Through the Kaleidoscope

I don’t know why I remember sharing pomegranate seeds with Heather. We were both in the second...

Thu, 09 May 2013 11:12:24 -0700

I don’t know why I remember sharing pomegranate seeds with Heather. We were both in the second or maybe third grade, hiding out in the shade of the jungle gym, pulling snacks out of brown paper bags and comparing them. My mom had packed me half a pomegranate, the weirdest snack in comparison to the fruit-roll-ups, Ritz crackers, and granola bars everyone else got. A pack of Gushers was a commodity, and could be used to bargain other people out of their snacks.

The sweltering heat of the Arizona sun kept the majority of us immobile, seeking shelter beneath anything that would prevent burning. The playground, I assume, looked relatively desolate; full of slow moving, sweaty kids, roaming from one shady spot to another. But there we were, Heather and I, feet in the sand, under the jungle gym, trying to figure out the best way to eat this weird fruit.

More than anything, I remember being embarrassed of my friendship with Heather. She had a weird upper lip that had obviously been the result of some facial surgery, and she said the word idea as “idear,” and generally had some weird speech patterns of a lisp nature. Somehow we were friends, despite the fact that I didn’t really like her. Or maybe I really did, and told myself I didn’t. If other kids asked, I certainly didn’t. Yet, somehow, she was the only person I shared my snacks with at recess.

After having said hello to everyone in the room, introducing herself to the spouses of coworkers...

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 20:43:55 -0700

After having said hello to everyone in the room, introducing herself to the spouses of coworkers she hardly knew in the first place, smiling and pronouncing her name correctly (Mad-uh-line) about a dozen times, she excused herself to the restroom. Looking in the mirror, she adjusted her curly red hair, tucking a large strand behind her ear. She rubbed the make-up from beneath her eye, and moved her face closer to investigate what potentially looked like a future zit. She reminded herself to pop it once she got home.

The bathroom was decorated with the kinds of holiday items you would find in a Pottery Barn catalogue: fluffy white towels with smiling snowmen in the bottom corners, a wreath with white bulbs above the toilet, soaps in the shape of christmas trees. The room smelled clean, like cinnamon. Madeline thought about the kind of woman who decorates their bathroom in such a way. She probably plays tennis. Her bosses wife certainly looked like she played tennis. She probably had a book club too.

Madeline pulled open the medicine cabinet. There was toothpaste, lotions, Neosporin, Aspirin, and multiple orange prescription bottles. Turning each one to face her, label out, she read the name of the medications and dosages, stopping at the one of interest. Oxycodone 15mg. Jackpot. She pulled the lid off the top of the bottle, and checked the amount of pills inside. There were enough inside that she could take a few and no one would notice. She slid six into her hand and slipped them into the small pocket of her clutch purse. Quietly, she twisted the lid back on the bottle, set it in the medicine cabinet, and turned the remainder of the prescription bottles back to the way she found them. After closing the cabinet, she left the restroom with her fingers trembling around her purse. The anticipation of adding to her collection, the adrenaline rush of stealing from acquaintances.

Ed was crazy, but in a good way.

Tue, 13 Nov 2012 18:17:52 -0700

Ed was not one to let anything go, especially when it came to pretty girls. We all had heard his speech about how to get a pretty girl, and despite how ungodly embarrassing it was, he always managed to have a pretty girl on his arm. He was so different from the rest of us, making charts, graphs, calculations on his social behavior, but thats why we liked him. He spent his nights analyzing his technique and writing out his “Rules for Pretty Girls.” Chasing skirts was the thing that gave him meaning, and he was obsessed. There was nothing else to think about, nothing else to talk about. He stayed up late most nights planning his next move with whatever fling had stuck that week. He’d eventually get bored with the chase once she decided she liked him, and he’d move on to his next bit of research. We all mostly appreciated the nights he took a break and gave us the most recent insight to his studies. One of the guys, Billy Rachart, actually kept a notebook with him and jotted down ideas he got from Ed.

Naked Lunch?

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 22:14:55 -0700

Today I watched Naked Lunch for an English humanities class I am taking. I’m intrigued. I have no idea what the movie is really about, and somehow, I’m still captivated. Some thematic elements stand out to me, but I feel mostly in the dark.

For those of you who have seen it, want to grab coffee? Lets chat.

How to Tell a True Adolescence Story.

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 09:07:00 -0700

I put my arm out on the center console and closed my eyes. Even with a year and a half long heroin problem, I still couldn’t watch the needle puncture my skin. It stung, and then it was hot, too hot, burning the inside of my skin like a cigarette being put out on my arm. I grabbed the white, blood-spotted bandana from the floor of the car and pushed it against the inflamed red bump that grew out of my arm. The warmth rushed through my veins. I could feel it tingling in my toes, moving itself around my body, playing games with my nerves.

I kept my eyes closed and was swept away into a blissful silence while it was Jacob’s turn. It had been a couple days since the last time we got any dope, and though I had been trying to quit, it belonged in me. It was a part of me. It sought comfort inside of me, rubbing up against my insides, pulling and tugging, massaging my organs. It was my friend, my kindred spirit, the only thing that really understood me.

Creepy first drafts.

Thu, 25 Oct 2012 21:36:01 -0700

Delilah’s eyes sagged with the weight of her face. Once a vibrant blue, they had transformed into stone, two unyielding orbs drowned in gray nothing. Her hair, white and thin, stood perfectly still at her shoulders, firmly combed and maintained with diligence. David remembered when her hair was long, down to her waist, and it would dance at the slightest movement of the air. It always seemed to be everywhere, defying gravity, penetrating all situations; it was in his face, it was in her face, it was on the pillows, it was comforting the world around it, adventuring to anywhere it pleased with the lightest of sentiment. He twisted it around his fingers as he spoke to her, tight enough that the tips of his fingers turned white.

David thought about a rope rubbing against her neck, her loose skin flailing beneath its fibers. He imagined the sound of her gagging for air. He thought about the silence; the sweet silence.

The rifle, the Percocet, the rope, these were things that would do the job, but without the...

Thu, 25 Oct 2012 08:35:45 -0700

The rifle, the Percocet, the rope, these were things that would do the job, but without the poetry.

Getting a little scary up in here this morning.

It’s writing time. (Taken with Instagram)

Sun, 30 Sep 2012 17:50:09 -0700

It’s writing time. (Taken with Instagram)

Around 1992 My dad accidentally bashes my head into a ceiling fan. Around 2007 I tell my best...

Sun, 30 Sep 2012 17:42:00 -0700

Around 1992 My dad accidentally bashes my head into a ceiling fan.

Around 2007 I tell my best friend, Lauren, I have a hole in my heart. She worries.

Around 2003 a man on the internet asks me what I’m wearing.

Around 2006 I sit in Steven’s car, cigarette out the window, feet on the dash, staring out the windshield. He speaks profoundly about The Beatles while we wait for the phone call. There is a hand gun in the glove compartment just below my feet.

Around 2011 I laugh harder than I ever have in my life. Tears fall from my eyes and my voice is stolen by the humor; only silent, guttural, jagged movements.

Around 1999 J.W. almost drowns me in a swimming pool. They call it rough-housing when you’re a kid; attempted murder as an adult.

Around 2008 a doctor gives me a prescription for Suboxone. It tastes like oranges and helps me sleep; the shakes fade into the night as it dissolves under my tongue.

I am not a poet

Sun, 23 Sep 2012 10:24:00 -0700

The black is interrupted
by a roar of laughter.
The clock gleams 2:47
in small green lights across the room.
A guitar wails beneath the fingers
of a crapulous and mediocre musician.
It’s strings sing for freedom
and pray for silence in the dead of night.
A sigh escapes my lips
and floats into the empty space of the room.
It strives to squeeze beneath the door
and present itself to its unwanted company,
but it is thwarted by the beast of hysterics.
Beer bottles clank against each other
squealing and fizzing for their audience.
The shatter of broken glass.
Another eruption of laughter.
I roll over.
I close my eyes.
I dream of morning
when their cadaverous frames
lazily line the path to the doorway,
sinking into the booze soaked floorboards,
and everything is quiet.

Pseudo-Harper's Index of Leah Newsom

Sat, 22 Sep 2012 18:54:00 -0700

Maximum amount of miles I’m allowed to drive before getting an oil change: 5,000

Likelihood that I will go closer to 10,000: 82%

Average number of times that I look at Facebook or Instagram in an hour, respectively: 2,3

Number of times that I have watched Aladdin, eaten a pint of Cherry Garcia Ben & Jerry’s, and fallen asleep before 9pm: 4

Number of empty wine bottles on top of my fridge currently: 22

Number of people who have helped me drink the wine from those bottles: 0

Average number of miles driven to and from my previous job per week: 200

Number of steps from my bed to my new job: 8

Average number of glasses of water I drink in a day: 1.8

Average number of glasses of lemonade/juice I drink in a day: 3

Average number of glasses of coffee I drink in a day: 2

Number of Facebook friends: 465

Number of people I could call in an emergency: 5

Largehearted Boy

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 18:24:00 -0700

Largehearted Boy:

Need a playlist for that book your reading?

Welp, the author may have already made it.

Largehearted Boy is a great pop culture blog that brings together literature and music. I love it and hope you do too.

My mother received one of your postcards and was intrigued. She kept asking, "Why me?" Is there a specific way you pick people and how do you get the information to send it to the person? Her name has never been in the white pages and she has been married since 1999 with a different last name. We are awfully curious and, as a fellow writer, I'm interested in this because it's quite unique.

Tue, 18 Sep 2012 17:16:00 -0700

First of all, I’d like to say that this is the first time someone’s found me by one of my postcards. I’m a little bit in awe. When I send these out, I always wonder who the person is that I’m sending it to; what’s their life like? What will they think when they read it? (Did the mailman read it too?) Will it come at a point in their life that its significant? Will it just get thrown away?

I use the white pages online and pick a random last name and state. I pick the first person in the listing whose name catches my eye. I’m assuming her maiden name must be hiding in those online white pages, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to find her.

I can only hope that the post card has some impact on the recipient, regardless of whether or not it gets to the actual person it was meant for (changes of address, etc), which is why I use post cards: they can be read by anyone.

I hope this answers your question. Please feel free, either of you, to email me. My curiosity is probably just as high as yours. My email address is leah_newsom@me.com

There’s a metaphor in here somewhere. As the heat packs up and...

Mon, 17 Sep 2012 15:45:00 -0700

There’s a metaphor in here somewhere.

As the heat packs up and moves itself to another desert on the other side of the world, and as the sun goes to its resting place behind the mountains, they come out from hiding. They pick their eligible victims in a hurried frenzy. They love the parts of flesh that have been previously untouched, porcelain skin that remains delicate to the harsh and gluttonous rampages of the Earth. They wait until the least expected moment, and then they suck out of you all of the energy that you don’t have to spare. In its place, they leave the stabbing pain of a selfish traveler. The mark remains on the skin for days as a reminder: they’ve had their way with you.

You never even saw them coming.

Hi, my name is Michelle. Nice to meet you :) Do you swap postcards?

Mon, 17 Sep 2012 15:44:11 -0700

Hi Michelle! I actually just use the post cards to send out parts of fiction into the world. I use strangers from the white pages. Sounds weird, but I like thinking about the random person who gets a post card from a stranger, and their reaction.

She threw her hands into the air while another tear pulled the...

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 22:00:00 -0700

She threw her hands into the air while another tear pulled the mascara from her eyelashes and down her cheek. It stung a bit, but she didn’t wipe it from her face. He deserved to see it. This was his fault. She was speechless; she just stared at him, waiting for him to apologize and take her into his arms.

He just stared right back.

The echoes from the shouting bounced around the street lamps on Second Avenue. There had been so many soft and sweet words whispered under those lights, but they were replaced that night by the words between two people who were no longer in love. There was only anger hanging around that small street.

homework and heat exhaustion

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 13:31:00 -0700

Jaws is a thriller film about Chief of Police, Martin Brody, who must overcome political influence, personal fears, and general human conflict to kill an elusive shark that is wreaking havoc on a small beach town.

Jaws is a romantic comedy about a shark and a boat trying to find their place in a weird, wacky world full of angry men.

Jaws is a sci-fi suspense film about a boat, a shark, and the stars trying to find their place in a weird, wacky universe full of angry men.

Jaws is a post-holocaust drama about a boat and a shark trying to find their place in a weird, wacky world full of space nazis.

Jaws is a social melodrama about a boat, a shark, and a group of lesbians trying to find their place in a weird, wacky world full of angry men.

Jaws is a quirky comedy about a boat and a shark trying to find their place in a weird, wacky, whimsical, wet, woeful, wearisome, wild, and wobbly world full of angry men.

She was willing to let go of a lot of things to be with him. She...

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 14:36:00 -0700

She was willing to let go of a lot of things to be with him. She used to play music, but it had since turned into a dwindling hobby. She forgave his shortcomings and his arrogance. She let him interrupt her. She made sure to put on enough make up every morning so she was always looking her best for him. He never said anything about it. She cooked him dinner every night and washed the dishes while he smoked a cigar on the porch. She forgave the fact that his breath always reeked of smoke. She occasionally caught herself posing, like the women she had seen in Vogue, in the hopes of him noticing how beautiful she was. He never did.

She imagined the feel of his arms around her waist and back, but rarely experienced his touch.

She was a crow bar. She had become another tool in his life of convenience. Dinner was always made. Clothes were always clean. Floors were mopped and his favorite shows were recorded.

She had lost touch with most of her friends, and really only spoke to two of them at her book club held on the first Sunday of every month. Jackie and Sharon didn’t ask too much about her life, as they could safely assume that nothing had changed in years. They talked about the book, reflected on their on lives through its words, and got giggly off one glass of wine. They kissed each other on the cheek when it was time to leave and promised to call each other soon. These promises were generally never kept.

Some nights while he sat at the couch, beer in hand, hypnotized by the sounds of ESPN, she sat outside and rested her hands on the railing of the porch. She closed her eyes and moved her fingers like they were pressing piano keys. She played things like Chopin: Sonata in B flat minor and Philip Glass’ Metamorphosis. She played them with elegance and with passion. Her head nodded to the meter; her body swayed with the melody. The quiet rustling of the neighborhood was her audience, and it was captivated. When she opened her eyes, she saw her yard, and the street; she took a deep breath and went back inside to bring her husband another beer.

The leather bound book rested between her fingers as her mind...

Mon, 16 Jul 2012 22:38:00 -0700

The leather bound book rested between her fingers as her mind raced with questions of ethics and morality. This was not something that was meant to be read by anyone. This was secret, private, personal. He kept his thoughts, his loves, and his truths locked within the ink on these pages. And these pages were in her hands. They were calling her name, begging her to let them see the light and feel the air, even just for a minute.

How could she not? The universe had very purposefully placed it in her hands. She was meant to read it. This was destiny, which was a force far greater than any trivial questions of morality she could conjure up in her head. Best to bend over and be fate’s bitch.

She flipped open the cover.

The past is like a shadow. The later it gets, the bigger it gets. It follows me around, trying to...

Sat, 14 Jul 2012 20:10:00 -0700

The past is like a shadow. The later it gets, the bigger it gets. It follows me around, trying to mask itself as something normal, something someone should be able to accept. While other people’s shadows get smaller in the evening, mine continues to grow. I can’t escape it. Considering the very small amount of years I’ve spent on this planet, my shadow has gathered a relatively impressive amount of mass. I really don’t want you to just be another inch added to it.