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Archive for 2013|Yearly archive page

Visitor’s Badge

In by Michael on December 13, 2013 at 3:45 am

Hi, welcome to Tekko Corp.

My job here is to hate the company I work for.

Her job is to answer the phone and deflect questions.

His job is to tell other people what to do.

Her job is to order lunch and organize the holiday party.

His job is to take notes at meetings.

Her job is to come up with ideas and give them to her boss.

His job is to make spreadsheets.

Her job is to write the same email over and over.

His job is to hide things from the government.

Want to get a coffee?


The Good Art

In by Michael on December 4, 2013 at 1:36 pm

This is bullshit art.

It’s “look at me, pretending to be an artist” art.

It’s a tourist on a tour.

A halfhearted attempt to prove to yourself that a more normal path is what’s reasonable. Go get a fucking desk job.

Vulnerability. Show it to me. Show me what you got!

Don’t let the voices in your head get to you. The insecurities. They tell you to close doors. Be afraid. Someone might not like it.

Damn right, someone might not like it. Be proud.

What I want in an artist: “I’m not pretending to be anything. That’s the point.”

The Royal Game

In by Michael on December 3, 2013 at 4:11 pm

“You start. Rookies take white.”

He wasn’t aggressive, like the jail dudes in the movies. His eyes though, had this steady intensity to them – you could feel him watching, focused, sizing me up. Looking to see if I was going to be a pussy or a problem or what.

I moved my King’s pawn two spaces.

He brought his full attention to the game.

We didn’t play with a timer, but there was a real pressure to not take all day making a move. Taking all day means you’re a pussy.

He looked almost happy when I beat him.

Falling in

In Uncategorized on December 1, 2013 at 2:06 am

Wild, deep, and anguished. It was torment, yearning, with stones tied to the back of the throat.

The first miracle was that she had burst into existence, and the second was that her existence had crossed with his. All he needed was a third. His ribs wrung with the eons-old pang. His ears rang with it. It was not quite love, nor mere lust. Each time he fell for this new someone, he felt savagely alive and dying to be requited.

It wasn’t love.


It was grieving.

Grieving the loss of what hadn’t yet been, and might never be.

Lost Skies by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 25, 2013 at 9:30 pm

Thinking of the colors. And rain. Banana bread. Demons. And your face.

If I was going crazy, would I know it?

Sneak up like lightening through soft purple clouds trying to hide the expanse of sky so you don’t trip falling up.

Yesterday, the sky was blue and deep. The day before, it was a red thing, hung low and close. Bloody bed sheets god forgot to bleach. I had to crouch, walking out the door.

I await the sky tonight. I pray it isn’t purple and that it finds you safe.

If she was lost, would you tell her?

Don’t Call Me Crazy

In by Bunc on November 21, 2013 at 6:20 pm

Said did I mind if he smoked.
Said he was headed for Glenwood Springs.
Said he didn’t know how to use a cellphone.
Said it was his first day outside of prison after seventeen years, nine days. Said he was forty years old.
Said his sister was raped and he killed the five guys that did it.
Said his daughter was turning eighteen in December. Said he was still her hero.
Said his nickname was “Crazy Peckerwood”. Said they don’t call him crazy anymore, said names and behaviours precede one another.
Said goodbye from the payphone stand across the terminal.

My Nicaragua by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 20, 2013 at 10:43 pm

It’s like all at once and yet so slow.

Creeping, it races to drown and embrace. Stealing sight and sound as you sacrifice your heart.

My friend laughs in the distance as he is pulled under. Again and again. Always he rises to smile at the sun and wave to me just when I begin to worry from my safety, here, where the depths can only tease.

I return his salute. Envy commands me to dive deeper, farther. But my feet are growing roots in the sand.

Such is love, faith, and the blue tides of San Juan Del Sur.

Writing to Pretend to Forget by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 20, 2013 at 10:42 pm

In hundreds of hundred word pictures she fell. Inevitably – How did she not know?

Outside, the world delighted in hot splendor. A commotion dressed for anyone to taste,

summer’s modesty abandoned.

Starry night intoxications leave scars for autumn. Burns where her hands remember his.

Perhaps words will purge what tears cannot, she prays and hopes and writes while wishing

away her heart. Turning days like pages she remembers to forget. Heartbreak can lead to laughter

too, if she remembers not to cry. If she remembers those eyes are no longer hers to hold.

How restless I grew, waiting for winter.

Death of Arachnida by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 20, 2013 at 10:41 pm

She spins, dancing with the grace of twilight song. Starlight crests her dark and painted back.

The queen of night ascends –

And is at once cut down.

No more to seduce her wandering prey. No more to beckon hither with shimmering promises

wrought from shivering limbs.

But, oh! She spun so sweetly, a mystery none could tell. A mystery none could live to hear

without the taste of blood –

Their own.

She held secrets close and dark beneath that shell that was her skin –

That was her heart.

The tales she wove, renowned in strength,

Writhing wild with the wind.


In by Bunc on November 15, 2013 at 5:52 am

recidivist philanderer, convenient unforgetter of fraudulent schemas from highschool playbooks

awestruck prepubescent, demiurge of daydreamt universes through dusty passenger windows

barren mute, gaze deflected in transit, sheathing his uncomfortable affliction

bourgeois aggregator of secondhand intellect, little black rolodex of opinions

vengeful unwinger of dragonflies, silvertongued forger of whys and wherefores

serial altruist, infrequent imposer of narcissistic generosity upon the undesiring

nostalgic reactionary, tattooed in tribal silhouettes, acquiescer to privileged simplicities

vagrant troubadour, moonlit bard, decreasingly tragic aficionado of mind alteration

insatiable scientist, hunter of patterned quarry, unwitting patronizer of chaos

lowly stenographer of this unholy warfare between a thousand selves

Twentysomething and a Half

In by Michael on November 15, 2013 at 4:14 am

Work hard. Also, relax.

Listen to your parents sometimes. Because sometimes they are right. And sometimes they are wrong.

What matters matters.

Life is like sports. Always pass the ball, unless you have an open shot, in which case, shoot the ball.

Think about what you’re doing.

Have some sex. Not so much that you have a baby, but have some sex.

Write a blog but not a shitty one.

Make some money. It’s okay to be a little broke, but seriously, make some money.

Friends = new friends + old friends – bad friends.

Be as popular and smart as possible.

7 Under 7

In by Michael on November 12, 2013 at 5:44 am

The young disruptors, innovators, gadgeteers, and thought leaders on our annual listing of the 7 Under 7 are impatient to change the world.

In categories ranging from government to entertainment to astrology, our panel of expert judges chose from the field of 700 million humans under age 7 to bring to you the world’s brightest stars. In sum, these ambitious youngsters, ranging in age from 3 to 6, represent the creative and intellectual best of their generation. Individually, they are engaging, surprising and incredibly hardworking.

Meet Mitch, Tom, Branon, Jessica, Jamie, Erin, and Sudipta! Our future is in their hands.

One kind

In Uncategorized on November 11, 2013 at 7:58 pm

There are all kinds of love. Nervous love. Puppy love. Sibling love. Comfort love.  There’s also Nikki love.

It’s a love that knows every bit of your selfish insanity yet still loves you.  It’s a love that must do everything imaginable to help. Because you are amazing. This love aches and uplifts and cherishes. It doesn’t question or begrudge, or reason. It doesn’t make sense. When you’re loved this way you actually feel loved – you feel it hush your skin, and seep deep under your bones.

When I experience this kind of love I’m inspired to love others with it. 

One of Those

In by Bunc on November 9, 2013 at 11:28 am

My grandma once told me speed bumps were what happens when lousy drunks fall asleep in the street and freeze up forever.

Call it that, call it a preternatural recognition between kindred sponges; either way I don’t regret waking him up.

“Alright down there?”

“Oh, yeah… Just inspecting the uh, sidewalk integrity.”

“This your place?”

“I’d ah, say it’s more theirs than it is mine.”

Dorothy Parker of his generation against the lamplit picket fence, one of those friendships.

Three endless blocks of beers and roadtrips and best man at each other’s weddings.

Rashid, I wish I’d seen you again.

This Happened to Alex Last Thursday (by Susha)

In Uncategorized on November 8, 2013 at 7:53 pm

A groggy morning, the kind that makes decision-making hard. Toast or cereal? Pants or shoes.

On the bus, Alex waited for someone else to pull the stop line. As the beast lurched forward, Alex and a fellow rider groped for stability, their hands landing on the same stretch of pole. A brief morning romance.

Off the bus, the removed hum of traffic on freeways above offered a respite from the bus’ intimate roar.

Then a dump truck flipped over the freeway and killed Alex. Overhead, thousands of morning commuters sighed impatiently because the commute had just gotten 40 minutes longer.

Location Scouting for an Apocalypse

In by Bunc on November 7, 2013 at 5:01 am

A furious West Portal traffic junction channels its fleeting multitudes, their trajectories uncountable to a cursory observer.

Lifeblood streams from an unbound pentagram where convergent tramlines vivisect a suburban arterial.

Another boulevard pours westward across the ensuing mayhem, downhill from an irony of baseless opulence named for a medieval ascetic.

Chaos in equilibrium.

And pause.

Thirteen endless seconds. Mass-produced corpuscles hover before an inexplicable lattice of red lights, an apparent serenity ill at ease with the industrial throb that persists.

Green. Circulation resumes.


Far overhead, Nemesis nods solemnly and departs, her baleful reconnaissance unknown to the mortal interchange transpiring below.

Sunday, November 3

In by Chris on November 3, 2013 at 9:13 pm

yellowjackets are sucking
sap off the pines
in City Park

did you want to bike
or go lie and
read or…?

cyclones of photosynthetic
litter, the largest cottonwood
leaves fall first, yellow to
brown on down

six feet of double helix
spun into every nucleus,
cistrons assemble polypeptide
chains fold into proteins
that literally build us

wink, nod to the
other room and grin

pay these things no mind
they will align
give them no names
they go on all the same

the cold front
fans through the debris
like screens of static,
see clouds strained
through the Front Range


In by Bunc on November 2, 2013 at 8:45 pm

obsolete shanks of stained glass
align in her kaleidoscope of reasons
to spell words once wagered on
and long since forgotten

moonshine silhouettes of lucky numbers
on a drycleaned lottery ticket,
daring to be redeemed for more than a story
but here it is:

[fools waltz upon monsoon sands unaccompanied,
to the fulminant tide let them offer their loves:
these transient whispers they leave phosphorescent
relinquish no cinder, no wake in the frost]

november subsides,
battleworn vagrants in pairs
comb lacerated shorelines,
weary of thunderous solitude

trophies of petrified lightning to share
for the ones who withstood
in charmed resilience

Civic Centrifuge

In by Bunc on November 1, 2013 at 9:23 am

What unknowable rhythms compel the dervish? What sacred fugues imperceptible? What hellwind choruses are wrought upon those whirling talons, stoke the smouldering flare that he cradles between sawn-off glovetips, some semaphore to his celestial brethren?

What fleeting tyrannies of human sense can one impose on this son of Chaos, this otherworldly conductor of downtown crescendo? Eyes under the leprous bandanna? Nose behind the double band-aid, bifurcated tongue behind maniacal shards of a grin? Some antediluvian childhood when bedroom mirrors once framed these esoteric contortions?

And yet he spins, these questions unanswered, scuppered already upon the tempests of our own creation.


In by Wyatt on October 30, 2013 at 9:34 pm

He emptied his business card holder into his desk bin and took out a tiny bottle of Jameson.

Two years, give or take an extra one month three days and five hours. He unscrewed the bitsy red cap and looked at the letter he’d just written, still warm from the printer.

What was next? Images of freedom and/or begging in the subway collided in his mind.

“You’re moving on?” Boss asked.


“Congratulations, I’m happy for you!”

The butterflies landed and a thin hard shell seemed to evaporate off his back. Outside, the sky stretched wide. He should call Cheryl!

Pretend Raisins on the 49

In by Bunc on October 30, 2013 at 3:15 pm

“Righto pal, window seat?”




“Alright now we’re gonna play that game agai—“

“Oooh which game?”

“The reading game, but I’ve got no raisins on me so I’m gonna give you a pretend raisin for every word you can read outside, alright?”


“Alright. How ‘bout that blue word over there?”

“What bl— okay. Hhhhh… Hhhhh-ohhhh… Hhhhhhohhhhnnnddddd… Hhonnndahh… ‘Honda’!”

“Good!. Now that nice big circle one.”

“Umm… The… Guhhh-rrrreeee… Guhhh-rreee-ahhhhh…”

“’Great’. That’s the Great Seal of California.”

“Oh mannn, how’d you know it said ‘Great’?”

“Secret. Read some more and I’ll tell you. Here, have a raisin.”


In by Bunc on October 30, 2013 at 11:18 am

If only daytime things made the same plasmic sense that they do at this hour, when a grown man can stare down the legion blinks of an ill-meaning Hydra outside his balcony window, defying her in nonchalant credulity to stick around for elderberry pancakes in the morning.

Here the dulcet growl of reason belies an intriguing nocturnal conceit: if hallucinating a mythical beast only requires poor unassisted vision, San Bruno’s streetlamps across the valley and a threefold parallax intervening (observer’s fridgebound trajectory, barometric ripplings of a veil curtain, a particularly restless eucalypt outside), then maybe reality doesn’t suck after all.

If you were suddenly to become wealthy, how would your life change?

In by Michael on October 28, 2013 at 12:29 am

I’d turn my phone off for days.

I’d spend more time in Chicago.

I’d read books the whole way through without ever putting them down.

I’d write a book with a friend.

I’d keep taking photos.

I’d go out for coffee every day.

I’d cancel my health insurance and pay for everything in cash.

I’d move to New York and do standup comedy 5 nights a week.

I’d buy a car. Late 90’s Porsche. Black.

I’d buy retirement for my parents.

I’d cover the check at lunch, always.

I’d make my friends famous.

I’d spend more nights abroad in hotels.

New Friends

In by Michael on October 26, 2013 at 8:01 pm

The people I meet, they give me nightmares.

Everyone I meet. The farmer at the sunny peach stand at the farmer’s market. The bartender on the lower level at the Irish pub by the office. The Italian woman I sat next to on the subway on Tuesday.

I wake up in cold sweats. They’re coming at me. They’re humiliating me. They surround me. They know I’m weak, cold.

I wake up, go outside. The nightmare is over. For an hour I can pretend that I’ve won. And then I meet someone new, they smile big, looking deep into my soul.


In Uncategorized on October 23, 2013 at 10:29 am

When she landed in Austin she felt it again — that she was ‘back, but not ‘home’. She had accepted that she’d never know the certainty of ‘home’ after so many moves. But even still, part of her always anticipated the sensation of ‘coming home’. Its absence left her feeling stranded, like someone supposed to meet her just didn’t show up. It was more of a wafting nostalgia than a sharp pang, yet it picked at the scabs of identity and belonging, and the blood seeped out. Home. She looked around, nodded at the empty bustle, and left the terminal. 



Brawl (II)

In by Chris on October 22, 2013 at 9:03 pm

“Hey!” The first friend’s stunned yelp echoes back hollow. Cursing himself as a coward, he runs forward. Dark spaces grow in the alley.

The other is curled, hands to his side, eyes gaping, mouth slack as if asking for an answer. If there is blood, the night hides it.

And the crushed kid? He feels his face and staggers to his feet. He sneers at the friends, spits out, “I dunno who you are but that serves you right.”

“What? We just… He just…”

“Yeah? I don’t need nobody’s help. I had that dude. Fucking heroes. Go to hell.”

Southern Sumatra (by guest author Berend)

In Uncategorized on October 10, 2013 at 1:43 am

A thousand white helmets. This graveyard is a monument, a witness to my birth. The men who lie here are the sacrifices made so I could enter the world. A thousand Asian lives for the one European life. My life begins here, with a  simple ritual: a thousand men, trapped in a ring of steel, slaughtered, in five days and five nights, with ritual stenguns, ritual Sherman tanks, ritual Mosquito bombers, in what is merely a pretense of war.

The defeated hope, of a thousand men, for life, for dignity, for freedom. This is the hope I carry with me.

Prius in the Passing Lane

In by Chris on October 3, 2013 at 11:24 pm

            When one of those goddamn go-cart hybrids, especially a Prius, clogs up the highway passing lane, I get twice as aggressive as ever. I swear, twice as aggressive, and that’s saying something.

            Makes me sound like I hate the environment. Naw. I appreciate those hybrids, they’re all fine and good. But you know what, goddammit, I’m in a truck, like it or not. Nothing you or I can do about it. Unless I get a raise. And I sure as hell won’t be driving my truck like a flaccid hybrid.

            It wasn’t made for that. Well hell, neither was I.

Accepting Euthanasia (by guest author, Berend)

In Uncategorized on October 3, 2013 at 8:16 pm

Being of a technical mindset, he could not simply act out his role without preparation. He studied himself in the mirror, the way he studied tissue samples under a microscope.  Dissecting his facial expressions as he would dissect human flesh, making choices.  Affect authority, affect affection? Be God, or be human? Blue eyes: cold or radiant?  Thin wisps of white hair: designer glasses as an accessory?

‘Mrs. Naaktgeboren, what you face……. I know your feeling, but, you couldn’t imagine…. The thing that’s coming for you……… Mrs. Naaktgeboren, I’m (lie!), I’m (lie!lie!), I’m a compassionate man. Please, you must, must accept…..‘

This Condition

In by Michael on September 28, 2013 at 3:02 am

I got this condition see.

I got no rhythm.

I don’t know up from down.

I go left instead of right.

Quick instead of slow.

I got this condition see.

I love rhythm.

I feel it in my bones.

I smile when it’s right.

I need it daily.

I got this condition see.

What I want I can’t have.

I touch it.

But can’t grab hold.

It flows through me.

I got this condition see.

Feel like a kid.

Loving the ride, always the passenger never the driver.

No words to explain, no structure to understand.

All gut no brain.

Brawl (I)

In by Chris on September 24, 2013 at 12:28 pm

The rowdy night grows silent. Streetlights like spotlights stay fixed on empty stages of sidewalk. Two friends, buzzed, pass through the city.

Muffled shouts on a sidestreet. Thuds. A panicked yelp.

The friends turn the corner, see the beating, one kid with hands raised and the other above, fists falling fast.

The first friend halts, searches the scene, alert heart pounding. The other dashes forward, bowls into the brawl, throws the attacker back and turns to the crushed kid. Then the attacker’s on his back, hand to pocket and a knife, an angry shout.

The attacker dashes; the friend collapses.

When The Fall Comes

In by Michael on September 22, 2013 at 1:52 am

You’ll look for love in new places. You’ll reach out to friends, old and new, to hug, to laugh with, to cry with.

You’ll have vivid dreams about your beloved.

You’ll tell stories to shared friends, and you’ll write things down.

You’ll have emotions that you’re unable to put into words.

You’ll take the photos down off the walls and the mantle.

You’ll want to get on with your life.

You’ll feel guilty about wanting to get on with your life.

The shape of your day, the way you move about your life, will change.

You won’t be the same.

Miles From Santo Domingo

In by Michael on September 21, 2013 at 1:33 am

I moved here to San Francisco from the Dominican Republic three years ago.

I live upstairs from my younger son, his wife, and two daughters. He convinced me to move here when his mother, my wife, died.

I work three days a week at the barber shop a few blocks away, on Church street. Most of the Dominican people I know in the city come here for their haircut. It doesn’t feel much like home, but it feels more like Santo Domingo than the rest of San Francisco does.

Everything I know about is far away and doesn’t matter anymore.

Shit Rolls Down Hill by David Novak

In Uncategorized on September 20, 2013 at 9:42 am

Jim had always thought that the phrase “shit rolls downhill” was completely figurative in nature.

Yet as he squatted at the top of the hill, Jim learned that he had been wrong all these years. And it completely changed his view of the world.

He watched as it plopped along, as it descended downward towards the plains below, tumbling haphazardly and grotesquely yet still somehow maintaining a semblance of elegance, as if it were dancing between all those blades of grass.

It was only his first day camping, Jim realized, and he had a lot to learn about the world.

Burritos and Romance in Toronto by Michael O’Shea

In Uncategorized on September 2, 2013 at 7:40 pm

Michael sat down across from me at the Burrito King. He looked tired, like he had just moved his family across the Pacific, only to discover his Filipino degree was useless in Canada. Which was all true.

I silently nodded. We shared a name, but more than a plastic table divided us.

He drank his Jarrito and changed the subject. “Are you married?’ he asked.


“Good. A woman will change twice in her life. Once when she becomes your girlfriend and again when she becomes your wife.”

It was time to go. He got up.

“Good luck.”

“You, too.”


Things I like to do when I’m home alone

In by Lara on August 27, 2013 at 11:31 am

Things I like to do when I’m home alone:

Watch my guilty pleasures television shows in bed (invariably with atrocious posture) preferably at the same time as playing some sort of game on my phone such as tetris.

Blast some of my less trendy music choices while I try to slice cucumber pieces as thinly as possible.

Get lost in the wormhole that is the internet. Frequently browsed topics include a capella performances, restauranteurs, recipes, and obviously Facebook stalking.

Light candles, draw myself a bath, pour myself a glass of wine, and prepare a chicken apple sausage on a fork.

The narrative in my head when I try and write a personal statement or update my resume

In by Lara on August 26, 2013 at 3:13 pm

God I sound like a pretentious douchebag. No one cares about that shit? Oh great, you worked with a

bigwig at that place back when it mattered? Great! You still suck. Ugh. Okay, let’s be less critical about this.

Start over.


Fuck you.


You suck, you know that? You really do. This is seriously the most cliched piece of shit that will ever

land on the admissions’ person’s desk.

Stop writing about your grandmother.

Okay, you need adversity. Like you’ve faced adversity. Wah wah wah.  Stop whining, asshole.

Maybe switching to writing by hand will be less judgmental.


In by Lara on August 26, 2013 at 3:06 pm

“What was that for!”
It’s weird how much soft skin can still sting when you come into contact with it like that. I didn’t say anything. I felt like I should apologize, but I felt like I might vomit if I did. She was still standing there with a shocked and hurt expression on her face. People turned their heads to watch us as they piled into the further morass of the club that is what we do at night.

There was so much that that was for, I wanted to say. Instead,

“Sorry, I was being passive aggressive.”

I learned about sufficient-necessary conditions in terms of real-world relationships

In by Lara on August 26, 2013 at 2:56 pm

The needy relationship: If B goes to the party, A will go to the party.
A is needy. B is independent. B can go to the party all by B’s self or with someone else.

That couple that goes everywhere together: If B goes to the party, A will go to the party. And vice versa. Aka if one of them goes, they both go. If one of them doesn’t go, neither of them will go.

The bad breakup one: If B goes to the party, A will not go and vice versa, cuz girllll, that was a bad breakup.

Stuck a Stake

In by Lara on August 23, 2013 at 11:45 am

I’ve stuck a stake in the sand,
which, if you’ve ever tried, is not easy to do.
I’ve stuck a stake in the sand,
and I thought my stake was true;
Or that at least it was good,
that it was the right thing to do.

My hope, my logic, my reasoning was:
That once the water came,
it would do what it does
The stake would stick,
the sand withdraws.

But perhaps it’s the water,
or maybe the stake,
but if I’m to be honest
that stake, I did make,
with careful consideration,
I doubt it would break.

The love of my life read my mind and gave me a box of spinach.

In Uncategorized on August 8, 2013 at 5:22 pm

I listen to my body. When it wants salty greasy dead animal, I quench its desire. When it yearns for chlorophillic greenery, I munch. When it requires unadulterated raw Peruvian cacao, I acquiesce, for it is my vessel.

I can’t always hear what it wants. Anyway, I rarely listen. If I had, today I’d know it wanted vegetation.

Lara arrived with a box and a smile, and gave me both.

The cardboard was light in my hands. My brow furrowed, my palms itched. I opened it, peered inside, and tumbled for the uncountableth time completely in love with this woman.



An artist I know

In Uncategorized on August 8, 2013 at 5:00 pm

Dear Emma,

When I lent you my pants, you wore them.

I asked you to wear them as you painted, and you slashed your turmoil across their Spartan white threads in bright splashes of ragged color. You don’t understand why I now wear these pants with a blazer and boots. I love it, though. Love feeling privileged and special and good because I’m wearing art.

You’re an artist, who I know. I don’t know if you’re a friend. Underneath a warm veneer, our relationship is merely cordial.

You distrust me because I love. I distrust you because you distrust love.


Time Accelerator Wish (by David Novak)

In Uncategorized on July 31, 2013 at 10:30 am


Sometimes she likes to smoke.

And sure, she knows that’s what killed her mother.

But she doesn’t know why people keep telling her she has a death wish. How can she wish for something she knows is already going to happen. To wish for the inevitable? That seems silly. Like a waste of a perfectly good wish.

So, instead, she thinks of it as a time-accelerator wish. That every puff of smoke will nudge the clock forward, and give reluctant seconds a push in the right direction.

She doesn’t have a death wish. Really. She just hates to wait.


In by Wyatt on July 25, 2013 at 1:55 pm

Dear Father, 

You ask what will I do with my life? Oh man. I dunno. I want to rid Australia of tall poppy syndrome. I want to apply psych research to creating a more just society through campaigns and clever storytelling. I want to revolutionize our broken education system. I want to smack sense into our politics. I want to move to Australia at age 35 and be fulfilled with the work I do there, while swimming in the ocean every day too. 

I want it all. And yet, I could die or get paralyzed at any instant. 

Life’s insane!

Next Steps

In Uncategorized on July 20, 2013 at 6:24 pm

My husband died, she said, and the next day I danced the Tango.

She looked at me with flat, frank eyes.

Tango is rigid yet passionate, she explained. Your mind switches off and your body switches on. Dancers leave their baggage at the door and express the inexpressible through movement.

Two years of cancer. Two years of watching helplessly.  Two years contemplating death and aloneness. 

I was in another room when he died. I felt his soul kiss me on its way up.

Words are clean. But feelings are messy, life is messy, and death is messy.

So I dance.



In by Bunc on July 14, 2013 at 8:55 pm

Prepare shrimp/cornflour mix in plastic container.  Place container on stove to ease transfer of shrimp into pan.  Turn on stove burner under pan.  Chop up garnish.  Look back and realize that you accidentally turned on the fucking burner under the fucking plastic container.  Inhale cascading polymer fumes in panicked breaths whilst joking awkwardly about the situation to nearby houseguests.  Turn on extractor fan and mentally compare vortex of pale smoke to an inverted UFO beam, thinking about how the extraterrestrials inside might even resemble these crustaceans now sublimating in your stovetop Chernobyl diorama.  Exit hallucination, guzzle therapeutic bourbon and cry.


In by Michael on July 10, 2013 at 12:14 am

I was taking photos on the BART platform today. A BART employee walked over to me, and asked what I was taking photos for.

I said I was working on an art project.

He asked if I’d been in contact with the BART media office.

I said no.

He said I needed to stop taking photos.

I said I thought it was a free country.

He said that his manager upstairs saw me and said I needed to stop. “It’s a safety issue.”

I said, oh, that’s interesting, you guys have cameras?

He said he didn’t want to debate anymore.


In by Michael on June 27, 2013 at 12:13 am

I was always embarrassed in high school, driving my dad’s pickup truck around.

Why did we have to own something so practical? The other kids got to drive around fun cars, fast cars. Dave even had a motorcycle.

In the flatbed, we always had 2×4’s, tools, cinder blocks, stuff from whatever project my dad was working on.

On weekends, I would sometimes work on projects with my dad. He would teach me something new, and challenge me to do it better than him.

It took an entire childhood before I stopped wishing my dad were a businessman, or a scientist.

a photographer

In by Michael on June 24, 2013 at 4:50 pm

a journalist, a reporter, a recorder, an instigator, a director, an artist, a businessperson, a technician, a student, a teacher, a traveller, a master, and apprentice, an observer, a follower, a tastemaker, a curator, a networker, an advisor, a stylist, a meteorologist, a biologist, an anthropologist, an astrologist, a biographer and autobiographer, a negotiator, an entertainer, an organizer, a spy, a researcher, a tourist, a sharpshooter, a scientist, a storyteller, a philosopher, a cynic, a craftsman, an explorer, an illusionist, a revisionist, a whistleblower, an investigator, an experimenter, a friend, a connection, a historian, a messenger, a catalyst, a symbol.

Win Easy

In by Michael on June 18, 2013 at 5:25 pm

Life is a battle with yourself.

Do this; don’t do that. Get up and do something; slow down and relax.

The way you treat others says a lot about the way you treat yourself. Win gracefully against others, and you will train your mind to stay strong when doing battle with your own vices. Lose with dignity and you will learn how to carry on, and find a voice of strength, when the course of action takes an unexpected bend.

There’s no autopilot. The true path is not devoid of challenges. Don’t run from the battles; instead strengthen the warrior.