It had been a milky sort of morning, contained yet still without form. I’d put shreds of zucchini and cinnamon in an old pot and stood around pressing down on my toes until the mixture was soft enough to eat. I usually had oatmeal for breakfast but had decided my money was better spent on red clay that had took days to find and asian plums that I massaged between my hands before bagging. My body felt weak and swollen in every place that it could be held but I thanked it for keeping through the night.
There were five sounds in the room making a low-resting round that was causing me to swoon into a memory of a cross-country bus ride to Northen England; a refrigerator’s dense mumble, the pot’s simmer, the constantly nodding hand of a clock, a timid note held by an overhead bulb, and cicadas harmoniously singing to not be heard without the other. I looked up at the ceiling. I remeber it as a wet late afternoon and I could feel the tires’ push with gravel beneath me. I was moodier then and wore thick gold link chains that bounced and clacked against my chest with every pothole. It wasn’t easy parting with heartbreak but I had settled with my extravagance being better than the boozing I was doing back in the states. I had a black pen that was wildly etching my thoughts into a raggedy notebook I had used for a Chinese class that I dropped out of in the third year.
It was cold and my pot of zucchini was overflowing.
I killed nine flies this afternoon and picked their dead bodies up in a dry public-bathroom-paper-towel. I told my friends and none of them flinched. Sometimes I wonder if we’re growing apart in that way that sisters do when one’s womb can’t bear the weight of a child.
I can stare at objects for…
From my documentary photography series, Big Wallowing Eyes. ”What’s your name? I’m Penny”
New posts on my other blog, Big Wallowing Eyes. A collection of documentary photography.
I have a new blog of documentary photographs
The sight of candles burning makes me nervous no matter how hollow the basin that holds the flame. The way the tiny fire violently throws its body with any disagreeing air reminds me of my Uncle. He was a drunk and used most of his days falling across lawns that kept him from doors he needed to reach. I’m sure snakes crawled over and under his frail body as we watched him from the orange-lit window for hours on end. Me and my Grandmother both had knees too weak to hold him but some nights we would try.
She would lean towards the ground with her feet pressed into the dirt and pull his arms up until it looked as though the blades of his shoulder were going to cut through the skin. She would let go of one arm to press her hand under the side of his stomach and throw his body over her back as his legs kicked in the air. A small puff of smoke always fell out my Uncle’s mouth. It made me wonder how long he had been holding it. My five year old body would race around my Grandmother as she trudged through the grass. I’d watch his cotton shirt catch the wind and lift off his sweaty back rippling like the pull of a kite. I imagined it was how the ocean would sound. My Grandmother would notice me fall behind and call for my help. I’d run in front of her raising my arms over my head to hold the bottom of his dangling foot and put on a face of struggle too.
It was just the three of us for a while. Our house was always quiet. Most afternoons I’d press my face against the sticky kitchen floor saying prayers that could barely get over my throat. I would keep the rhythm of my Grandmother’s ho striking the garden out back until I felt the room was tired of hearing me cry to God. It felt like we only knew how to wait for the night.
I am beginning to pick things up with both hands no matter how it pains the weak parts of my fingers.
I feel as though if I don’t something will break,
and I don’t seek the sound.
Yesterday I took the time out to analyze my own racial progress, the thoughts that my subconscious hides from me, and the work (or lack thereof) that I am doing towards attaining a homogenous appreciation for man.
As I reflect today I realize that I have levels of discrimination against all groups, including my own. As a reaching hand I would like to propose that perhaps we all have a lot of work to do concerning our love for mankind, accepting the notion that we could all serve a purpose, and basing our existence on something more than the comparison of differences.
Maintaining a new age of discussion and thought towards what we need from each other with the understanding that we are all going through the same experience of managing a life which we did not request could do wonders for us.