17 most recent entries:
Gripped with silence (Sep 17 2008 02:29 GMT)
Mom is severely silent, her face gripped tight; I can see the tiniest bones that make up her face, the bones in her neck, clenched like barbed wire . She looks so much older today than she ever has. She frightens me with her weakness, her moment of surrender. If she surrenders, she who's always been at the top of the game, what would become of us?
The man he was (Sep 05 2008 23:14 GMT)
My father never complains. While my mother, my sister and I always have something to lament about: life, work, the daily routines, the lack of time and what not, my father reads the paper, smiles or falls asleep reading. Yesterday, on our drive back home (I had the car so I went to pick him up from the pharmacy), he was anxious to get home. He was first upset because I was on my way to drop off my friends ?
The perfect day (Aug 19 2008 14:54 GMT)
I like making perfect coffee; of course it never comes out perfect. Today, it was close to perfect, perhaps because my mind was finally at ease, at peace. I?d been thinking too much, hoping to escape my worries by thoughts of driving to a beach, deliberately avoiding possibilities for change and self-betterment.
Dreams on Cedar (Aug 13 2008 03:35 GMT)
Every afternoon, we, Maman, Baba, sis and I sit and have tea and think of what would make our lives ideal. What would entice our irresolute states of nature? What would in fact, make us happy, happier than we are, happier than we are meant to be? Sometimes we don?t need words to fill our empty conversations.
The waitress (Aug 08 2008 01:17 GMT)
In about a week I?ve turned into a waitress. I still don't know how it happened, but I take orders, bring water, get soup while the chef makes amazing Sushi, bring the food out, and ask how the food is or if I can get anything else. Then, I walk out at the end of the day asking myself how I did it. It goes like this:
Disappointed soul (Aug 01 2008 04:14 GMT)
The skies aren?t clear. The air is heavy. The crickets are singing. The road ahead seems far, purposeless, unfurnished, incomprehensible.
When we are fine (Jul 29 2008 00:51 GMT)
A writer is always on the search. Even as everyone else is busy, moving on, moving forward, a writer is thinking back, tracking time, making decisions, clarifying things, critiquing ideas, analyzing questions that everyone else has neglected to answer. A writer is never done with the job, never done with a sentence, never done with a story. Things happen as you watch; you watch as they happen.
Every time (Jul 23 2008 13:29 GMT)
Stephanie's house is one of those dream houses you see in movies with the big pool, the big garden and tennis court, the countless rooms, the various art work, the designed walls, the paintings and statutes, the sunroom, the library of books. I am introduced to Stephanie, whom they call Stess because when Becca was little, she couldn?t pronounce her grandmother?s name. Stess is a published writer and poet, lying on her bed with beautiful soft features and pedicured, red toenails.
I'm falling deeper still (Jul 22 2008 02:09 GMT)
New York was refreshing. Being alone with all the commotion was rejuvenating. I got perspective again. On how I feel about my needs and my goals and my future. It's like this:
You're pretty (Jul 21 2008 21:14 GMT)
The cab driver is a man from Ghana, perhaps in his late 30s. He has a round, gentle face and dark hair. He asks if I am headed to D.C. I tell him that I am actually on my way to New York.
Daryaye ma: our sea (Jul 07 2008 01:44 GMT)
Hooman drives. Laila is in the back seat, holding Darya, her baby girl. My sister is next to Laila, watching Darya. Joon, you are so cute. Mikham bokhoramet.
I like that we write (Jun 26 2008 03:51 GMT)
We live in the same world. We breathe from the same air, detracted from the same sand, broken into the same sky. We like perfection. We like dreaming big. We don?
Insatiable (Jun 13 2008 03:10 GMT)
As I sit here, under the cool fan, I feel a bitterness that I cannot quite explain. I feel that no matter how hard I try, no matter how tough I tell myself to be, I am just as attached as I were two years ago. I feel that he can fill in the emptiness I feel inside and on every blank page I struggle to write on. I feel that my anger is not towards him, but towards his lack of words. Like him, I feel bitter about the world and our future as citizens of this flawed world.
The writer (Jun 07 2008 22:39 GMT)
Yesterday I tried to write fiction, and failed again. I am too accustomed to writing realities and I blame it on you. After two years, I still write with the same notion that the things that happen to us everyday are what make a story real. I used to think Spain changed me as a writer. I always think different places change my writing.
The disappearance (May 27 2008 03:47 GMT)
Among our grievances is the inevitable fact that our father is aging, despite our refusal to accept. How do you accept that your father, who once held your hand and portrayed a figure bigger than yourself and peers, is no longer the same? How do you accept that he is no longer as strong or as passionate about the little things or even the more complicated? How do you erase your childhood memory of him raising you and replace it by the sad image you see everyday: sitting, aimlessly filling out word puzzles and dozing off to sleep in between?
This room is mine (May 09 2008 03:44 GMT)
This room is mine. We bought this house in October and I have not yet called it mine. But this room, with its light and view to the trees surrounding us, is mine. I don?t put much effort into cleaning it or organizing what it holds;
Para Ana (May 01 2008 21:48 GMT)
?I don?t like this. I don?t like that things come to an end.? "But there has to be an ending to begin something new.
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