{m & pen}

writer

I began seriously planning a documentary a while back, the spring semester of my Junior year in college before I went to the Cannes film fest for the first time, and ruminating about art has got me thinking I should turn back to it. 

The beginnings of an essay I’m writing about Women and the Many Selves.

Grandma Brewer. Age 15.

Grandma Brewer. Age 15.

My pa. Moorseburg baptism.

My pa. Moorseburg baptism.

The above was a draft for the following work-in-progress:
My mother’s voice.
It wilted on my bed like a discarded cardigan.
It was awkward.
It was stale.
It lingered, as would remnants of a birthday party in nursing home cafeteria.
It was indifferent.
It was no more urgent or upset or excited than a mailman delivering a package to a home with no one there.
She may have been reminding me to schedule a dentist appointment, or telling me about a mishap at the dry-cleaner, or recalling the salinity of last night’s mashed potatoes.
Her voice held with the same assertion and pointedness as the blank stare of a child in a dentist waiting room.
It wasn’t concrete, it wasn’t engaging.
It came, did its job, and left.
No more whelming than a perspiring bartender lighting a cigarette
or a hotel maid folding the corners of a toilet paper roll
or a middle schooler doodling a little flower in algebra class.
No more noteworthy than the yawn of a cat
or the snap of a seatbelt
or the bing of a microwave
or the sigh of a dusk.
It was there,
and that was all.
That was my mother’s voice when she told me Trena’s cancer had returned. 

The above was a draft for the following work-in-progress:

My mother’s voice.

It wilted on my bed like a discarded cardigan.

It was awkward.

It was stale.

It lingered, as would remnants of a birthday party in nursing home cafeteria.

It was indifferent.

It was no more urgent or upset or excited than a mailman delivering a package to a home with no one there.

She may have been reminding me to schedule a dentist appointment, or telling me about a mishap at the dry-cleaner, or recalling the salinity of last night’s mashed potatoes.

Her voice held with the same assertion and pointedness as the blank stare of a child in a dentist waiting room.

It wasn’t concrete, it wasn’t engaging.

It came, did its job, and left.

No more whelming than a perspiring bartender lighting a cigarette

or a hotel maid folding the corners of a toilet paper roll

or a middle schooler doodling a little flower in algebra class.

No more noteworthy than the yawn of a cat

or the snap of a seatbelt

or the bing of a microwave

or the sigh of a dusk.

It was there,

and that was all.

That was my mother’s voice when she told me Trena’s cancer had returned.