Tag Archives: S



I decided to go ahead and buy a copy of 6S, Volume 2. It’s a hardcopy version of select six sentences stories, which I’ve been avoiding buying because, quite frankly, I thought it would be cheesy. And yet, when it came in the mail in its blue glossy cover and uncracked spine, I shivered a little to think that I am actually published in a collection of work. Along with an intro by Neil LaBute and a special six by Rick Moody, two of my sixes made it in, The Diner and Love (both reformatted below). One inspired by G, the other by S. It makes me want to buy two more copies and send them off to my old lovers with a little inscription, “See, you inspired me after all.” But really, who cares? I wrote an entire story about S and got it published locally just so that he’d see it and he never even went out and got a copy (they’re free). Whatever. 

And yet, they’re both bound together in this one book- the two men that is, symbolically linked forever. Almost as if I can now say, I am closing the book on those chapters of my life. 

Ok, there’s cheesiness for you.

The Diner

Carmela tasted the red on her lips. When she was nervous or excited she’d bite down, puncturing the skin and cause bleeding. She remembered hearing that the Egyptians used their own blood as make-up to lure potential lovers. But, when he entered the diner where she stood taking orders at the counter, holding a hand that was not hers, she wiped at her wounded lips, took their order, and skirted through the double doors to the kitchen. “It’ll be alright, darling,” George said to her from behind the line, “we’ll spit in their soup.” And as Carmela readied the bowls, she wondered how many drops of love would pass unnoticed into the Fasolada. 



We always do it missionary; you above me, staring down. Me, buried in the tattoos on your right arm. Buried between the pin-up and the Devil with a cigarette, the eight ball at my nose, the dice at my eyes. Silently, you ask me to tuck away my need for something deeper and save it for another time. Yet somewhere in between the vulgar emptiness and tired release, you always say, “I love you.” As if you knew that seeing God were not enough.

Very small lines

  • Delores my cleaning lady is now on “Big, Beautiful Women.” It’s a dating site. She found a match from Seacaucus.
  • I finally stained the back porch door. It’s only been three years.
  • When you order a “fresh pork” at the butchers and ask that they de-bone it and give you the skin, they look at you with respect and awe, like you’re a chef.
  • D and I are going into the city tonight, across the river, with dark sunglasses on and black clothes.
  • He bought me a little plaid schoolgirl skirt, but it doesn’t fit. Still, I like to imagine wearing it while sitting on his lap.
  • I am working on a blog for PBQ about “disintegrating culture.”
  • My ex-husband and his fiance are coming to Easter dinner on Sunday. They will meet my new boyfriend and actually eat at my table. 
  • I dreamed about a guy who looked like Russell Brand and drove a red and white, 1956 Belair convertible. I was in some rundown suburb of Paris watching fireworks from a hilltop with him and a bunch of other seedy looking characters. I asked him to drive me to the Eiffel Tower and he did. 
  • I’m still reading Lauren Grodstein’s book, “Reproduction is the Flaw of Love,” but I prefer “Spining Will,” by P.M. Woods
  • There is no more S. 
  • I’ve signed up for my first graduate class. A Fiction workshop with Lauren Grodstein. 
  • Work is actually bearable this week. 




I’ve spent the day in untrammeled reverie, wondering who is inside this guilty body of mine and who, if anyone, decides the truth. More importantly, I’ve been listening to Edith Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”  for the past hour, talking to myself in a french accent and spinning around in a swivel chair. 

It is one of those nights. To be inside.   To feel the workings of the inner body and the outer as well…

I don’t regret anything at all

I’ve been thinking about beauty, and how I need to remain there, pure in thought, no matter what. And yet,  the gravity of being human is that it burdens the soul with shame. My body, tonight, is a witness. 

Not the good that was given me. Nor the bad. They’re all the same.

I remember how beautiful everything was with S. Everything was whole and pure. Even the dirtiest of thoughts we shared were guiltless and sacred and good. Love does that. It takes the ugly and makes it beautiful. It takes the profane and makes it sacred. It takes shame and transforms it into innocence. Or so you think.

It’s all paid for, wiped out, forgotten.

And as beautiful as it gets, it’s all so temporal and transient.  It’s taken away in a matter of minutes. How I remember those five little words, “I don’t love you anymore,” and how they broke me. How beautiful I was before those words were spoken. How cracked and dismantled I was after.

But then, you go back out there again, eventually,  and everything is vast and undetermined and strange. And you, inside, are amorphous, floating, untethered. Hoping to find validation in someone’s smile.

I talked to MH tonight, the friendly sinner. And he told me I was average. I was plain. There’s nothing special about me and that when a man begins to whisper things like, you are beautiful into my ear, “remember,” he said, “it’s a lie.”

And I don’t care for what’s gone by.

I don’t want to believe this. I never wanted to believe it. And yet, it’s true. Others do not make you beautiful, girl. Knowing this, is part of figuring it all out. Knowing this, makes you strong. 

With my memories, I’ve lit a fire…My pains and pleasures. I don’t need them anymore.

You go back and forth like this all your life. Searching for some sense of who you are in someone else’s world. You are loved and have value. You are left and worth nothing. Thinking outside yourself like a fool. Until, perhaps, you come to a point where you, yourself, assign something value based on nothing else but what’s inside you. You in your own little mind. And the value you assign things is yours, no matter what. And it doesn’t matter how others perceive you or how they themselves interpret things. Whether you are dealing with truth or lies. Something or nothing. What matters is what is inside the self. What matters is that you hold on to yourself, no matter what,  up against gently cresting waves or storms of transformative measure. 

My romances wiped out. With the tremblings they brought.

What matters is not to forget how love  is built. You forget sometimes when you’re  broken. You think it’s outside yourself. You cry at night and hold on to the past and try to bring back the familiar- even if it had its flaws. Because as ugly as it is,  it’s the only thing you know. It’s the only place where purity and innocence are to be found. Only there, you think. Because newness is the bearer of shame. And this scares you. There is no love to be found in the emptiness, you think.

Wiped out forever. I set out once more from zero.

But when you remember that love is not wrapped up in any of that, nor is it the consequence of certain events, but rather, an acceptance of what is, then you’re OK. You can be in a place absent of shame, guilt, innocence, purity, goodness and evil once you finally remember that you are your own answer. That only you determine your worth. You can take what MH says and let it roll off your shoulders. You can accept breaking. You can accept rejection. You can accept what you’ve been dealt.

You can enjoy the pleasure of your own skin and the way your body feels and who made it feel so good. You can forgive your shame. You can make peace with the fact that you don’t know entirely how you feel at any given time. You can be sure that beauty is not a mark of validation given to you by others, but rather something you acknowledge in yourself. All that, in itself, gives you your spark of innocence. 

You can  be happy in the emptiness, knowing nothing, experiencing nothing, because broken or not, you carry a world of goodness and truth within you.