What Breaking Bad Taught Me
I haven’t uploaded any cartoons in ages. Here is a new one….excuse the crooked elevator door
The moment you stop learning in this lifetime is when you are one step closer to death
Eulogy for a Dead Mouse
Cat leaves midnight on the door mat,
half breathing, whimpering in slow squeaks,
Gleam of last tear in her eye
fading imprint of a broken sunset
The wind sails through spring foliage in silence
No one hears its rueful secrets
cracking under a rake in the front lawn
All is lost; to an
abandoned Atlantis Spring
awakened: Its cherry pedals
dressed in wrinkled browns,
Rabbit hole! Sketch of Rose with corn hole and imaginary rabbit
I had a notebook growing up that was full of quotes. My mom had told me to be a good writer I needed to learn from good writers, people who have their thoughts together in neat little packages with bows on top. I wrote down the ones I loved; I don’t remember a single one, but I was certain I only jotted down those that were most worthy of my crisp new notebook pages, the ones that sounded important and significant.
One day in ninth grade, my English teacher asked the Hall Monitor lady for a favor. She was a nervous woman in her 40s with perpetually flushed face and long straight brown hair down to the waist of her buttoned-up purple cardigan. The class was told to write a short piece around her favorite quote. She thought long and hard and came up with this “if you love something you have to let it go; if they come back that’s how you know”. She repeated it a second time more assuring of the wording and added “I think this is true”. I remember looking up at her after a small jolt of disappointment and disbelief…Of all the grander triumphs and errors she experienced in life, THIS was what she lived by? It just felt so….slight and insignificant.
More than a decade went by. Last night I found myself stumbling onto Goodreads and scrolling through quotes. Suddenly I realized all the ones I like now must sound so trite to a younger version of myself, who had no foresight to predict that the life I had known since that day in ninth grade consists almost solely of insignificant moments, a sign, a sigh, a wrinkle snaking from an eye, a darting glance, a word held back, a pang of loneliness and the aftershock of exposed vulnerability, the breathing of a heart that heaves its heaviest one hour before alarm each morning.
They walked up to the hill and sat in the last square of the sun. Later they laid down on the grass with prickly leaves that tickled through their clothes and looked at the blue sky. Spring was waking beneath their bodies; all her senses were wiping the sleep out of their eyes as she coiled up next to him and kissed him sideways, tracing the path of the sun’s last rays, dotting his nose ridge with her lips. With his head in her lap she looked at him upside down, what silver-blue basins his eyes were, the very centers of her universe; if only she knew how to shrink herself into them and hold her breath, maybe then he could carry her home with him and let her stay forever. She let her unspoken thoughts pour over him like water over a piece of dry earth.
When it got darker they walked back to the cars and she cried in his arms. She watched her tears embroider little puddles of darker grey in his gray sweater. The wet wool smelled like a small dying animal.
I had taken a little hiatus from my blog for a while and have really missed writing musings for it. No one needs to read these and I don’t need to convince myself otherwise. I simply missed the opportunity to think, in both a private and public arena at the same time, and to not lose the dribbles I create in this process. It is laughable and truly remarkable how technology has permanently changed the way we share with the world and with ourselves.
"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York is in heavy boots."
Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close