[1] Extempore — I took two childhood piano friends snowboarding, at which, in my winter’s landscape, I managed to be proficient, even talented. They were duly impressed with my new ability to do a swift turn, and then, when the land ahead was slightly higher in incline, my unpracticed hop. I turned around to show off, eagerly awaiting their response, but in the space between delivery and reception I was let down, and awoke instead to a sharp, pulsating pain that sprouted under my shoulder blade—feathery arrival of the bird.
[2] When deer come to town — I was oversold on a workbench yesterday that I purchased off of social media and received the runaround on, waiting the afternoon for an item I found displeasing. It made me frustrated to see me triangulated between the seller and a new neighbor watching the unhurried transaction, and I heard my voice rise in contempt, only to feel ashamed of my slip—that second of exposure. It made me, too, wonder about my own value, patterns of dressing myself up, and various disguises. In any case I was able to eat some vegan sushi and pass the hour with a restorative coffee tonic.
[3] Dispatches of youthful antics — I’ve been reading Stephen King’s memoir On Writing on the train. He’s funny enough to make me laugh out loud to myself, or to long-suffering Tim looking away, with his pointed stories of growth and reflections on his childhood best. Writing primers (craft writing such as The Creative Act) give me time to think about language and creating from a distance. Humor is not really an area I’ve tried, outside of bad boy dialogue lineated as food lines.
[4] Emotional attitudes — The California orange poppies Tim sent me a photograph of pollinate freely and make him sneeze. At our new home, I drink prepackaged smoothies and wait for the day. The apartment is full of light. Japanese women’s voices filter through my speakers while I pack up the old room; it is not so much the beat of city pop as it is slow, meditated vocals in the high ranges; soothing, sad. Subdued.
[5] Heavy lifting — At Cathedral Coffee beside the city university, I had my order taken by two boys Tim said denoted essence of Portland. Personally, I thought the kindly men I had encountered while running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to buy furniture by way of Uber joyrides, were more representative. The boys remarked to themselves about being embarrassed—perhaps for their two new friends—as I flipped through a copy of Underworld in their book nook and talked about how I had dropped my copy in the bath by accident.
[6] Ritual repeat — Washing my hair, washing down the fig toast with cold coffee. Thinking of smashed fruit and the uses for antihistamines. I’ve complained lately of not having time to write. Memory Palais has been on my mind, if not my drafting table. I want to read a book to distract from my own prose and the articles I have been clicking through aimlessly, as though to confirm the personality of my own.
Danielle Shi 