candy stores as a coping mechanism. Surrounded by naivety, she could forgive herself for letting the sensitive and boyishly handsome nine-year old love go. She could pretend she didn’t believe in regret.

One day at the candy store, she spotted a group of boys congregating by the cow tails. Eyeing the licorice across the store, they are ready to launch their attack, stuff the candy into their pockets, and then walk outside trembling as their stolen candy tasted surprisingly unsatisfying. Or worse yet, the boys will fail, and Kathryn will have to witness their tearful faces aching with apologies.

She knew one of these boys truthfully and instinctively was a rebel. All of the others will learn to be, following the radical one drinking in high school until they regress into their true and safe selves. But the rebellious one will be eyeing the candy forever. Kathryn wondered about her former love, what he exchanged for licorice: a book or a beer.        

In the midst of the orderly setting, the boys hid behind a counter as they took the candy. Their silence gave them away. The clerk began to eye the thieves when Kathryn eruptted in a coughing fit. The clerk turned to Kathryn as the boys sped out the door.

Execution was all wrong, Kathryn thought. They will never succeed at the liquor store, and it is bound to happen again.

June 13, 2008

We sit at separate tables. It is a humid day but I am at an outside cafe where I read my paper and drink my coffee , and he does also. We never speak directly or make eye contact but I am close enough to hear him without intending to eavesdrop. His name is Noah.

A big boned man dressed in red, white, and blue comes walking past on the sidewalk. He carries signs and buttons and plops them down by the cafe. “LET AMERICA PREVAIL”, he says, “A war is on the rise and we need men, or boys we can make men out of, to come join in the fight. FOR FREEDOM! FOR JUSTICE! FOR PEACE!”

Noah is unfortunate enough to be at the table next to the man. He chuckles at the statement and remarks, “For peace?”


“After I shoot a man?”

The man continues to preach to the crowd that has formed and yells, “It is evil we are defeating! This is justice, people!”

“No, this is justifying killing,” he mumbles sarcastically while continuing to read the paper.

“We need to show our country’s strength!”

“Ah, weak, weak, weak.”

The man can’t ignore Noah any longer. He turns to him and says, “Well what do you propose we do? Shall we sit back as you seem to be doing? Those men out there are the ones working towards something. They are the ones progressing rather than sitting here and talking nonsense.”

“Sitting around and fighting are the two excuses for avoiding a problem and I, sir, can say I do neither. “Noah stands. “People of America, after my cup of coffee, I will be going home to rebuild the schools that are falling apart right here in our backyard that reeks of crime and lack of unity. Now won’t that be working towards peace rather that fighting for it?”

The crowd doesn’t react. Rather, they walk to the nearest drug store or beauty salon because they hear and don’t listen. The recruiter leaves. And so does Noah before I have a chance to speak to him. A week later, I am traveling overseas with a gun in my hand and twenty pounds of ammunition on my back.


That whole week before I leave, I think of Noah. I think of him when my Dad pats me on the back and asks, “Excited, boy?” I think of him as I am on the boat floating in the Atlantic Ocean with drunken men around me yelling “FOR FREEDOM!” And I think of him while I am out on the lines for the first time. I watch as grenades blow up around me, and gun shots mute my thoughts, and little boys run across the grey strip of land forgetting everything their mothers have ever told them. They are yelling at me to shoot but my arm doesn’t have the strength to hold up the gun. The next thing I know, I am lying on the ground shouting God help me.


I open my eyes to a sterile, white room with beds aligned all across the way. A nurse hovers over me and asks how I am. I’m not well enough to answer.

“I bet you’re wondering where you are,” she says, “You got shot out there. I heard you went down pretty quickly. However, it doesn’t look too bad. Just a bullet wound.” My eyes widen.

It was in the arm. According to my nurse, that’s nothing they can’t fix. In order to retain feeling though, I have to write letters everyday for an hour. Everyday, I pick up the paper and pen and write “Dear Noah,”


Sometime later, the man in the bed next to me asks me what my name is.

“Conner Mathers. Yours?”

“Pat Halloway.”

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“I was helping you up when I got shot right in my leg.”

“You were helping me up?”

“Yeah, I watched it happen. I watched you just stand there and welcome that bullet.”

“I’m sorry; I just didn’t know how to react.”

“Oh you were holding yourself back. I saw it. And now, you are holding me back. I should be out there fighting.”

“Well not me. They asked the wrong guy. I can’t go out there. I’m too screwed up about morality. Something did hold me back the other day, and I can’t deny it.”

“So boy, what is your pride getting in the way of?”

“O fuck you. It has nothing to do with pride. This whole world is so obsessed with killing people, and yet there is still a part of me that thinks maybe peace is possible. But I don’t know how or if so, but I do know you cant fight for peace by fighting.”

“You can’t fight for peace lying cold in the grave either.”


I’ve been sleeping in long spurts with the medicine they have been giving me. One night, I awake to find Pat looking up and alert.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask.

“Never can.”


“So you’re afraid of war, huh?

“Not afraid, just against it.”

“Same thing,” he remarks, “What’s this peace you talk of?”

“I know it’s not realistic but I figure, I’d rather work towards some strange outlandish dream than live this hell. At least I’m making a conscious decision to fight for a goal where I’ll be able to sleep at night. That’s a start. Maybe peace will follow.”

“Oh leave it to humans to screw up something good. If we are given peace then we will just complain about how blue the sky is.”

“You know why you can’t sleep,” I ask frustrated, “because you are too afraid of dreaming.”

”You know why you can’t get a girl? Too full of bullshit.”

“How do you know I don’t have a girl?”

“Well do you?”



I think the medicine has been affecting my dreams also. The next night, I am sitting on an ottoman with Noah beside me while we eat toast.


“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” he says, staring at me blankly.

“No I, uh, I was there at that cafe that day with the war recruiter. He was a big guy, kinda hairy.”

“Oh yes I remember. Sorry about the scene I made.”

“Don’t be. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Not even when I was carrying a machine gun toward enemy lines.”

“Ah, so you’ve been at war. How has that been?”

“I got wounded.”


“Nah, I just couldn’t bring myself to shoot.”

“Because of me?”



“I’ve wanted to talk to you. There’s so much I want to ask,” I confess.

“Well I don’t know how well I’ll be able to answer. I’m just a thirty-two-year-old from Buffalo, New York. But nevertheless, I’m here. Ask away.”

“You talked of peace.”


“Do you think its possible?”

“Possible, yes. Probable, no.”


Noah put his newspaper down and looks at me. “You ask that as if there’s an answer.”

“Well, is there?”

“A long one.”

“I would hope so,” I reply.

He takes a breath. “An end to war is an obvious step but that’s the furthest thing from peace.” He takes another breath and then continues, “I see people killed everyday. I see words beat down truly happy people. Words that, honest or not, should never be spoken. You see, being honest is the same thing as being an asshole. It’s a crappy excuse that doesn’t justify a thing. The times I inflict sadness on another, I have to walk with that guilt the rest of the day.”

He continued, “To me, I’d rather be the victim than the culprit. It’s a much easier role in life. I’d rather be hurt that be hurting someone else. Unfortunately, not enough people feel that way. So I don’t know how that will change, and I refuse lose sleep over it. I would advise you not to either.”

“Sleeping is never a problem.”

“Then maybe I’ll be seeing you around.”


For a few years after that, I fought everyday waiting for my return home. I wrote each night about my plans for America — my plans to speak and educate and rebuild and give back. I never thought that I would grow up to be a bitter man who let their values deteriorate and in turn, love the feeling of a cold gun in my hands but hey, it happened.

So do I still think peace is possible? Yes. But I sure as hell don’t care either way.


May 18, 2008

Her longing eyes fear blinking. They do not want to miss any action Dan makes. We all go about our lives around the two but my heart breaks watching the stagnant mess.

Dan drops her off first then drives me home tonight. We are both blunt people, and our conversation ensues. “Break up with her, confess your love, take her virginity – do something,” I say. He sits. We are like the bees, struggling to sting because we will die in self-defense.

Waking up

May 15, 2008

We wake up. We consume mass amounts of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The box sits next to us, waiting to be poured again. We watch “The Real World” and then change the channel out of embarrassment. We receive a call. The phone sits in our lap. Windows down, we drive to the store, buying ill-fitting dresses, sequined vests and short shorts. We go to the friend’s house whose parents are out of town, putting on lots of eyeliner and drinking lots of Captain Morgan. We stumble to the school dance, shimmying in front of teachers and dancing with younger boys. We leave early and walk to a bonfire, drinking, smoking and peeing behind the garage. We call ex-boyfriends and eat cookies when we get home.

May 7, 2008

Regular posts will start again after May 30th. In the meantime, here is my senior article for my school newspaper:

The question “What do you want to do with your life?” plagues me not because I do not possess an answer; rather, I do not have an answer that others understand.

How do I explain that I want to live a dumpster diving, train hopping, protein-deficient, thrift-store buying, nomadic existence? How can I avoid strange looks when I say possible careers include a bike messenger or crazier, someone who just wants to write?

I dream of the day when I can have tattoos, and my job will not require me to cover them up with a button down, collared shirt. I dream of the day where I can write and not have a second job just to get by. I dream of affording health care.

Looking toward the future, I want to live passionately and take my hobbies seriously. I want to attack everything as an art form, disregarding back ups. I want to remain idealistic even when I have to pay taxes.

So come time for college, I am about to test my ideologies and my idealistic nature, but I am scared that I will crumble when given the task of transforming theory into reality. At least I recognize this fear but head straight toward this prospective risk regardless.

I fear that as most grow up, the real world succeeds in making us realists. It is a silent epidemic. It does not destroy the environment or wipe out the masses but it allows a little bit of the unrealistic child in us to become forgotten.

Aaron Cometbus, an underground author, spends his life in poverty to pursue his craft, saying, “It’s too easy to just let yourself be defeated. To wallow in the comfort of suffering. To let your self-destructive tendencies become your whole life. To retreat and hide from the world you could have taken by storm. To keep the fruits of creativity to yourself and let them rot on the vine. It’s too easy to say you’re a loser and think there’s something noble about failure.”

As Cometbus suggests, most fail because it is too arduous a task to even try. Yet, present day society thrives on self-determination. Even though the capitalist system has flaws, as all do, its major strength is that capitalist theory is in accordance with the DIY ethos I like so much. Whatever you want to do, work hard and do it.

As a senior, I’m now reflecting on the past just as much as I’m romanticizing about the future. The last four years have been an incongruent mix of spending time enveloped in a fictional world and spending reality with my best friends, purposely not taking life seriously; a mix between reflecting on life and experiencing it; a mix between having so much to say and not verbally being able to express myself; a mix between fighting personal demons and refusing to apologize for who I am.

Using the newspaper as forum to express myself for two years, I still do not know how much of my writing is read and how much is looked over by the student body. Regrettably, I know that in past attempts to bring light on certain issues, I have preached when that really has not been my objective. Thus, I hope this piece does not hold the same tone. This senior article is merely my personal statement to look back on when a pile of rejection letters collect on my own desk, an inevitable fate for an inspiring writer.

My only advice is this: Live simply. Brush your teeth. Wander with a purpose.

April 17, 2008

The Teenage Head is young and hip and hot and decisive and hot and cool. They are anti-everything including themselves and if they played guitar at least one of the strings would be broken and the other five (or 11) would certainly be out of tune. The Teenage Head makes movies not films. The Teenage Head writes stories not literature. They are from the second city (which has actually been the third city, statistically, since 1991). They stay up much too late and wake up much too late and arrive much too late to classes with old old kids and old old teachers and old old books and old old ideas. The Teenage Head is young and hip and hot and cool and hot and anti this about literature almost as much as you are.

Check out the Teenage Head for a story of mine: Thank God

Also, if you have time, the short films are worth a look. I particularly like “The People in the Middle”.