The taste of the Past is…

The flavor of Trix brand cereal.

I just realized what it was.

Cheap sweet orange.

All those different colors and different shapes simply added different layers and dimensions to the cheap sweet orange taste. You can replicate that cereal with a cup of lady grey tea, heavy cream, and a touch of whatever vanilla sweet-thing you choice (my discovery drink was an almond-vanilla stevia, hence hitting that cheap bitterish orange flavor right on the head).

I often wondered why on cold winter Pacific Northwest or Virginian nights something almost chest achingly nostalgic happened when I would sit down under the dim lighting of yellow-white string lights, curled up under a fuzzy blanket, with a pot of one of my life-long favorite teas.

It wasn’t just the repetition of this scene. It wasn’t just the comfort of these items and what they meant to me. It wasn’t just the ritual of preparing for yet another long night sitting with characters I needed to get to know better (ever better). There was something distinctly “childhood”, distinctly that mauve tiled kitchen in Simi Valley, distinctly my past about it.

I catch it every once in a while. These sweeping gasps of the past. These breathless little windows into who I once was, sensing like a fifth bundle of receptors the potential in everything I once felt (but had not experienced enough loss to know I’d felt it yet).

It was the Trix trick.

Not even the moment of eating the cereal. That always passed in a kind of reader’s haze where I would read and re-read the labels and ads on the back because the repetition gave me a confidence in language that my school teachers didn’t. And the simplicity of the words, the colors, the funny cartoon characters all said — “It’s okay, little Rei. You can read.”

Only, they didn’t call me that name because I hadn’t happened upon myself yet. So they called me dearie, sweetie pie, and sugar because I refused their name-seeking advances.

It’s the grey milk that I would drink down to fill the last corners of my belly when all was said and done. Grey from all the bled-out food coloring. It tasted like cream because my dad always bought nonfat milk unless I could finagle a half-gallon of whole with a series of pleases and clipped coupons I’d spent the upwards of a Sunday morning/afternoon working on. And the flavor is distinctly vanilla-tinged cheap sweet orange. A little cardboardy, a hint of the crinkly plastic bag, a lot too sweet. It tightens my stomach in nausea, but by this age — I pay it no mind.

I’m deep in the throws of early stage sugar addition. This will in future years equal lots of pain and weird dietary needs. But I, sitting at the table with a cream colored bowl that has a blue pinstripe around the edge, don’t know it yet. I set the bowl down and think I’m content. I’ll get up from this scene and watch TV or train my dog to jump through rings or ride my slightly too-tall mountain bike up the street to my best friend’s house where we’ll play some kind of role playing game like “spies and walkie-talkies” or “plant the garden this summer”.

This moment of child bliss is where I go every time dairy fat mixes with slightly bitter vanilla-tinged orange. Right there. To that moment. The one where I’m walking across plush mauve colored carpet through a bar of southern California sunlight as it pours in from two wide back patio doors. This, the golden-tinted era of my life where I could have become anything. Could have spoken any language. Could have amounted to a veterinarian. Could have become an orchestral singer. Could have become this. Right now.

A young(ish) writer on the way up. Part time barista, part time baker. Full time story teller and world traveler. Never settled. Always seeking. Wings, owl-like, speckled and spread into yet another unknown night. Hunting, hunting, hunting.

I can’t say the regrets I have stack the library against my feelings of assurance that yes — this road. This is it. And this forest of western red cedars, monkey pod trees, and low coffee shrubbery — this is my home. Imaginary, yes. But all the same.

I’m content.

In the Interim

I had a moment this morning when I wished I’d had my camera on me. It was the early hours of morning along the Lanikai beach. I’d ridden my new bike up the short hill, tossed it on the side of the road, and clamored down the grass and rock path to see the sun, golden arms reaching out from behind a puffy grey and white cloud. The sky was powder pink and beautifully pastel blue. The distant periwinkle morning sky flickered through passing clouds, almost flickering like stars. I thought, more than once, I glimpsed the moon.

The pumice and frozen up lava flow millions of years old were painted black from the slapping, laughing ripples of the sea. In the heavy humid air, I felt both drenched and strangely dry. Sticky salty tang of the sea lapped at my lips and teeth, reminding me of the taste of fish grilled on an iron pan over open fire. The gentle slope down into the beach parking lot has no cars. I lean the bike, again. This time, against a tree where I finish the stretches of the morning.

I have been neglecting this part of me. The wanderer, mostly. The one whose eyes are like camera lenses. The one who set photography aside to be a gatherer of images expressed in words. A thousand words, every picture I want to snap.

This morning, in the island air, I am reminded where I belong and who I, at my core, am.
The reminder felt like sun on my back, warming not burning me.
It was good.

I pedaled home and wrote 1k+ words immediately.

Over the next few months…

I will slowly be transitioning away from this blog, into the new blog over at my website that I will not yet reveal because it is not yet ready to see the light of day (or the light of night for that matter).

But, I will be archiving this blog once the new official has-my-own-domain-name site is ready for others’ eyes. I am hoping the transition is fluid (as I wish all transitions to be). I don’t anticipate accidentally leaving any of you consistent readers in the dark (which is a very small number of you, at any rate).

But I did want to put this on the horizon so that it’s not too sudden.

I’ll keep you posted. We’ll move together. It will be fine.

On Writing

I have been stalling out on regular updates because I have in the works an essay on racism that is consuming my creative non-fiction energy whole. However, while that’s in the works, I do want to write something.

For the one or two readers who have some kind of faith in me.
I shouldn’t let you down. Lest you, too, leave me.

So, in that posts stead, I present some thoughts on writing. This profession can be a funny beast.

It’s not always a very visible activity. I don’t introduce myself on the forefront. Because that’s strange.

“Hi, I’m Rei and I’m an author. Ooh! Look here. A book. Do you like short stories? I have a few. What about novellas? Novellettes? What’s a novellette? Glad you asked. Let me explain. Do you read? Oh what’s that? You were just having lunch and didn’t want to be bombarded with excessive information about my livelihood? Oop. I’ll just excuse myself then. But seriously, look me up on Twitter. I also have facebook, and instagram, and a website, and books EBOOKS! and a blog. Here (business cards galore) you could find all my work on–”

And…they’re gone. Maybe they’ve even pepper sprayed me in the face. Hard to know for certain how strangers react to this kind of odd occupational aggression.

What to do in this case? Move on to the next poor unsuspecting soul? Do the same thing but online? At Cons? In writing? Do I send emails to friends, promoting myself? Do I start snail mail chain letters threatening the roof of peoples houses will fall in if they don’t spread the news? Do I create a religion of myself and get people to buy in with their hearts?

No, that’s not how any of it goes.
So, then what?

To complicate matters, I work at a cafe in a college town about 6 months out of every year. I am a front lines barista and behind the scenes baker and chef. More often than not, people ask me when I’m graduating from college. And I get it. I act sprightly and young. I have spunk, and I don’t often talk about the very adult things I go through. I’m a very personal person in that way.

In fact, I have a sense that the majority of acquaintances don’t know all the strain I put myself through.

The truth of the matter is if you took a peek at my desktop on any given day — your eyes might bug out. You’d see folder after folder markets “series” and “novella project” and such. I mean, big stuff. Long term goals. I keep them like change in my pocket. The familiar weight of them jingling against my leg as I walk sets me straight. Balances my stride. Without that, I’d fall down.

But, what a reader (hopefully) gets from the pages I kill myself for is not a harried harrowed brain, but a very open and honest heart. And while I am honest and real in person, I am not always the most open. I do not always give. I do not always want to.

This feels like a fairly common writerly trait. Making the beast of writing even stranger for me. Almost to the point of a disconnect between who sits in front of the blank page and who reaches out from across a cafe counter.

Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Yet, it bothers me personally.

I’ve never been good at compartmentalizing. I like unification. I feel at my best when I can see how all the puzzle pieces fit together. How the compartments are really pieces of a whole. How I can stack and sort and store the pieces together in the same room.

I feel often mistaken for having one or two boxes in a big empty room versus a wall of compartments comprising a house. I don’t know why. Perhaps, that’s not even true but I have fear. A fear of being not unknowable, but uninteresting. A house no-one ever goes through. A garage, packed full, and sealed up for good.

Come flood water and storm turmoil, the precious things stored up inside will rot and ruin. But who will know?

Who will care?

As with all things, it becomes very personal very quickly. I take too much to heart. I hold on to mild assumptions or guesses I’ve made and convince myself they are true. My intuition must be spot on.

“And you, my dear, will always be alone.”

Self pity is an easy trait for the perpetually unseen. Meanness and sharpened teeth one step behind. The inevitable insatiable downward slide into resignation and defeat.

Perhaps, that is why the blank page always felt safe. It offered something people couldn’t — an emptiness that I could fill in. Regardless of where I went, what I did, who I became — it waited for me. A story that needed telling always on the edge of my door, knocking. Always a new character caught out in the rain needing to be let in.

And so, I suppose like every other obsessive author, I do what I do because I love it. Because it feels good. And because, on the other side of the page, I hope someone gets to know some piece of me. However distant and remote. However disconnected from the rest of my heart. However compartmentalized and stored up.

Such is fiction. A book only reaches the heart when the eyes read it, and we each carry around different glasses with lenses as varied as the possibilities of the universes.

I think I can live with that.

Seasonal Growth

​Reading the twitter feeds on the Dakota pipeline protests has brought back memories of mine. One is the image of me with a rainbow flag and a drum. Another in the biting cold, straddled aboard my bike in the middle of an intersection. Another, my bike between the SWAT team and me while behind my back strangers marched on that I was charged to defend.

In my life, the best protests have happened in the rain. 

I’ve only been to a few handfuls. Lead one on Wall Street in the middle of the night. Facilitated some. Met in quiet room and discussed big lans that came to meager ends. And over a course of years, it never felt like much. 

Like digging my fingers into the dirt never felt like becoming a gardener. Planting stakes in the ground never felt like starting a revolution. Beating a drum like jump-starting a revolt. Leaving home  never looking like becoming free. And shaving my head didn’t feel like becoming anything.

But after years have passed in slow progression, I look back and see how each piece was a step along a long staircase toward this outlier’s garden.

And now I sit solo with my head in the clouds, eyes closed, seeing worlds thriving and dying in universes no-one else knows. I am trying to ellucidate, but failure is so easy to come by; success so rare.

But, still, I know that nothing is intrinsically linked to anything. My actions and attitudes are no guaranteed momentum upward to some inevitable goal. But rather, life is lateral movement. I suppose as I go, I necessarily move away and towards. But it all feels arbitrary and relative. Circles and cycles, spinning wheels, nothing else.

I loop and loop and loop around. Hoping I am honing in, knowing only I am trying. Effort equals some piece of the equation, but which bit?

Struggles build muscle. But the older I get, the less I retain them. The more I gain experience and grow, the more effort base survival costs my heart and body.

The rage of my youth has mellowed into a steady glow. Less a fire, more a current. A flow. Oft times, I feel both grounded and steady. Some days I fail at composure and need my quiet solitary to recover.

Some days are plain bad, and I have to go far away, disconnect, disengage. Count spoons. Those days people say unattributable things like “mercury is in retrograde.” I only attest it to my heart —  tangles of scar tissue that beats off-kilter and awkward when the weather is too warm and the nights too short. But it sings in the rain and speckled starlight of winter’s drawn out cold.

I am an autumn core. Born in the shift, always on the cusp of some new experience. My winter was a youth in which I was oh so slow to grow. It showed. But now come age, come spring,  I am developing in every direction. Soon enough you’ll look at me and see more than a narrow sappling. An earth-bounded tree. A sentinel. A forest for all these leaves.

And in the long and low angles of a late summer’s glow, I will come into my own. Come into old growth. Bend inward on myself. And rest.

But for now, I am covered in the blue-green of these new shoots. I am spreading everywhere and reaching for everything. Now is the time to catch my hand and dance. To catch our breath and jump. To chase whims and try it all.

Off into the wild.


Sometimes, when I come back to the city where we were in love, I miss the you, and I wish we were back there again.

I miss our first apartment and the way I learned to wait for you to get home from school. We’d launch into the lesson you’d just taken and I tried hard to learn everything. I miss our parties that took so much planning but no one ever ate at. I miss the submarine noises of winter and windows thrown open in the snow.

I miss biking along Ankney on my way to write while you made croissants. We drank so much coffee. I miss working two days a week and thriving like an airplant off the fumes of our love. I miss learning bass to you playing old Weezer songs that made me think of you in Chicago among friends who later wouldn’t be friends, but seemed like it then.

I miss so much, and yet I do not want those days back again.

I was depressed in a brutal way. Life was one long dark hard night. No end in sight. I became a bitter harbinger of doom, a house of unintentional abuse, a crazy unaware fool. It’s astounding I managed to pull through those tanniny oversteeped nights of fights and not-fights.

I was a feral heart caged in my own chest, clawing my own arms up to try and get out. Lucky for me the cage over Vista Viaduct didn’t exist as a ready reminder. If I hadn’t been able to perch on the edge of those stone benches and stare down into the cruel lights of oncoming trains and envision again and again what it’d be like if I jumped — I think the desperation would have swallowed my resolve whole. But the freedom to consider, up there all alone with nothing but the wind, rain, and occassional stranger pulling over to ask if I was alright gave me the space to find my heart. And find I wanted more from life.

I moved away and the dark between myself and you spread. But the gap between what I was and what I seemed to be narrowed significantly. So that by the new year in the east, we could see the end of our road together. But you could no longer see me.

Slow and careful the ending came. Now, we stay friends in a peripheral way. And still, some days, I wander off into the woods and wonder when hemlock will be the only friend left. But all in all, it’s better than it was. And I know what I want. And I have notions of how to get it, whether my long-term planning for the ultimate long con fail or not.

At least I’m not stuck.


I wait for you, but I wonder. Is it meaningless? This sitting and standing, turning and pacing. This checking every aspect of everything, over and over again. Preparing every step, every dish.

And then, waiting.

Is this me on the edge of the kitchen door, bated breath, waiting to deliver the next course? Or is this dinner, on the table, getting cold?

I hope for one and fear the other.

If we were close, I’d ask you to confirm. Not to change your mind, but only to know where I am. How deep I’ve come into the stairwells of your heart. How many doors I’ve tried that remained locked. And, possibly, hints at least to where the keys are. So I can correct what needs correcting. So I can fix my standing. So I can more than please you, but help you expand, growing ever greater without end.

But these pages, I know, express a personality invisible.

It’s intentional. Don’t be distracted with the me behind the words. Only the me I give you. The palatable form. The one who the story is for. Narrator, reliable or not. That is what I offer up.

And yet. I too long to be known. Trusted. Well loved. I long to sit in your dining rooms and living rooms, talking story long into the night. Telling tilted ears of all the things I know, things I thought I knew, things I’ve learned, and ways I’ve grown.

But maybe, you don’t want to know.

Or, if you do, it comes later. Much, much later. Once you’ve learned to trust my narrators, learned to love the districts, learned to pity the exiles and officiates. Learned where the lines of good water and bad water collide. Where empathy and love, fear and hatred reside.

Once you love these, you may come to glimpse me. Not a face behind a mask but a name behind fingertips. Isn’t this always the autonomy I longed for? The slow building of safe places I needed to reside in. A special security in order to ensure that trust wasn’t misplaced, and love wasn’t misguided, and all these eggs that I am definitely setting in this one pretty-well woven basket will be secure until they hatch?

Yes, but impatience is so much easier to succumb to than this waiting. This unknown. This questioning and dreaming, waking and trying, falling under the spell of wanting, wanting, wanting.

But patience is what will pull me through. Determination and commitment and endless trying.

Just like marriage.

Only this time, I’m no kid overburdened with social expectations I didn’t have the lenses to see. I have these glasses of social disillusionment and I’ve taken my hats of protection and self-preservation off. I’ve ripped open my shirt, exposed my chest, and let the world see it for what it is. And I know, full well this time, the costs. I’ve taken the time to make sure I know the definitions and the things I’ll need to survive. The expectations and the things success and/or failure will cost me.

I’m all in.

Dive head first into the water. Brace if it’s cold and swim to the bottom of the ocean where Atlantis is buried, find the treasure, and come back alive.

That’s all I’ve got to do?
Oh hell, I’m so ready.