It's warm outside.

Hello all, beautiful day out today. This weekend North Jersey was FREEZING! I think the highest we've reached over the last week had to be about 30 and that's me being generous. Thanks to global warming we are going to reach around 70. I think I'm going to throw on a hoodie and take my laptop to the park and get some writing done. I don't know how much longer I'm going to have to just sit around on my ass which is what I've been doing for the last two weeks since quitting that horrible, horrible place known as Ann Taylor. Hopefully I'll get a start date with the new job soon because frankly, I'm growing bored as hell being home.

And I wrote something this morning. I shall share here too.

[True, not true. Maybe both.'

A Home Where You Can Turn The Television On.

We used to watch each other. Back then we were into round ballets and found the chase of Not Knowing thrilling. Nine long summers I spent at my grandmother’s house, the one near the shore, the one with the broken porch and the cracked glass windows. The one I was always ashamed to let you in because of the crawling insects, but the one you would always run up to, red and weathered Chuck Taylor’s thundering up the porch steps, fist balled crashing against splintered wood and metal framing, ordering me to come out and play.


I went to play with you and we built castles in the beach grass because we weren‘t allowed to go near the ocean alone. Our hands gathered silts of silica and I grew angrier and angrier as the sun turned over in the sky and our skin burnt under the rays because our homes kept collapsing. You’d tell me that sand monsters were hungry and that‘s why our dwellings were devoured and we should dig for land crabs to offer the beach trolls as penance, so that maybe we could keep our homes intact. You used to make up fabled tales, even at that age your language left me with a sense of wonderment, made my stomach clench and seized my breath because your words were just so beautifully painted across your tongue that it hurt to not listen. You told me of times I had never seen, of the prince and his fair maiden. Of the knight who drunk too much whiskey and could never hop on his horse the right way. Of the damsel whom the Knight was supposed to rescue who grew tired of waiting and tried to save herself only The villainous lothario wouldn’t allow his bed to be emptied so he slaughtered her with a bayonet, and for a fortnight slept beside her bloodied carcass until the maggots made him sick. Then you confessed to me that you had never kissed a girl before, but you knew what your uncle‘s mouth tasted like. The uncle who drove a police car and always told me that in Portuguese my name meant something shy. You, the boy up the road with the shaggy brown hair and the skin like whole milk and the freckles that you wished you could wash away. And you were always such a small thing, so tender with delicate bones and the kind of face that made the other boys ridicule your hips for being so sharp. And you told me about the night before the day when the ocean rose above the earth . The water ran so high that all the windows in your bedroom burst from the force and your blanket got soaked as The Shark wiggled against your sheets and made you swim into a black abyss. You asked me if I knew what drowning felt like and when I told you that I didn’t you told me not to tell your mother about August and all the summers that would come to follow. I was silent. And then you wordlessly showed me how to keep the walls of my house from caving in.

Edgar.