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“…As if we were children. As if it were the first time. As if we were sunflowers…”
A new short memoir piece of mine in The Bluebird Word…
Vicki Addesso reflects on the "edges of the seasons" in her essay on summer's end, the fleeting natural world, and a recollection of youth.
A Hotel Room in New Orleans
"How are you feeling right now?" she said.
She was laying in the other queen bed a few feet away. The distance was torturous and necessary: she and I worked together.
"Well, I'm attracted to you. And I want to be physically close to you," I said.
We were both uniquely familiar with the consequence of workplace love affairs. The energy in the room was delicate and precarious and beautiful. We held it with care.
"It's something I can manage, though," I said, grinning.
The flame behind her eyes flickered with understanding. She untucked her legs from beneath the comforter and turned to face me on the inner edge of the bed.
"Can we hug?" she said.
3 Pieces by msw
Flash Memoir Artist Statement
The majority of my writing is in a style I’ve developed called Flash Memoirs. As opposed to a traditional memoir, where a writer recalls previous life experiences and meditates on their influence, these Flash Memoirs are vignettes that attempt to articulate the importance of the filler moments enveloping said events in real time, giving them an autonomous importance and stripping you of the chance to ruminate—the filler becomes the events and unlock subtleties of modern living. There is an arbitrary 350 word maximum set that was inspired by the 15- and eventually 60-second limit set for Instagram videos, which in a way takes you out of your phone to appreciate these few moments, only giving you a record of these glimpses. A reader’s time economy is important and I want to reward the effort. This glimpse-effect is substantial in form and rhythm to the way people communicate today, and forces the reader to let go of their own perceptions of others and their idiosyncrasies by way of these approachable, rappy, rhythmic, slang-heavy memoirs. This letting go is crucial to testing the reader’s malleability with American English, and my intention is to prove the subjectivity of the language, creating a new cross-cultural empathy.
no money for MetroCard
a jumble of kids talking shit & leaves scratching the ground & basketballs pounding pavement twinkle-pops from WhatsApp seagulls & engines Patua & Spanish ‘a nickel, a dime, anybody?’ a thought: if I found a dollar I’m coppin a pastelito nondescript music I don’t recognize from an unnamed furniture store smoothness, breeze against my face & damp hair boolin me down one dread long enough to sweep against both eyebrows block warm & golden peanut butter & tortillas being dissolved in stomach acid— a flashing image of my stomach looking like a forest— dreads hanging looking like a florist dry around the eyes ‘you know this dick ain’t freeee’ whirring from a maroon wine truck distracting me so I’m not looking at the signals ‘that is to like, 50 other people.’ only the top half of the buildings on Grand Concourse are golden bus brakes squeaking miscellaneous city noise 3rd Kennedy’s Fried Chicken in as many blocks anonymity feels good on such a deep level sidestepping dog shit pungent dog shit in Franz Sigel Park supersoft scrunchy footsteps mimicking a leaf chicken skin from Popeye’s smelling buuuuttery it done got dark so clouds are deep purple & grey & orange up against a row of 4 project buildings a thought: why am I assuming they project buildings? all falls silent sans scufflin in Mott Haven wind is persistent off the Madison Ave Bridge micro vertigo each light accentuates the blemishes on the river ‘that’s the guard honest truth’ Xmas trees back along Marcus Garvey Park so it’s piney af on the block
not for play play
Sometimes I’m aloof & mad standoffish & it comes off like I’m being an asshole but it’s not intentional & I’m working on this. Can’t tell if I’m heading towards a downswing cuz of new crushes or softening old ones or it’s prolly just That Time; deadass I’m thinking it could be money too, alllem anxieties bout spending & not having & what’s worth what yfm. Gotta run this evening. My momma’s friend died today & my mood definitely tanks & I’m tryna keep it together at work while simultaneously trying not to cuss out this fuck nigga bout texting on the clock. I clear Cap P before running in my OG St. James Park like a mile away from my front door; I gotta clear heem cuz the park is dumb lit & there’s hella kids around, gotta weave thoo smacked & them bompounded w my litness keeps my body in bonstant motion & it hurts but also feels good. Looking for sticks for my walls. Two times around & I’m out. Paranoid that niggas is following me on my way out but I’m knowing I'm just buggin so I stay generally prepared for any possible situation. I drop Cap P & he cracks in half on the sidewalk—this is after I double back in the park after seeing this immaculate black stick w smaller limp branches danglin off. Leaving off g's on downswings. But all of a sudden I’m triple lit & everybody on the street is beautiful & I bontemplate which Spanish spot I’mma order from when I’m back in My Shit. AK loves how it’s both loud & quiet simultaneously on our fire escape. I’m walking in mesh & smell like lavender. Now I’m just swiping thoo Tinder dreamin about who I could lay next to rn.
***
msw is a writer & artist from Kansas City Missouri living in New York City. msw is a leading authority on friendship, & plans on starting a residency program for underrepresented artists. msw's debut 'Sparse Black Whimsy: A Memoir' is available on 2fast2house. follow msw on Instagram @marcusscottwilliams @flashmemoirs
Chaos.
Chaos. The store was quiet. There wasn’t much movement. The regulars were minding their own business. New faces were enjoying their coffee dates. Few were scrolling on their phones. But I felt it. Chaos. Her face was downturned. Eyes were shut. Tight. Eyebrows were furrowed. Deeper with each passing second. The others passed Kayla back and forth. They avoided her. Guilty, all of them. Her face was flushed. As if she was with fever, but no. It wasn’t that. Chaos was building within her. Her anger was suffocating her. Her eyes opened briefly, but they were fixed on the floor. Her jaws clenched slightly. Her right hand held her weight and her left reached her forehead. Her palm massaged it gently. She was alone in the front again. She looked at the store and saw what the others didn’t. Floors caked with salt. Coffee and syrup dripped on to the floor. Sugar packets were thrown around the front, ripped and spilling everywhere. A mess. Chaos.
All it took...
...was a slingshot.
A Second (Last) Date
"I have some health issues I'm dealing with," she said.
The last woman I loved suffered from lyme disease. Her life had the character of an endless emergency that I incessantly tried to save her from. By the end of it, I was hardly her partner: I was her caretaker.
"Oh, really?" I said.
"Yeah," she said, "I have lyme disease."
Her stories were nauseatingly familiar: debilitating depression and chronic back pain; crippling doses of antibiotics and basket-case naturopathic doctors. As petty as it was, and as little as she deserved it, I wanted nothing to do with her.
"Someone I knew, she," I said, clearning my throat, "she struggled with that."
A Coffeeshop on Pike St.
"What advice would you give to a 23-year old?" she said.
This was a date turned mentorship. During the day, she was a waitress; at night, she was building a business that sold glitter-infused makeup to women who like to do drugs at raves.
"Do your best from moment to moment. And let go of the outcome," I said.
"That's it?"
She was consumed by the notion of getting rich and had a book in her backpack called "Be Obsessed or Be Average." From what I could tell, her ambition lacked spiritual nuance and I yearned to save her some time.
"Everything you want is already available to you," I said.
A Cocktail Bar in Belltown
"So, when you're not meditating or meeting with Nancy, what do you like to do?" she said.
We were twenty minutes into our first date and she was already referring to my therapist by name. I tend to give myself away too soon — Nancy tells me it’s because I have such an intricate inner world.
"Oh my fucking god," I said, roaring with laughter.
I was shocked by her ability to package me up so neatly in such a short period of time. The instant my language grew flowery, she gently, but deliberately, reminded me that I'm just a guy who's a little too self-involved.
"That is a perfect question," I said, grinning.
