Tag: or something like it

april fool’s

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers. 

Here’s a thing I remember.

In Nashville, at my grandmother’s house, during the time when I was probably watching a lot of Party of Five and perhaps not yet watching a lot of Buffy, I really hated my body. I felt chubby and short and hopelessly unattractive. The thing I remember is how sometimes, in the bathroom, I would plant my feet near the back of the bathroom and lean forward and catch myself on the edge of the sink. And then I would do, what some might refer to as, weak-ass push-ups. I was too weak to do them properly on the ground. I thought if I did them like this, with the sink, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror,  I would feel different inside. I would feel like it was okay for people to see me.

I still have trouble with that. Being seen. Existing in a way that affects other people’s existence. But I pretend I don’t. I pretend I want to be seen and not just to exist and see and not affect anything.

The crazy thing about everything is how very much I want desperately to hide and want desperately to be seen.

It’s like how I used to hide in the closet when strangers came to our house, and still feel that way sometimes, but the best feeling in the world is when you meet people and someone sees you in such a way that they see inside all your closets and see all the different parts of you hiding in all the different closets.

Also, it’s really scary. 

Or something like that.

April fool’s.

Actually, it’s exactly like that.

ttfn, readers.

cider on the floor

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

Presently, here in London, the sun’s striking the rain-dropped window and it’s a bit like living in a disco ball.

Last night, I had dinner with eg and vi and spilled some cider on the floor. It was a thing involving how the server explained that you were meant to poor Spanish cider in one of those up and down motions that make you look cool unless you spill it on the floor. I tried it twice. Once, it worked. I got cocky and tried again. It worked less well.

Somehow I ended up telling the story about my first day of kindergarten in which I didn’t make it inside the school. What I remember is sitting on the sidewalk with mom and crying until we went back home. The next day she got me in the door by promising to stay where I could see her in the parking lot. I still remember seeing her out there, drinking from a pepsi bottle, keeping watch on her boy.

I have probably written about this before. But, the thing is, last night, after I finished telling that story, vi asked what I was afraid of and it felt wonderful to be asked. A lot of people aren’t so vocal with their inquisitiveness. Maybe it’s because she’s a fellow writer. Or, maybe, as eg said, it’s a sign of deepening friendship that one feels free to go spelunking into the caverns of each other’s fears.

Possibly a little of both.

Happy Tuesday, readers.

Careful with that cider.

ttfn.