Essays explain the world to me

Writing is a pure reaction to the world that produces something, new to create and build upon.  Fiction, essays, and articles bring currents to depths, re-contextualizing the world and experiences.  Writing affects the physical world, re-conceptualizing experiences.

The writing process involves searching to a root of what I would enhance or disagree with in life.  Writing allows me to edit and revise the world or myself into agreeably unique.  What is put down on paper – fiction or non-fiction – is the distilment of that act.  It is the statement of the me that cannot tap down.

Essay writing grants me the opportunity to talk about the world, and its effects.  Essays require stories from the writer’s life to provide wisdom for the reader.  The level of introspection on my past affords me occasion to forge new-ness, spurred by the peace brought from new perspectives on experiences.  Essay writing crystalizes life events into formative moments to create a sound foundation to move forward.  Sharing personal moments – connecting through failures, cultural touchstones, milestones, etc – that enlarge and unite everyone’s humanity provides foundation to deep relationships with friends and family.  Celebrating humanity as foundation analyzes to create an increased quality of life.

Dorian & Lorelei

Dorian Iacchus sat across from Lorelei Saunders, respective cups of Qi’s poppy java between them.  Both forwent breakfast for smoking own salvia cigarettes.

Dorian leaned forward on the wrought-iron coffee table, his ankles crossed beneath the wooden chair.  His red hair was pushed beneath a brown knit hat.  Brown round-rimmed sunglasses sat atop his head.  Dorian had on a white t-shirt and an unbuttoned white, red, and blue flannel.  His black jeans were rolled above the ankle revealing his blue socks.  Dorian had on camel ankle boots; a leather messenger bag hung from the back of the chair.

Lorelei sat cross-legged heavily smoking her salvia, as she leaned back.  She had her blonde, pink, and magenta hair in a messy-bun.  Aviator sunglasses were on her nose, and a black and gold clutch sat on the table.  Lorelei had on a black romper, which was accented by a large orange-trimmed brown belt.  There was a matching colored silk scarf around her neck.  Lorelei had on Grecian heels.

The two had met in journalism ethics while attending Aerynd University, and then numerous classes until graduation.  They were inseparable.  While Ian and Jared filled his nights, Lorelei filled his days and weekends.  Often, the other was a great deal more pleasurable to be around than who they were having sex with.

Lorelei was the type of friend completely accepted another person as they are.  She’s the rare person that shares what she has, and the even rarer person who gladly gives up what she must to improve another’s standing.  Lorelei allowed people to drop their masks and be themselves.  In the instance of Dorian, he had found a person with similar proclivities underground Blithedale.  Both Dorian and Lorelei were voracious readers and deeply empathic, making each an ideal conversationalist for the other; smart enough to grasp references & allusions without explanation.  They remained friends through their successful endeavors: she became an associate editor/writer for FETCH magazine; Dorian became a popular graphic fiction writer and curator.

It had been just over three years since Lorelei and Dorian had seen each other.  The fault in their disconnection laid with Dorian.  After Jared broke up with Dorian it was a dark time.  He could no longer deal with people around, so he pushed all his support systems away.  Dorian had been convinced everything had to be done alone.

Dorian flicked his salvia butt into a drainage canal, pulled a second from his pack of 21, and lit it.  Exhaling deeply Dorian asked, “Interested in going to Huxia?”

Verve (6/26-6/30)

Moving is a stressful time for anyone, especially nesters like myself.  I’ve been in the same apartment for seven years.  I am a person that enjoys having roots and growth.  The instability of my youth has deepened my desire to have a home, to abandon gypsy life.

The new apartment is in the same building but I’m moving without any assistance.  I have friends that say they will help, though so far, after the first day, they have not arrived to help; or had to cancel at the last minute to stay at work.  This is acceptable to me because I can move most of the small boxes and furniture on my own, but I do hope that friends are able to come through with their aide on the weekend, when I need to move the heavy furniture.

Friendships have always come difficultly for me.  I do not know why.  I have always envisioned myself as a nice person.  Conversely, I have been horrible I relationships.  My boyfriends were always good boyfriends, but they weren’t good boyfriends for me.  Being in relationships required greater socialization than I can handle in any given moment.  I would rather be home – writing, drawing, cooking – than to be out in the community.  My home is a cocoon to rest and recharge.  It is a place where I can fix-up and modify the next day’s necessary identity.  The nomadic and public life is draining, removing the necessary recuperation period.

Verve (5/22-5/26)

Maintaining goals’ timeline is a tricky proposition, finding the balance between what is necessary for life (job, family and/or friend commitments) with the artistic (experiences, solitude, and time).  The necessary seclusion to write runs contradictory to the desire to participate in humanity, providing new experiences to build upon.  The self-reflection I have been doing is looking backwards, which removes from existing in the moment – allowing emotion to wash over and be felt.  Those emotions provide an anchor to the everyday, dressing moments and interactions in person-specific contexts.  Without personal experiences there is not shared humanity, isolating from loved ones and strangers, removing beautiful complexity from my world.

 

Every year I create a soundtrack that can be used to act as touchstone for that year; during the year, the playlist is a living breathing thing, its songs coming and going as I change throughout the year.

2017 Playlist

  1. Secrets (feat. B.o.B.), Mary Lambert
  2. Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time, Panic! At the Disco
  3. Your Song, Rita Ora
  4. Bad Liar, Selena Gomez
  5. Nights With You, MØ
  6. Still Got Time (feat. PARTYNEXTDOOR), ZAYN
  7. Don’t Kill My Vibe, Sigrid
  8. Needed Me, Rihanna
  9. Freedom (feat. Kendrick Lamar), Beyoncé
  10. Don’t Touch My Hair (feat. Sampha), Solange
  11. Rose Golden (feat. Jaden Smith), Kid CuDi
  12. Pawn It All, Alicia Keys
  13. Cocoa Butter Kisses (feat. Twista & Vic Mensa), Chance the Rapper
  14. There For You, Martin Garrix & Troye Sivan
  15. Dear Theodosia (Reprise), Hamilton Mixtape
  16. Small World, Idina Minzel

The Lone Vagabond

The Lone VagabondI stood, dressed in a vintage 50/50 Merc-Tile shirt and Adidas track pants, in front of my leather lined full length mirror, holding both outfits critiquing for all flaws or compliments; examining and modifying for the best narrative.  The first was J. Crew dark jeans, blue Gant Rugger cardigan, denim grey colored shirt by Band of Brothers, and Ralph Lauren shoes.  The second outfit was all Sean John: a brown leather racing jacket, black crewneck sweater, dark vintage wash jeans, and white shelltop shoes.

It had been two years since Ian Jimenez; four years since ending with Jeremy Schwach.  I believed they were different, but they weren’t.  Both smiled to confuse, while I talked; they were egocentric, but I thought myself unique.  They were cowards asking opinions like collecting pebbles, demanding emotional risks from others.  I expected others to provide answers I was not willing to discover; I read greedily choosing pieces of others’ ideas to get through situations with a minimal guilt.  To help with this delusion conversations and gestures were considered foreign languages to be deciphered.  I had dated but remained perpetually single, only selecting those that were unavailable either emotionally, physically, or by lifestyle; there was no risk of fault or blame when everything went wrong; I only wanted the appearance of trying, that way people felt sympathy.  “Dating is difficult,” they’d say and stop asking questions, so I could stay safe by not including anything that wasn’t previously established.

Continue reading “The Lone Vagabond”

Personal Essays

I crave and have been longing for something, anything, new to create and build upon.  Personal essays allow me to explore my world and explain myself to that world.  Part of creating the foundation involves sharing alleviating of secrets because secrets form a warm comfortability; particularly after being kept for so long.

Personal essays will reveal the humanity that links us all, put a spotlight on the dried and cracking leather hid of my baggage.  Writing affects the physical world, re-shaping personal experiences.  Writing allows me to make sense of an increasingly complex world, and it to make sense of me.  In looking to the past I have hoped to forge new-ness.  By editing and revising my story, crystalizing events into formative moments allows for the creation of sound foundations to go forward.  As I have worked through this by analyzing my past, celebrating my interests and what they mean to me, and connecting through failures, relationships are deepened with friends and family, resulting in an increased quality of life.  The creative process has me searching for the root cause of what I would like to ignore or disagree with in life, and to recreate the world through new contexts.

A Vagabond’s Ways

A Vagabond's Ways            Pentapolis of the Valley’s number one vagabond dancehall is Etica, populated by the alienated, underweb-hackers, punks and clubbers equally.

The exterior of Etica is an uncomplicated warehouse, like any in Noex along Wuthering Canal.  The area began as an extension of Parkfront, which had been a vacation spot until it was overtaken by the 1899 formation of Landing Alley, the Valley’s main shopping district.

Underneath the dancehall are large drainages, returning water from the end of the alley-canals.  The mini-waterfalls were loud enough to be heard on the other side of the dancehall, where the line formed at the door of the once abandoned building.  It was originally constructed between 1843 and 1846, acting as a distribution for dry goods, and turned into a taxi depot in the 1930s.  It remained a depot until it was gutted by a fire in the 1960s.  Afterwards, the space was occupied by a seafood restaurant, a movie theatre, a dance school, and a bagel shoppe before being foreclosed during the recession of 2011.  Artistes and hackers made the warehouse their home and park during the years the building was foreclosed.  The hackers decorated the main floor with neon graffiti espousing integration with the underweb. In 2014 the squatter groups worked together to collect technology, drugs, and experiences to create a 24/7/365 model of communal vagabond culture.  The two social groups hybridized into a new caste of vagabonds, state identified as citizens lacking education, employment, or training – CLEET. They see the future as currency, founded in a belief in amalgamation leads to a better whole. Vagabonds believe the future belongs to them, that they do not have to adhere to a median standard life. Vagabonds spread their ideology by utilizing The Stream, further cultivating a sub-culture and style that capitalized in their outsider status. Then in 2043 FETCH magazine did a holiograph expose, “Harbingers of the Future,” on the original CLEET graffiti, bringing to attention of a capitalist who saw its appeal as a vagabond dancehall, a utopia of meaningful fun.

[For The Compete Short Story Click the PDF Below]

(2054) Vagabond’s Ways, A

 

Why I Write

I write because it is art, allowing me to explore my world and explain myself to that world, which I have found a laborious process.  Writing affects the physical world, re-shaping personal experiences.  Writing allows me to make sense of an increasingly complex world, and it to make sense of me.

I began with fiction, emulating my literary favorites.  Then came maudlin poetry.  Then a return to fiction.  While completing my Master’s thesis in literacy I found non-fiction, and a passion to fight.  Essays allowed me to do this.  Not being a journalist, nor wanting to devote two years to a single essay, I utilized the personal essay.  Perhaps one day a memoir, but that genre seems reserved for great thinkers or those with completed identities.

My move to personal essays has inspired me to return to fiction.  Exposing myself in essays has emboldened me to return fiction, but this time as an original and not as a mimic.  The creative process has me searching for the root cause of what I would like to ignore or disagree with in life, and to recreate the world through new contexts.  After all, fiction needs to make sense, and reality doesn’t.