Inventory #576: Pasties

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REGARDING CAPTURE

And so what if I’m put in the back of a car? So what if I’m found? Lackadaisical, that’s my word. Was so upset the first time I met another Chelsea that I asked my teacher to call me Daisy. My friends wouldn’t use it though, and when they did, I forgot to turn. My identity roamed the playground like a lost pet, and no one claimed her, especially not me. 

Inventory #575: Yellow detangling brush

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REGARDING LEGALITY

There’s the line, and oh! There’s me crossing it! Can’t help goodness’ placement—beyond me—I am searching with a smile, my face hurts with optimism. Can anything stop me? Maybe a man in uniform, maybe a pack of dogs who’ve been given a piece of my clothing, maybe cameras. There are worse people than me, but I’m the searched one and that’s that. This law book is impeccable. I read it from cover to cover. 

Inventory #574: Excavation by Wendy C. Ortiz

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REGARDING THE FUTURE

This will be hot angry tears and hanging up the phone, later. This will be promises broken and fingers touching clandestinely in classrooms. But right now, this is power in the curve of my hip, the way I turn to face him, the mystery of my turtleneck sweater, power in the sound of my whisper, power in the arch of my back and pout of my lips. This is fire, air, drowning, gushing, purging. This is illegal.

—Wendy C. Ortiz

Inventory #573: Travel-size mouthwash

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REGARDING THE CARROT OUT FRONT

It’s more of a concept than literal bait, more of my mind than orange. My world operates on promises and this is no exception. I’ve got a special voice I use—soft, between us—this economy needs a definition but may never get one. I give vague tours full of distractions: to your left is the market made of feathers. To your left is the bird we’re cooking.

Inventory #572: Travel-size deodorant

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REGARDING LIGHT

Memory’s light is different from morning’s and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m concealed, my eyes protected, and I’m led by the idea of what’s in front of me. So stay off this beaten path and remain in my peripheral vision so only my horse eyes can see you. I will walk in a straight line and never stray and you could call this plot invisible if you needed to call it something.

Inventory #570: Travel-size hairspray

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REGARDING LOOKING AWAY

This is a love song for those who refuse eye contact. This is a love song for those lonely people out there tonight. This is a love song for those of you using both hands to touch your technology. This is a love song for people looking for answers and never asking questions. This is a love song for questions themselves, thank you for asking. Are you listening? This is for people who never sing, never will.

Inventory #569: Travel-size lotion

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REGARDING CONSIDERATION

I consider myself dry. I consider myself careful, straightforward, devoid of metaphor. My dreams are another story, full of witches and cars that won’t start. Where is the ignition! I scream, and the car just starts rolling. I’m like that, too—happy to be moved in any direction. I consider myself and I look real hard. Then I look away.

Inventory #568: Zabar’s mug

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REGARDING DRYING OFF

It was safe to make decisions at night when everyone else was in the night, too. It may have been our duty, now that I think about it, to walk up and down that street. I asked Is it a super moon and you said Maybe. Restraint, not confusion, a loose thread dying to get cut. It was the night and we knew what we wanted and we did not do it. 

Some photos from last week’s Tin House Writer’s Workshop at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. I worked with Jo Ann Beard, one of my all-time favorite writers, and I read my essay, “The Boys of My Youth” (named after her essay collection), in front of her. During a lecture she gave, she said, “Making art is difficult. It’s supposed to be difficult. Essaying means to try, and I tried.”
Some photos from last week’s Tin House Writer’s Workshop at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. I worked with Jo Ann Beard, one of my all-time favorite writers, and I read my essay, “The Boys of My Youth” (named after her essay collection), in front of her. During a lecture she gave, she said, “Making art is difficult. It’s supposed to be difficult. Essaying means to try, and I tried.”
Some photos from last week’s Tin House Writer’s Workshop at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. I worked with Jo Ann Beard, one of my all-time favorite writers, and I read my essay, “The Boys of My Youth” (named after her essay collection), in front of her. During a lecture she gave, she said, “Making art is difficult. It’s supposed to be difficult. Essaying means to try, and I tried.”
Some photos from last week’s Tin House Writer’s Workshop at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. I worked with Jo Ann Beard, one of my all-time favorite writers, and I read my essay, “The Boys of My Youth” (named after her essay collection), in front of her. During a lecture she gave, she said, “Making art is difficult. It’s supposed to be difficult. Essaying means to try, and I tried.”

Some photos from last week’s Tin House Writer’s Workshop at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. I worked with Jo Ann Beard, one of my all-time favorite writers, and I read my essay, “The Boys of My Youth” (named after her essay collection), in front of her. During a lecture she gave, she said, “Making art is difficult. It’s supposed to be difficult. Essaying means to try, and I tried.”

Inventory #567: Tinted moisturizer

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REGARDING SWIMMING IN THE HOTEL POOL

It was like a bath, we were like babies waiting to be lifted, I said The walls look like bamboo and you said Yeah. I said I feel like the trouble we are making is actual water and you said Yeah. I drove us home with all the buttons turned on, the air all the way up, couldn’t hear what I was saying. I thought we might be protected, and it turns out we were.