Photo by Victoria Priola, SI Advance "The future is not a straight line. There are many different pathways. We must try to decide that future for ourselves." -Kiyoko, Akira * There is a ill wind blowing Maybe you feel it too Strange people are on the rise One day they're gonna come for you All I want Before I left, my hometown made the news. It was for this. The 20-foot tall billboard of Donald Trump, had been unveiled on a neighborhood lawn on Harris Ave in August–to cash-in
"There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, 'Morning, boys, how's the water?' And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, 'What the hell is water?'" -D.F.W., Commencement Speech, Kenyon College, May 21, 2005 * I had a dream that we went walking, David Foster Wallace and I In great detail we were talking The Pale King smi
The breath between twenty years
That same breath tonight
We'll always betray ourselves
Always hold back time “We all have rituals,” my friend said, absently digging around the sides of her cup with her spoon. We sat tucked in a corner of Amorino, and it was growing dark. Outside, Greenwich Village bustled into night, and here the windows grew reflective and self-contained inside the gelato shop. “But Trans people, Queer people,” she said, shaking her head, “Folks on the ma
Sun is up and the day goes right for me
I'm moving up in a way that's rightfully
Ringing out yeah, your day calls out to me
I'm moving up, can't contain the light I see
All around me the air sings infinity
Chin is up and the scene is on to me
Coffee cup and I'm sailing out to sea
I'm moving up in a way that seems to be This is not a sob story. It's record keeping, I guess. Enough people had said, “You're a writer, why not write about it?” In most ways, I'd set out to
***Please be advised that the following post may contain descriptions of self-harm that may upset certain readers.*** On my ferry ride home, I’m lulled into sleepiness by the boat’s rocking over choppy waves. Thoughtlessly, I’ve smeared ink down the page of my book. A blurry line of indigo that extended from an underline I’d marked off in the first several pages of Beauvoir’s Ethics of Ambiguity. “It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our life,” the wobbly unde
So it rained that day
The day I gave it all away
And I never thought it would
When the morning looked so good Tickets were booked for California, I explained to my mother over the phone. I was calm.
"But you two looked so good together," my mother sighed over the phone. "You agreed on so many things."
I wasn't sure where to pick up from there. What made a difference, on the larger scale of things if we looked good with each other? Were we good for each other?
Things I will miss about New York when I leave:
1. Subway rats - these fuckers can thrive in one of the most inhospitable habitats on Earth. 2. My friends - crazy people who hold faith in me. I still don’t know why. 3. Dawn on the harbor - few grimier, lovelier sights on earth. 4. Frankness - A New Yorker tells you to your face that you look like shit or that you’re in the way. Take it as a compliment. It means they care. And not in that order. * Home is a feeling, warm li
The following is a collage of sensory experiences from my time away in Catalonia. Like any good trip, it has a soundtrack at it's heart. This was woven with the help of The Book's Lemon of Pink album. 07.19.18 The Lemon of Pink “Take time. Take time.Take time.” Watching spots of sun behind my eyelids. Feeling the breeze shift the satin of my skirt against my legs. Cooling the back of my neck with water from the roadside stream. Getting mud on my shoes. Watching a bee alight o
It was a six hour time difference from New York to Barcelona, which made walking around in daytime oftentimes feel like a waking dream. Residents from South America or Australia had a harder time, wandering around the house somewhat dazed, nursing coffees. They would be back to normal, they said, in about a day. Even though I still hadn’t gotten used to how sleep worked yet, I woke at seven to beat the morning shower rush. I stood, brushing my teeth at the sink and stared int
Sunsets here are long and lusty, and the air becomes balmy and slow. The light makes beautiful work of the cliffsides, barren save for the occasional spray of gigantic aloe fronds–a cool, powdered green against red clay. Cypress trees, full of clusters of young pine cones stand erect over the tops of of bent crabapples. Here, the air is fresh, full of the smell of tall, dried grass, trodden down to hay. The farmhouse sits situated beneath the hilltop village of El Bruc. It is
Stories ranging from the speculative to the surreal.
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