My Anger

…My anger is sudden, but always lurking just below the surface. Up it comes at the most inopportune times. When I wake up, I can feel its tendrils already licking at my insides,  and if I let it, it would turn my heart into a charred piece of meat over the course of a day. Anger smells like a bonfire where the smoke chokes you but you’re cold so you just keep leaning in anyway. Anger promises the right to a wrong, whispers that you’ll feel better right after you give that clerk a piece of your mind. You could drown in anger’s promises before it fulfills one. Anger wears many masks, but its favorite is self-righteousness. Other times it will deign to appear as fear and self-protection. You’ll recognize it by the hot feeling in your stomach begging you to destroy something. I’ve heard anger is restorative, and I’m sure it can be since destruction is sometimes the first step to restoration. But anger is only a wrecking ball and you can hear it crashing around inside you. Anger is red, but it doesn’t sound like sirens, more like cannons. Inside, it burns while outside it punches. Its food is vitriol, the acid enhancing its potency like a tonic. The taste is like bile, but anger has no palette. Anger came here to take, and it doesn’t have any other motives. Anger is quick, swift, and sneaky, creeping up next to you without you ever having known it was coming, and if you don’t catch it…

Mom’s Car


…When I was little, my mom drove a big Chevy Caprice, stubbornly, while all my other friends’ parents drove Nissans, SUVs, and other “regular” cars. When the gray one quit running, she got another, this one green like moss. The gray one had rust spots, patched over with orange putty by Dad’s capable hands. The car sat underneath two giant oak trees as well as a whole family of pines that were there since before I was born and if my last visit home is any indication, look to be on track to outlive me. The trees dripped sap onto the car, making the hood rough to the touch so that by the end of the warm seasons, the hood’s paint was rearranged into a mosaic. Inside the car, it was always cold because Mom couldn’t tolerate any heat. The seats were gray too, in both versions of this monstrosity, and very clean since Mom kept towels on them as a substitute for seat covers. I remember being young enough to use the towels to learn my colors. “Red, green, gray” I would pronounce, walking my fingers along each block of color. Most of the time, the car smelled like Mom, a mix of Red Door perfume, Irish Spring soap, and the subtle petrol smell of years of plastic grocery bags. The rattle of the bags in the back seat were noisy when we went to get groceries, which seemed to need to happen every other day. The bags were also fragile – touching them seemed to create holes. When I had to help haul in groceries from the chevy, I always tried to grab the lightest bags and to avoid the milk since it was a double whammy – frigid, on top of being heavy. Mom was always angry as she was hauling in groceries, or breathing, so in addition to being cold, sweaty, and physically exhausting, the whole experience was also emotionally taxing. I still remember the day we all went to the store – Mom…

Mom’s Kitchen

…When I was little, Mom’s kitchen was where I played in the evenings. As I crawled across the floor underneath the table, I remember small crumbs sticking to my hands and the always wary feeling of bumping my head on the table’s roof above me. Sometimes I could smell the warm scent of urine, a gift from my mother’s chihuahua, Trixie, who Mom tied to the chair leg every night to contain her mess. The chairs that sit behind the table, closest to the window that faced our front porch, were always covered by groceries, usually bread, sometimes moldy, and stacks of paper plates. There seemed to be layers and as an adult, I wonder how it helps her to have them there. From under the table, I can see the fridge, big and yellow. The linoleum in front is torn years later when we replace that fridge with a new one, white and boring. Every time I walked barefoot in the kitchen after that, I took special note of the transition my foot made from linoleum to hole, a section of exposed wooden beam, back to linoleum: “This shouldn’t be here.” Above the table, the kitchen always smelled like food: fried chicken, fried potatoes, homemade chili, “deer steak” that I wouldn’t learn some people called venison until I was in college.By then, I’ll have also learned that my mother’s southern comfort cooking taught me to eat like a baby bird – soft foods with rich flavors, ideally pre-chewed – My mother so badly hoped and expected to please in the kitchen that had I asked, she might have obliged. The kitchen was also loud. Its universe was filled with the banging of pots, the addling sound that was an iron container making contact with the metal sink, which had knobs that were incorrectly labeled hot and cold. Mom also threw fits in the kitchen, so it was a shrill place, not only loud because of the pans. I nearly tremble now hearing the sounds of the kitchen, even just in my mind, for they almost…

What was your mom’s kitchen like? Or your dad’s? Or your grandma’s? Or your kitchen now? Tell me in the comments! (Or don’t! It’s your life!)

The Whole Damn House

…The house I grew up in is old. My mom told me one time it was at least 80 years old, and that was at least 20 years ago. It smelled old, but don’t tell Mom because she’ll take it personally. The smell wasn’t of dirt or a symptom of an unkempt house as she would assume, but it was impossible to get rid of, an unrelenting must that seeped into the blankets and pillows, twice as much because most of the extra bedding was stored in a dank corner behind the couch. Parts of the house seemed to lack a decent foundation, particularly the bathroom. The bathroom was the worst, especially in the morning. I remember staying in the shower under the hot water for so long my skin reddened and was dry for the rest of the day just to avoid the inevitable goose-pimples brought on when I opened the shower doors and all the winter air came rushing in. In the spring, the bathroom was warmer but prone to fungus. Multiple times I saw little white mushrooms sprout on a moist bathroom towel positioned around the base of the tub to compensate for a leaky seal. They were gross, repulsive, stigmatic – they made me feel poorer than I was and looking back, still do. They also fascinated me in the grotesque way that humans get fascinated by gross things. I think it was the incongruousness of their white umbrellas against the ordinary, domestic bath towel, blue with fringes on either side. When the shower got going and the room filled with steam, it felt suffocating, nearly dank. But then the washer or dryer would kick in and the whole room would hum with the sound. I would sit on the toilet in my towel taking in the heat and the noise, my ears vibrating and for some reason that made me feel safe. In some ways…

Put a towel under it!

The Front Porch

…Our front porch is large and spacious, concrete and next to a steep hill overlooking the one-lane road that ran by our house. Mom’s hanging baskets full of flowers hang above every post, and in the evening when she comes to water them, the whole porch smells like a car wash – wet, the sudsy smell replicated by the perfume of the flowers. There’s a swing that hangs toward the back, and mud daubers build their nests in the top of the chains so that when you sit down, a flurry of mud falls in your hair, down across your lap. The springs also make a dangerous creaking sound – not the squeaky sound that says they just need oil, but more like a severe cracking sound that made me think the roof to which the springs were attached was falling in. I get a melancholy feeling when I think about the swing. It’s where I moped during much of my teenage years, sitting in it, rocking back and forth, the wind and the mist from the rain blowing in on my nose and cheeks. The wood was smooth, worn from age, and I would run my fingers along the boards absentmindedly, liking the assurance there were no splinters to look out for. Often, my dogs would come ask for pets while I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself. I would pet their heads, soft beagles and jack-russell terriers who ran the whole night and then lazed on the porch the whole day. They smelled rank, and my hands would always smell just like them when I finally pulled away. You couldn’t leave anything on our front porch – the dogs would chew it up by morning and then come ask for pets as usual, like they’d done you a favor…

Seriously, our dog looked just like this. We called him Radler, and he snored so loud we chased him away from the house at night.

The Big Rock

…The big rock is hard to the touch, and it smells like wet no matter how many hours have passed since it last rained. The big rock is big enough for me as a small child to spread out completely, its coarse coolness a welcome respite from the summer heat. The big rock makes me feel safe. It’s far away enough from my childhood home that it feels like a different universe, one in which children are in charge. The big rock is close enough to my tiny shack that I can still see my family outside, so I feel safe. The pine needles cover the ground around and under the big rock, and they crunch under my tiny feet. Sometimes I bring chalk and draw on the big rock. I like the way the chalk vibrates in my hand against the rock’s surface as I draw all sorts of symbols that mean “This is mine. This is a safe space for children.” The rock is shaped like a boat, ferrying me to safety. The rock is cold and damp and I’m not old enough to bother worrying about the ten thousand snakes that probably live underneath. The bank that we climb to get to the big rock is steep, and our toes often slip out from under us as we try to get there. The big rock is quiet, not interrupting the chatty sounds of nature that fill the surrounding area. Birds chirp noisily and as it gets later in the day, we can hear the frogs and the hissing, swishing noises in the trees from a prolific bug that I forgot to ask my dad to name. Next to the big rock is a skinny, tall tree. As an adult, it seems to me the rock and the tree are friends, the rock and the tree so close together that they seem to be leaning against one another. I would sit on the rock and…

The Big Rock
The Big Rock – Like this, except way bigger and with a tree friend.


WTF is this blog about?

I created this blog after starting a daily practice of object writing – details found here. You should do it – it’s fun and it’ll make you a better writer, or so I hear.

Once I’d been on a roll for about seven days, I was overtaken by hubris and decided I needed to share all my stream-of-consciousness descriptions with the world. My reasons for doing this are nakedly self-serving: I’m trying to become a writer, not in the literal sense as in one who writes, but in the capitalist sense, as in one who gets paid to write. I hear it’s a cold world out there, full of rejection and despair, so in the meantime, I created this blog to feel a little less like I’m writing for no one but the voice in my head, who mostly says I’m destined to starve in my own filth, usually with the gloomy cadence of Moaning Myrtle.

Pictured: My Inner Voice
Pictured: My Inner Voice