The Everything Life

October 2023 | nonfiction

It was after a single glass of Gruner that I decided to throw it all away. I opened the “everything drawer” in my kitchen. Everyone has an everything drawer, right? A drawer crammed with the innumerable yet unremarkable artifacts of life.

From a young age, or maybe after a long therapeutic stint, (the timeline is murky), I learned to look life in the eye. Confrontation, it turned out, could be invigorating. Freeing even. This was one such moment. I towered over the jumble of odds and ends that had inexplicably taken up residence in this drawer; things I thought I may need one day, things that had taken mastery over me, things I was scared to touch.

The lone AA battery, its charge status forever a mystery.  The fragile, doll-sized sewing kit from some bargain basement store–I don’t sew, but it’s there just in case. A coin from an Indian sojourn a decade ago–a talisman for a return trip that may never come. A rubber cock ring–all promise and little payoff, but preserved nonetheless. Keys with forgotten purposes, still stashed away just in case they hold the answer to a future locked door. Bereft-of-bounce hair ties that remain as a last-ditch option for a bad hair day. A weathered Chapstick, survivor of the washing-machine, harboring hope of someday coming to the rescue of desperate lips. Stubby pencils gnawed down by past worries. Orphaned pens caps. The remnants of burnt birthday candles, wishes blown. A cluster of Lego’s that once pinched under my unexpecting feet–they stay, for they might complete an unfinished castle someday.

I grab things, my hand making generous swoops into their tiny cosmos, and consign them to their new home—a mint-scented Glad garbage bag beneath the kitchen sink. No sorting. No recycling. I grasp for control. The rest of my life I can’t control. The “everything life” can’t be dealt with so decisively.

My mounting parking tickets; the ceaseless rhythm of school drop-offs; looming dentist appointments; cancer; my brother’s depression; my unregistered Jeep that exists somewhere beyond the DMV’s recognition; my cat who’s always hungry; the lone survivor of my chicken coop (curse those raccoons!); the continuous piles of unfolded laundry; the never-ending grocery list; the unopened texts from an ex; my fiancé; my newborn; planning a wedding my father might not be alive for; my addiction to cigarettes; my overachieving attitude—these things are not so easily discarded.

They must be faced. But this drawer, this ludicrous, cantankerous drawer that can’t even close, I can control this. I can throw all of this away.

Until later on tonight when my four-year-old walks into the kitchen, tears in his eyes because his Narwhale night light has died. And I find myself elbow-deep in the trash bin, sifting for that AA battery. I find it, scrub the remnants of spaghetti from it, and bring the little whale back to life. My son returns to his bed, his world right again.

And there I am, alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the unshakable, unthrowawayable things. My heart heavy with the need for these things. I rescue the misfits from the garbage and refill the “everything drawer,” ready for the day I might need them.

Anaïs La Rocca

Anaïs La Rocca is a writer, film director, and member of the Directors Guild. Her writing can be found in Shots Creative, Mother Egg Review, and The New York Times Tiny Love Column. Her film Good Bones, a collaboration with acclaimed poet Maggie Smith, won an International Motion Arts Award. She is the co-founder and editor of Litt Magazine.

Prison of Thought

October 2023 | poetry

My life is obsession without passion,

compulsion without end,

disorder without rhyme or reason.

A chemical maelstrom dragging

my free will into the crushing ink-black of hopelessness.

Hands bleed in perpetual cleanliness next to no god.

Grey matter overclocked,

overflowing with thoughts

too numerous to comprehend, too chaotic to control.

But control is what I seek,

bleak as that pipedream may seem,

I must fight to walk

without retracing my superfluous daily routine.

I am a blind hummingbird flitting

around the same depleted flower;

I linger around the same moment

too disabled to press on.

I’m nothing if not consistent;

consistency is my curse and my savior,

but a savior I wish would abandon and forsake me.

Mine is a life defined by tepid perfection

in an imperfect mind.

I dwell in every moment…

and yet…

Joseph Vickery

Joseph Vickery recently graduated from Oregon State University where he majored in creative writing. He is currently working on his MFA in writing at Lindenwood University. He has lived all over Tennessee but currently resides in Nashville. His work has been featured in The Phoenix.

Lawrence Bridges

October 2023 | visual art

Dilapidation #10

Dilapidation #10

Coronado Dune

Coronado Dune

 

Lawrence Bridges

Lawrence Bridges is best known for work in the film and literary world. His photographs have recently appeared in the Las Laguna Art Gallery 2023, Humana Obscura, Wanderlust a Travel Journal, the London Photo Festival, Light Space & Time Art Gallery, and the ENSO Art Gallery in Malibu, California. His poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The Tampa Review, and Ambit.  He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). He created a series of literary documentaries for the National Endowment for the Arts “Big Read” initiative, which includes profiles of Ray Bradbury, Amy Tan, Tobias Wolff, and Cynthia Ozick. He lives in Los Angeles. You can find him on IG: @larrybridges

Pahadisoul

October 2023 | visual art

Standing Tall

Standing Tall

Pahadisoul

Pahadisoul (Akshita Sharma) is a gifted cinematographer and photographer based in the vibrant city of Mumbai. With a heart that beats for storytelling and an unshakable love for the great outdoors, she has carved her niche as a visual artist who breathes life into landscapes, nature, and majestic mountains.

The Twilight Zone

October 2023 | nonfiction, Pushcart nominee

         begins with dissonant strains of the national anthem, further distorted by the rink’s poor acoustics, accompanying the humming exit of the Zamboni machine.  In the white glare of overhead lights, they signal it’s time to “get in the zone” for the free skate warm-up.

You don’t want to hear about the “home of the brave,” or “bombs bursting in air,” knowing better than to take an early victory lap.

         Your group is called for warm up. Skating around twice, getting the feel of the ice. A spin, then on to  jumps. Look confident. Don’t look at others. One more double Axel. The five minutes almost up.

         Skating  first means cutting warm-up short. Going last, losing the feel of the ice, hearing competitor’s applause, convincing yourself you don’t have to pee again. Order drawn from a hat.  You deal with the hand you’ve been dealt.

       The calling of your name, the assuming start position center ice, the waiting for music to begin. In an arena so hushed you can hear your pulse hammering. Breathe. You’re in the air at an angle. Ban the vision. Smile. Just four interminable minutes.  Flirt with the audience after the double flip. You actually land it. Barely. The final spin, so fast the blood vessels break in your forearms. The list of your mistakes, as you wait for the marks in “the kiss and cry.”  At what point does your pulse return to baseline, breathing to normal?  At what point do you emerge from the twilight zone?  Maybe never.

Lorraine Hanlon Comanor

Lorraine Hanlon Comanor is a former U.S. figure skating champion and U.S. team member. A graduate of Harvard University, Stanford University School of Medicine, and the Bennington Writing Seminars, she is a board-certified anesthesiologist and author or co-author of 35 medical publications.  Her personal essays have appeared in the NER (Pushcart Nominee), Boulevard (Notable in Best American Essays of 2020), New Letters, Ravens Perch, Ruminate, Gold Man Review, Book of Matches, Deep Wild, Consequence, Joyland Magazine, in press The Healing Muse and The Rumpus.