Snippets

You realized a long time ago that the ocean smells the same everywhere. Florida humidity nestled in your nasal hairs when you were small. You carried it home, unaware. And now it's everywhere that home used to be. Decades-long olfactory hallucinations That almost made you angry Over losing something that was never really yours. It's yours, but you're still almost angry, And then the nostalgia hits. You're elated. Speeding down the highway to nowhere. Speeding, speeding, speeding, Unnecessary miles out of your way For that pack of cigarettes you told yourself you wouldn't buy, Just for the sake of driving, Because you once loved it. Speeding down the highway, With the windows rolled down, Blasting the subversive music of your aging generation, Screaming-singing along with Rage At the top of your lungs, Like you used to when your hair blew wild, Even while sitting still at the longest red light in the history of travel. Y

His eyes were always old, But I only ever saw them as the calm beyond the storm. An open invitation to safe sanctuary for all. Our confessor. Our blanket. Our target. He can't extract the magnets, Embedded in his aura, Drawing the corners of his mouth up, up, up, Even when he feels like he's drowning. Somehow, they always find their way into his personal space. The derelicts, The downtrodden, The lonely, The bitter, The angry, The leeches, We feast on his ears, Politeness oft mistaken for giving a damn. I steal sidelong glances, To admire his beauty in candid moments, Always hoping to find contentment on his unmasked face. I'll stare for minutes at a time At a man whose face bears no creases of age, Contradicted by the weary torment he can neither hide, Nor hide from. I only wish to nourish and love, Ever wanting to be his pillow and shield. And if he hurts By all that I've taken, His pain only casts shadows

I'm not sure what the point of this piece is, but I'm at work with nothing to do, so we'll just do this. I have been dealing with hypertension for a couple of decades (blame genetics). I first took notice of high readings when I was in my early 20's. It wasn't until my late 20's that I told my doctor it was time to take action, because everyone kept telling me I was in danger of stroking out if I didn't get it under control. (Imagine Rachel being proactive with her own health care? I mean, this was serious.) Just one script (no trial and error) and I was good as gold (relatively speaking). I hate taking pills. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I knew I would eventually go off birth control, so that was never a huge deal. I had long since resolved that I would be on psychotropic drugs for the rest of my life, so that was slightly less of a big deal. Blood pressure medication shouldn't have been a big deal. Adding a pill or two (I eventually needed a di

At the time “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was released, my musical tastes were already reasonably eclectic. I was digging classic rock, metal, Motown, easy listening, disco, 80’s pop, new wave etc. etc. I had never heard of Nirvana and grunge wasn’t really a thing. Cliché as it sounds, that video changed everything. (Good fucking heavens, that really is a cliché. This whole article is going to suck because of it.) The fact that I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the first time I heard that song/saw the video is not the slightest bit impressive. I was a 15-year-old with one friend and no life. What else would I have been doing beyond sitting on my bedroom floor, painting and smoking a cigarette, while engrossed in my own loud thoughts? (A thoroughly exciting existence. I fancied myself a tragic artist with the depth of a poet and no need for a curfew, because I never left the house. I was a rebel, goddamnit. I played by my own rules!) Needless to say (but I’ll say i

On November 23 rd , 2018, the day after Thanksgiving, John Vincent Kaplan took his own life. He was 43 years old. I met John in September of 1993 when I was 17 and he was 18. We had been set up by a mutual friend, upon whom he had a massive crush. Said friend basically just wanted to get him off her back. John was exactly what my silly adolescent mind considered to be perfect boyfriend material: he was beautiful (vaguely resembled Jim Morrison, his idol); he had the soul of a tortured poet; great singing voice, with a rock star swagger to match; we had the same taste in music, movies and books; we shared the same sick, inappropriate sense of humor. Needless to say, my dumb ass was smitten. We were doomed. It took more than two years for me to realize that I had to end our relationship, and another year and a half before I mustered up the courage to actually end it. By then I was 22 and not the same person I was when I was 17. At 23, John hadn’t changed since the day I met him. I

I was given my first watch when I was 5 or 6 years old.  The face featured a little girl with blond braids (Swiss Miss-like).  The band was a kind of sea foam green shiny plastic; the kind of plastic that begs to be gnawed on, which I did.  I loved having the watch because it made me feel grown up.  I hated the watch itself because it was babyish.  (I remember my brother, Andrew, trying to sell me on how cool and classy it was, once when I was lamenting over it.  I wasn't impressed with his argument.)  I'm not sure when it disappeared, or to where it disappeared, but I was missing it by the time I was ready to start college.  I had only applied to one school. Bradford College was located in Haverhill, Ma, about 90 minutes north of Boston. A small liberal arts college, Bradford was founded in 1803 and closed its doors in 1998, the year I would have graduated, had I not made some poor choices. Haverhill wasn't exactly a happening town, but it did boast three featu