Sometimes I think I could have been happy,
had I been born in the kind of town where
no one ever leaves.
Somewhere with an excess of open space and
a collection of creative ways to
I like to imagine lying on a wide, wooden porch at night.
In the stillness,
I’d indulge some vice
all the while thinking
of absolutely nothing.
I get why people join cults,
and drop out,
and make mistakes
more than twice.
I worry that I’d choose
the blue pill,
and sleep soundly while
I know what you’re thinking.
In your electric pause
I silently coax the moment,
aching to inspire faith.
willing to risk transparency, intimidated--
and devoured by avidity.
Succumb to the sway of movement;
I insist on your recklessness.
at the summit of your vulnerability,
I will receive you
I search ceaselessly for the perfect spot.
The perfect chair,
the perfect room,
the perfect space--
where my mind and body could sit in harmony
for any substantial period of time
without distracting one another.
In such a place,
I would surely write novels, start to ﬁnish.
As it is,
I’m plagued by inadequate atmosphere.
Chairs that are exorbitantly rigid or
all prove uniquely unﬁt for getting any real writing done.
being far too revealing,
are altogether too persuasive,
and I ﬁnd myself forfeiting my vicinity to indulge in what lies beyond the glass.
Uninterrupted walls, too,
are equally dangerous,
as they feel prohibitively sheltering
and eventually become abrasive to my spirit.
Although I am naturally drawn
to dim lighting, this too,
and always ﬁnd that
in such muted spaces,
I too easily venture from the solidity of the page
into my own fantasies,
and risk appearing altogether off-center.
Yet if, knowing this,
I strive for the opposite;
for luminosity that burns intensely and inescapably
upon glossy tabletops,
I am once again led astray.
In the burning fervor of shape and color I’m destined to remain too present,
acutely aware of the weight of my legs in the chair
and the scuffs on the table
and the effervescing sound of conversations that do not include me.
I do my best writing en route to these destinations,
when my pen is safely out of reach.
While my body is consumed with the effortlessness of movement,
my mind is allowed to wander the street at its own pace,
like a dog following scents,
pausing to pursue all the novelties in the path.
It is then that I am bound to write novels that will never touch the sanctuary of pages.
For the Record
Not the object but the
practice of mixing it,
which demands devotion to matters of
flow and sentiment
and makes everyone involved
In thirteen songs
I want to say that I like you,
and I know you,
and I’m different, I can prove it—
just listen to the way that this next song
As you make it to the end,
be sure to take notice,
and I swear that
the last note of this last track
will put the whole thing
About the author: "I’m a writer and illustrator currently living in Winooski, VT. I have a Bachelors degree in Comparative Religion from Franklin & Marshall college and a Masters degree in Literary Reportage from the Arthur L. Carter Journalism School at New York University. I moved to Vermont a year ago this Summer, compelled by the certainty that life’s too short to live somewhere that you don’t love. I’m crazy about Burlington and currently work at New Breed Marketing."