A few nights ago we got dinner at the place downstairs, beneath my spinach green carpet and mini Whirlpool fridge that hums at 4 in the morning. I did a little of my own fortune-telling.

You will have two sons, both of them gingers, because it turns out you have a recessive ginger gene. Also, your living room will have dark hardwood flooring.

Our fortune cookies came back, beige Americanized cookies of socioeconomic survival. They went a little something like this: it takes guts to get out of the ruts. And: keep your future plans secret for now.

Sounded about right. A few weeks ago, she’d ordered glasses online from a holy religious-affiliated shop online. The lenses came back with scripture on the sides.  A sign, she said.


It’s the 16th of March. On the leftmost side of the street, where the police lights blinked and a ominous sideways bike lay, I freaked. It’s already halfway through March. Your birthday is next week. Wednesday, right? Numbers come shooting in my email. These percentages are startling. They’re trying to do the opposite of imposing pressure, but it’s still pressure imposed.

It’s still cold. In March. And I miss the summertime.

I miss our roadtrip. I miss visiting Six Flags.

I miss nibbling on overpriced funnel cake, with strawberries and slightly deflated whipped cream. I miss riding the seemingly nightmarish rollercoaster with the loops and new steel and rickety rockity crawl three times in a row.

I miss traipsing across the park twice, three times, through worlds and lines and ropes and cartoons. I miss the way summer clung to our faces, heady and exhilarated.


Sky’s the Limit


Stretch of road, tire on gravel, a girl in heels shamelessly belting 90’s R&B. The noises start to meld together. Concrete becomes water. Wind turns into rain. Rubber curls into oil. Then the occasional lull: a red light, early hours in the moment. The occasional siren: burglar! And the occasional presence of the stranger boy, with the unevenly long hair and dusty grey hat.


We used to meander around aimlessly the city. It wasn’t romantic, but a romantic idea, one of lostness and freeness and direction-less-ness that, when played off right, seemed so alive. The sky was the limit; there were no limits, but of course there were limits. It just never felt it at the time.


Grasping for straws—striped plastic straws. Grasping for hair. Grasping the neck of a bottle. Grasping my hand. Grasping the concept of centripetal motion, that adding up countless angles equates to a circle. Grasping the notion of love, the many forms of love.

Collage, Meet Journal

collage art

In thinking about it, it’s been a while since I wrote my last journal entry.

Nearly a month’s passed. February went in the blink of an eye. Cliche, I know, but accurate. I shut my eyes halfway, half the month passed, and by the time I looked up, it was over. My memory’s shot. I don’t remember much from the month, other than the fact that I started it off at my best friend’s house, we went to a club, and I slept over for practically a week. It ended with her as well, the two of us eating Thai spring rolls and talking about our relationships (ha, ha).

collage art

The start of March involved dodging snow storms, hurtling myself into the sky, into luck and sunshine, to the sound of cicadas in the backyard. I vowed not to check my email, so I didn’t. I vowed not to touch any assignments, which I didn’t. I vowed not to work, which I didn’t. Which meant that I missed a couple o’ things… and wrote a 10 page paper the evening it was due… and was clueless for two days. It’s okay, though, having a break entirely free of responsibilities was #worth.

I feel bad that I’ve been throwing out so many brief little one-liners the past two months.

collage art

I was looking for some old posts earlier today and realized what a deluge of one-two-three sentence art posts I’ve been throwing up lately. Like, these tight-lipped, brief posts, which are so…sparse compared to before. I did initially start a blog to write….but it’s sort of evolved as an online outlet for whatever creative tornado hijacks over.

Has it been writer’s…block? Laziness? The need for a…break? Maybe a combination of all three.

But, of course, I can change that, I can uncurl myself from whatever corner I’m huddled in, all afraid to write. I’ll stick to making sure there’s something new every Thursday and Sunday. I’ll push myself to use WP’s Daily Post prompts as fodder for ideas, and combine that with my art posts, or use the space for journal entries, as I am now. Something like that.

3.5, 3.6, and 3.7.18 | Daily Art


Symphony of Summer


There’s the sound of cicadas, humming and dancing and singing to warmth. Throaty chirps abuzz in harmony, orchestra of din: the symphony of summer. Below the snaking branches and muttering cicadas is a small person! eyes wide and filled with wonder.

Eyes wide and filled with wonder, and maybe nostalgia, too, for muggy days and buzzing nights. Because cicadas are warm June days, broken shells left behind on beige garage doors, sweat sticking to the backs of our legs, taco shops circled once, twice, seven times around the city.


Writer’s Block


the lack of inspiration, i think, can be
broken down into several ingredients:

1. the fear of
trite, boring, wordy, purplish,
overdone, forced, casual, thoughtless, try-hard

fear is the
of creativity.

2. that one poetry class, the one
where you read other’s
people’ shit and then your own shit aloud
and gagged on your
vague, floral sentences

like, what is “cocoonish adulthood?”
and who is this man standing on a
table declaring the
definition of

and why is the only shit getting
the existential ramblings about
how small
and fragile we are?

3. there are only so many
ways you can rearrange a plate of food
if the alphabet were food, and rearrangement
were language, I’d be hard pressed to
compare writing to playing with food, so, dammit, play with your food!


Glassy Eyes, Open Hearts

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Even though sadness has a way of alienating you, it also has a way of ripping every wall down because anything else feels hollow. Because then you’re forced to be vulnerable, pushed to connect with people. And then they must mean something to you. And then, anywhere you go afterwards, you carry bits and pieces of each other because that’s just how it works. ’tis the power of vulnerability–of glassy eyes and open hearts.


March Posting Schedule


After hemming and hawing, I’ve decided on a general posting schedule for March 2018. In addition to my Daily Art project posts, I’ll always be sharing a lil’ somethin-somethin’ (of the photography/writing/musings variety) every Thursday and Sunday.

I’ve been in a bit of a blogging lull lately, the unfortunate byproduct of busy-ness + writer’s block + hermit’s shell. This is my attempt to counteract all of that with a consistent blog schedule.

I’ve been catching up on my favorite blogs recently–I hope you’re all doing well. Hugs to my fellow bloggers and readers! And thank you, always, for sticking around and reading this 🙂