Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

“Shaun thinks she’s your girlfriend,” she said. “Just something to think about.” I. In the parking lot of some fast food joint—maybe it’s Dairy Queen or Whataburger, but the details are foggy; this was nearly five years earlier—I walk out with a girl and her son. As she puts him in his car seat, I …

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In the seventh grade, I fell in love with a cute blonde, nerdy girl. Can’t even remember her name; that’s just evidence of how fickle my heart was in adolescence. How fickle it remains today. Never spoke so much as a word to her during those days. Nothing that wasn’t classroom related. Science and English, …

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like endless rain into a paper cup

February 20, 2017


I can’t write. I don’t know understand the struggle. Yeah, there’s the whole not having written anything creative in ages, but it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all during this hiatus. There’s this blog. There’s work writing. There’s my journal. There’s writing my short intros during poetry readings at [redacted]. Yet, here I am tonight. Just rambling on this online journal after several failed attempts at something creative. Maybe it’s just the day? Maybe I can get something done tomorrow at work? Who knows. I doubt it, though. I have way too much on my plate this week, so there won’t be any me-time during my working hours. I’m just glad I finished my riddles Saturday.

I remember there was a time when writing came to me second nature. When I’d wake up in the middle of the night and rummage my nightstand for my notepad and just scribble thoughts down in the dark. That doesn’t happen anymore. I think the last thing I scrawled in my journal for creative purposes was a rough “sketch” of some dialogue shared with my boss. Well, she shared with me. (No, I’m not gonna indulge those details here. But if I should ever use it in a story, she’ll recognize it immediately.)

Even this post wasn’t meant for this subject. Originally, I was going to talk about Jenny, about the poetry reading, and my reading goals for the year (subject wise).

 

“Oh why can I not conquer love?”

March 21, 2015


Dear Selina,

It’s strange. So much time has passed without so much as a thought of you. And yet, just a moment ago, I decided to Facebook search you. Why? What hold do you have on my conscience? Why must you continue to haunt my thoughts and memories? If there was a modicum of dignity left in me, I would have perished the thought of you.

I celebrated my thirty-second birthday today in a fit of memory. A dreading fear that I’ll die alone. I thought of all the relationships that crumbled. Crumbled either by my hand or my lack of trying. Jeanna pushes me to remain positive, but she’s on fool’s errand. Your presence stands in the darkest recesses of my mind. Your voice is my depression personified.

Every keystroke, I wonder if you will read these words. I wonder if you even care to. Do you still read my stories like you confess? Do you lurk the old tales?

Maybe it’s not you. Maybe you’re only a footnote in this issue. You weren’t my first thought of day. You’re just an epilogue to a bad day. The reason hang my head isn’t you. It isn’t Jeanna. Failure to understand that causes more misery. The fact that I may never seen Jenny again weighs so much on my shoulders. I do my best to accept the outcome. I made a similar mistake with you. Only difference is that you made the same mistake with others. I wasn’t the only person in your life. Not the only person you pulled along. Not by a string, no. Your cruelty required a noose. You dragged me through the muck and mire of your failure to remain faithful.

So who are you these days, Selina? What facade do you wear? Are you still in counseling? Do you continue to take part in an elaborate charade? Continuing to use the proverbial duct tape to mend a broken marriage? Are you still so much of a coward that you need to shatter the shattered?

I wonder what good is writing these letters to you. If you respond, you’ll just play the victim. If you don’t, then I’m an idiot still talking to walls.