[it began with a dream]

This is a synopsis of the dream I awoke from at 3:56 A.M. I proceeded to stay up writing things until almost 9 A.M. I haven't edited grammatical errors; this was typed on my iphone Notes application.

I just died in a dream I had. Gun shot to to head. The assailant- Chris Brown. I was on vacation with some people, one of them being Tobie. We were supposed to leave the night before but have extended our stay just one more night. We are leaving a party and I part ways with her to go to another one. I don't know how I get to this basketball court, but here I am, surrounded by chris brown and his cohorts. One shot to the head. I am immediately out of my body. He stands over me and shows me his privates, let's a blunt and says "you know what I'm smoke this shit and blow the smoke out ma ass" and puts his exposed ass over my face. Out of body I wonder why there is no blood. I pick up my duffle bag and begin to walk off. I'm (the ghost of me is) back at the party. But I see chris b leaving the basketball court and he says something about continuing his night and how its going to be full of cocaine. He asks me to do that hood thing to him (which is a move where I pull of hood down over his eyes while he does a line, something in the dream I recall doing for will smith but not while he's doing coke I have no idea why I do this for w smith). I see the gopaul twins from high school. They are talking about my body being removed and how the woman said "NOoo!!" in that crying way when she pulled the sheet up. I say "goodbye world" with a smile on my face grab my bags and get into a limo.
The driver is my mom. I tell her to take me home and mentally don't quite get why she's crying because I'm so happy to be dead. I assume home is 21st but it's probably heaven. As we pull off and she is crying I only worry that she's going to get into an accident because she's so distraught and I then kind of wish I weren't dead.

I wake up, feel uncomfortable in my empty house and wish I weren't alone.

"To dream that you die in your dream, symbolizes inner changes, transformation, self-discovery and positive development that is happening within you or your life. You are undergoing a transitional phase and are becoming more enlightened or spiritual. Although such a dream may bring about feelings of fear and anxiety, it is no cause for alarm as it is often considered a positive symbol. Dreams of experiencing your own death usually means that big changes are ahead for you. You are moving on to new beginnings and leaving the past behind. These changes does not necessarily imply a negative turn of events. Metaphorically, dying can be seen as an end or a termination to your old ways and habits. So, dying does not always mean a physical death, but an ending of something.

On a negative note, to dream that you die may represent involvement in deeply painful relationships or unhealthy, destructive behaviors. You may feeling depressed or feel strangled by a situation or person in your waking life. Perhaps your mind is preoccupied with someone who is terminally ill or dying. Alternatively, you may be trying to get out of some obligation, responsibility or other situation. You are desperately trying to escape from the demands of your daily life."

the red-coat-ants are coming

(An imaginative look at my future as an annoying housewife on my husband’s one night out. Read as a text message.)

To my Big Baby Bear,

I know you’re out with your friends, drinking beers and “shooting the shit,” but I already miss you. I’ve just had a nightmare and wish that you were home. When I got up to go to the bathroom, I put on a towel and realized that I probably should treat myself to one of those robes I’ve seen at Target. Maybe a silk one, as it is summer… but I suppose one of those plush terrycloth ones might be nice too. I always have enjoyed feeling cozy, not that I’m dropping any hints- I’ll get it myself. Well anyway, when I got into the bathroom I noticed an ant. It was not crawling into the trap near the candles. Disappointed I looked to the trap at my right and lo! They were running in and out as though it was the Blackout of 2011 and it was time to loot the Raid. When I say they were bringing home the proverbial bacon to unknowingly kill their entire families and friends, I mean it. I stooped down to watch but then I realized that it was gross and that I should probably report the news to you. I wondered what action might be happening in the kitchen traps, but decided not to look. In hindsight, I realized I should’ve looked when I got my water. Drats! I should check it out now. No-no, I’ll wait until you get home. It’s 3:53 A.M. Are you coming home soon? Maybe grab me a little ice cream, thanks. I’ll wait up- Maybe rum raisin tonight. Haagen-Daz.

Your little text machine

the short story born of nothing

lastly, i crafted this short story. none of the formatting is really the way it was in the Word Doc... but I have to get to work.

[you are a feminist / i am a misogynist]

It’s just before 4 A.M. and Taryn is lying awake again. She hasn’t listened to her mother. There is no bowl of water under her bed and she’s still having nightmares. What is that about anyway? Is that a part of Santaria? Like cracking an egg for bad spirits and negative energy, and placing it under the bed of the troubled and seeing it fried hard in the morning? Having recently seen it in a movie, she wondered.

Her hand wanders over to her phone, checking the usual sites as though someone has updated since she fell asleep at 1. This American Life is streaming an episode aptly titled “Break-Up,” which she reads as a command, and promptly hits play. Clips of Phil Collin’s “Against All Odds,” play in between the monologue of Starlee Kine telling the tale of her breakup. She’s lying on her back, but not staring at the ceiling. Taryn’s eyes dart around as her mind wanders off.

You’re the only one who knew me, at all…

Taryn didn’t cry for “them” when they broke up. She cried for her. It was about her, and she was okay with that. It was okay to be okay with that, right? She had explained to him, during one of the few times he laid on her bed, that she was on a pursuit of happiness. Through spending time with its other inhabitants, she’d discovered the “Chamber of Selfishness,” and it was where she needed to lay for a few moments. This is where she found herself now. Things needed to be about Taryn right now. But he knows that already, because everything was always about Taryn. When they were breaking up he made that very clear to her, as though it were news, but in fact it was just a reiteration of her previous statements.

She rolls onto her side and cradles her a pillow between her legs. It helps her back, but the pillowcases, though they’ve been washed several times, still irritate her skin. Ugh. He had such nice sheets. 4:36. “Do you ever think he’ll come back to me?” The contributor is on the line with Phil Collins. Taryn, jealous, chortles at the likelihood of her ever speaking to Phil Collins about a breakup. She thinks about the ‘Break-Up MEGAMIX” she made with her college roommate. “Against All Odds” was on it, but she can’t remember the other songs. Her roommate’s had been the more depressing half of the mix, as she had just been the dumpee. She remembered that too.


I cried because I hoped that I wouldn’t be so unobservant of other people’s emotions in preservation of my own, forever. I hoped that I wouldn’t always be unstable and verbally unexpressive. I think all the time- I can’t shut the words off. But you know this already. I’m sure you think I’m full of shit, with the way you’re disregarding me with your eyes. In my silence, I haven’t turned them off, I swear I’ve only muted them.
There are 15 notebooks of Taryn’s muted thoughts on the shelf over her workstation. That one time, on her bed, he asked if he could look through the one she was showing him. “I’m only showing you this one page… you can’t see the rest.” It wasn’t just about the books. He was only going to see the surface; she’d never let him finish the chapter.

Well there was that one time, outside of work… I’d spent the entire day on the verge of tears because I thought he was upset with me. In fact, I knew he was upset with me. The way I screamed and cried, I never do that... That wasn’t me. Feliciano loved her. From the moment he saw her for the second time, he felt an emotion that was unsurpassed. He was absolutely enthralled when she walked into a room -never quite able to take his eyes off of her. She knew this though and she resented it. He bought her flowers when she was upset. He bought her flowers just because he was thinking about her. He thought about her a lot. Taryn, on the other hand, just thought a lot, about anything. Lately they were mostly about work, or creation, and sometimes about Feliciano. Nothing in particular held her attention, but she could find herself captivated with the most mundane of topics. Like pens. She picked one up.

The flowers were lovely, yes, thank you. I’d never had anyone do things like that. I never had anyone dote on me in that way. But I don’t really want that for myself, right now. I don’t want… to be made to feel special, I already feel special. I don’t want to be made to feel sexy, or pretty, or loved. I already feel those things. What I do want is to share myself with someone who is, yes, fascinated with me, but he himself, a fascination. I need to be inspired, not just an inspiration.

Or I suppose a healthy balance of both… but I’ve never known much about balance.

Maybe that should’ve been the dialogue? It hadn’t gone anything like that at all. She didn’t know how to be direct without being cold. She didn’t know how to ease into it, so she didn’t. She thought she might break his heart, but had tried it out anyway. She was sorry, but not quite sure of the reason. She thought he “loved” her too much, and when she was being completely honest, she’d tell him she didn’t know why he did. Was she sorry for that? He thought she had a really “fucked up” way of showing him that she loved him back. She understands the definitions of words well, but not their correlation to feelings. How can something as abstract as a feeling (love) have a definitive, correlating action? It’s wrong to expect people to display the same emotion in the same exact ways… or at least she thought. In her muted mind she knew that she would never be able to settle herself down with him, so she sat him down and set him free. In that time, that was her loving him. When she cried it was because she hoped he would someday see that.

Taryn lies in her Chamber of Selfishness, wondering about being IN love. It’s 6:12. She dozes off thinking. What ends first, being alone or the loneliness?


She’s in her room hanging index cards of her newest favorite words, and as she gets to DEMONSTRATIVE, Feliciano is opening his mailbox. She hadn’t bothered writing her return address because there wouldn’t be anything else to say… and besides he would recognize her handwriting anyway. It read:

Me. Me. Me.

I’ve had this random quote in my head for months, “You know, the kind of person that starts every sentence with ‘I’?” I can vaguely recall it as being a part of a definition in an English class somewhere along the line. It was some sort of character flaw. I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve been trying, but if I’m working on self-expression, how else am I supposed to begin my statements?

Until I get this figured out:
Me. Me. Me.
I. I. I.
Maybe someday a You.
-and a few of Us.

I could tell you that you were never going to win, but you didn’t see it as a battle and I see Me as a war. Call me sad; I know you are but what am I.


tee hee. ha ha.

it's funny,
they say,
the way one might lust over a man
the way he might divulge his feelings
only to follow it with "maybe someday"

isn't is funny.
a person may spend their entire life
producing words to fall on deafened ears
and upon death become the loudest of the heard

over time
truths, exposed in jest
an often occurrence
isn't very funny at all
and it seems your sense of humor
isn't so humane.

but isn't that funny?


inner outer monologues

The only stream I’ve seen in months is the sewage water that flows through the subway. I wonder where it goes. I don’t stop pacing as I wait for the train because I fear the tiny mice I’ve spotted, crawling into my boots. I know I won’t be able to get that feeling out of my head, or off of my skin. I’d also feel the pain of my swollen left knee if I stop, so I don’t. The walk from my house to Williamsburg was a pleasant one, but it's wear is starting to show- especially with the rain. I’ve just attended a wonderful drag show and walked to Greenpoint. It’s 3:40 A.M. and the train is just arriving.

“Tell me about your life. What are your passions? And don’t tell me about your job, but when you get old and you’re on your death bed- what do you hope you’ve done?”

It rolls out my mouth the way it always does.

“I want to know that I’ve created a beautiful home, raised an amazing family and created as much shit as possible. I am a creator of things.”

“Well can I get an AMEN!” He held my hand when he said this. I had moved closer to him in the first place because I wanted to get a better look at him. I wanted to tell him that he was beautiful. I noticed him when he came in from smoking a cigarette, and here he stood smoking again. I touched his jaw-line as I told him that I wanted his face. I fingered his lips when he sang me praises. It would’ve been nice to kiss him on that red-lit patio. Just because.

It was easy to approach him. When the fear of rejection is removed from the equation, it’s easy to open a conversation to anyone about anything. Knowing… well assuming, his sexuality allowed me to expose my fleeting desire for him. The lack of sexual attraction released the crippling sexual tension and, simultaneously, an alluring sexual energy.

This is why I love being around gay men.

On a very basic level I feel very connected to gay men, when we’re all in a nightclub. (Stereo)typically, the men I’m with are all eyeing every other man with or without intentions for a pit stop in an alley way on the way home, and so am I. We all want to dance; we all want to be fierce and beautiful. The testosterone awakens the instinctual desire to pounce and it becomes okay to be more forceful, more direct, and honest. Leaving the club, I want to be more like a gay man. I think we- well I, could learn a thing or two from those queens.

Actually, gay or otherwise, those are all just stereotypical male bar/club/mating tendencies. Harumph.

P.S. I gave birth to Ms. Maturna T. Bear tonight. She might be amazing.