The Smoothest Stones in My Collection

                   An in-progress oil painting of one of the women that inspires me to be creative and authentic. 39.) Describe, in detail, the  procedure of an Awake Craniotomy for the Right Inferior Lobule Glioma.   She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath; she knows this, she knows this.  She imagines herself running through the motions.  She paints an elaborate portrait of her patient in her mind, his name is Dave. He’s 53 years old, tall, thin, bald, and suffering from sleep-apnea and seizures: A quick MRI reveals a tumor in the spatial cognition center, and then it’s straight to the OR.  A dose of local anesthesia, and then the patient’s, or rather, Dave’s head is propped up by the right shoulder and turned to the left.   Neuro-Navigation marks the first incision.  Responses are regulated by a camera projecting his face on the wall.  Then it's onto the big moment; the Frontal-Tem...

4332 Bellevue It was a very old house. Faded white paint peeled from the ancient wood siding, little flakes of it swirled in the wind and settled on top of the thin layer of snow that had frozen over during the night. It was a school project, popsicle-stick house, It’s foundation would rattle if you knocked it, and a tough wind would blow it over. murky grey, faded blue, worn in white It looked haunted. A screened in porch,  a pine tree leaning over a slate roof,  a small garden of hyacinth skeletons and naked sticks,  dark windows reflecting a warped and hazy image of the nicer house across the street, a small white lawn with holes revealing sickly, yellow grass,  the sad exterior of a hollowed out home. I wore a red, fleece jacket and tall socks. My pockets sagged with the weight of small stones and pine cones collected from the park down the street. Souvenirs. Tangible evidence of my childhood. I wasn’t sad to leave. But I did not want life to swallow up the last ...

Quarantine ( 14 Days in Isolation ) It is day six. I keep my camera turned off and am lulled to sleep by zoom lectures. I dream of doodling caricatures of my classmates. My bed is turned on its side, A dirty sheet hangs from the frame, Tented over a bird’s nest of collected brittle twigs and stolen treasures, Charging cables are woven through the exposed bed springs. There are flash cards and candy wrappers hidden in fuzzy blanket folds, Piles of clothes and uncased pillows. This is where I sleep. I wake up with a spine that clicks and squeaks like an ancient rocking chair. What will I gain in getting out of bed? Cold toes and a heavy head. My eyes are heavy, The skin of my face feels heavy, I was too afraid to look at myself in the mirror last night. The blue and purple caverns where my hazy eyes perch, The red bumps on my forehead, my chin, my cheeks, The dirt caked in the creases of my nose. I slept with my makeup on. How can I face my own reflection when I live this way? The glass ...