Freewrite – Journal – Home

Home. Ethan Frome. George Elliot. Home. I am from Denver. And though there are echoes of those deep blue skies anchored in my soul, Denver is not home.

It is too rushed to panic, too unplanned, both people and city. The drivers’ reckless abandon. 10 MPH over in the right lane, 15-20 in the left. No signal pranksters teasing the ties between lanes like flirting condomless teenagers. Except this kind of behavior doesn’t make babies, it takes babies.

More dangerous than experimentation with drugs, unprotected sex, others. Driving is fast, heavy, dangerous.

In Oregon and Washington, people drive calm. They wait. There is no yellow light lean in. Stop signs mean stop instead of just roll and look. There are warnings for chains when it snows a shadow of an inch. Silly, still. In Denver, I drove on thick snow and black ice on bald tires in an ’85 Impala the color of week old snow. Rear wheeled drive with an aching suspension system. A broken gas gauge and just sooo heavy.

Never crashed.

Should of.

Never did.

Not in that car.

I don’t drive like that anymore. I take it as a point of pride to do anything as differently as possible. Different than what’s done at home. At home, in home.

Denver, my parents house. The fights screamed on and on. The eternal victim competition. The weight of guilt. Finger pointing. Denial. Refusal.

The family meals. Dysfunctional fucking family meals. Dysfucktional. The holidays are not the time to address our issues. So we don’t. We never do. Never did. And years pass. Our patterns solidified, each day consolidating our pain, with interest. It’s never the time.

“Too old to change.”

“Too old for therapy.”


“Did you?!”

“No, We’re okay.”

“I’m fucking telling you you’re not.”

The calls, my dad called me today. Their only problem with it all is that I stopped calling them. Unable to construct boundaries enacted by adults. Only wanting to pretend the relationship is fine. No listening. No Understanding.

No apologies. No admission.

I can’t walk into that old age wasteland anymore.

Too many fucked up accusations.

They miss you. Three days after you get back, they want you gone. Again.




A friend said it best a few weeks ago.

“Home is where my books are.”




Ramblestiltskin – Freewrite

This will be a post on wordiness. Maybe in story form or something.

This is a journal. This is a journal I am writing in the classroom before class. This is a journal I am writing in the classroom before class to kill time before class.

I am actually caught up with the reading this week. All of the yellowbook, both essays, though I probably forgot to read something online. It’s cool to be journaling before class cuz I look all studious. I am just wasting time though.

I walked from the bus to the computer lab to print out my weekly page. Then I walked back to my car and dropped off my computer bag and walked back to campus. Then I went to the bathroom. People always say not to write about going to the bathroom. But I go to the bathroom a lot. It is a big part of my character.

Then I walked back to the car to get a single pen. So I would have an extra pen in case anyone ran out. Then I walked back to campus and got a 32 cent cup for water, so I wouldn’t get completely dehydrated.

Then I sat in class and tried to get enough words inked out to get to the bottom of the page. Present.

The bottom of the page is still pretty far away. 4 lines away.

3 lines away now. Not so far.

2 lines and the margin after.

The penultimate line is here.

This is the last line.


Tiny Bits – The Thinking Fountain

The water splashed on the underside of his beard. It was more efficient at quenching dry hairs than slaking any kind of thirst. The forgotten water bottle made an impact every moment, but at least he had to pee less often.

The gears in his head creaked, stalled, and locked. What was it again? If you ask it a question, the thinking fountain will form the answer in the stream of your pee.

That’s why it is best to pee in the snow, then take a picture, it lasts longer.

In hurricane season it is best to keep your water in buckets rather than bottles. The fountain’s cracked base leaked the knowledge, turning the grey sidewalk a slightly. darker. grey. Not very transformative.

Best not to wear your thinking cap when drinking at the thinking fountain. It will fall in. You don’t want your hat to be smarter than your head.

Olympia – Journal 9-27-17

I love this town. The trees cover the buildings from the highway, so you don’t know about it when you pass by. You think you passed a big forest valley, except for the capital dome sticking out of the green.

I hate this town. The solid barrier put up is so hard to get through with strangers and friends alike. I love this town when the walls come down and you connect with people. Humans like deep wells overflowing with water.

I hate this town, because of the recycled sense of self-importance that gets renewed every fall quarter. I love this town because the bus is easy. And if you miss it, you can walk.

I hate this town because everything closes early.

I love this town, how you you have to apologize for being a customer, cuz no one wants to work in retail or restaurants with a B.A. But everybody does.

I hate how long the pauses are in conversations.

I love the way the new class of kids looks like my class in 2007. I hate leaving this place. But I know I don’t really fit. Olympia is the lover who lets you wear sweat pants and abhors umbrellas, unless the sun is out.