Aperture

    Next time you see me, don’t be surprised by how different I seem. By the end of the month, I’ll bear stretch marks from all this spiritual growth. My aperture is widening, letting in more light, like a pupil learning the dark—pulling shapes from shadow.

    Don’t feel too bad if you don’t recognize me. These days, I scarcely recognize myself. I reread my journal—not so old—and meet a self from not long ago. I blush, uneasy in the presence of this stranger’s thoughts. Who is this? Not me. Not anymore.

    She was forlorn, studying all the ways she might fold herself into the corners of your life. Hansel and Gretel, following a scatter of crumbs—proof that something had passed this way, that it might pass again. Each small fact about you became a tool: how could she shape herself to slip a little closer, inch by inch, into your orbit? The sweet delusion that she might someday become something you would want. Somewhere in that careful craft, she vanished.

    Her thoughts and actions bent toward becoming someone you’d choose. It never—not once—occurred to her that she might already be whole, intact, meant for someone she hadn’t yet met.

    I couldn’t read much more about this former self—an apparition lingering at the grave’s edge, dead but not yet gone. Gathering the artifacts of who I was before I met you, the image shifted. The foreground sharpened; the background softened into blur. With the aperture adjusted, a figure emerged—steady, undeniable. I had always been here. I had only forgotten how to bring myself into focus.

Turn Hope into Faith

“We have seen too much defeatism, too much pessimism, too much of a negative approach. The answer is simple: if you want something very badly, you can achieve it. It may take patience, very hard work, a real struggle, and a long time; but it can be done. That much faith is a prerequisite of any undertaking.”

—Margo Jones

faith /fāTH/ noun

1. complete trust or confidence in someone or something.

On the phone, my friend said, “I’m just disappointed that I got so hopeful.”

At the time, I couldn’t quite relate. I have been disappointed in myself plenty—regretful, resentful, angry, almost always turned inward. But I had never felt disappointment over being hopeful. Hope, to me, had always felt like a virtue, or at least a harmless survival instinct. Something necessary to wake up tomorrow.

Her comment stayed with me for the rest of the day and sent me into a quiet meditation on hope itself—specifically, on how much I enjoy being hopeful, and how much I value being seen that way. A few years ago, in a moment of questionable judgment, I recorded myself reading aloud from my journals and sent the audio to a girl I barely knew. I remember apologizing, worried that I sounded too negative. She told me I didn’t sound negative at all. I sounded hopeful. She said it felt like, at my core, I was hopeful in every situation.

Hearing this gave me a deep, private satisfaction. I continued to repeat it to myself often: At my core, I am hopeful in every situation.

Even in situations where no rational person would have held out hope, I did. I clung to it stubbornly, convinced that optimism itself was a kind of moral strength.

Lately, though, I have begun to feel disappointed in hope itself. I’m not sure if this is what my friend meant that Friday afternoon, but hope now feels insufficient—too soft, too passive. It waits. It wishes. It leaves room. Hope holds space for a “no” it pretends not to secretly expect.

I have hoped for many things, and some of them came to pass. But lately, hope has also left me feeling stuck, like struggling in quicksand: the harder I hope, the deeper I sink. It feels as though hope has worn out its welcome, and I need to transform it into something more substantial——something with weight and consequence. Like water turned into wine. Like cream skimmed from milk, churned into butter, and spread thickly on bread. 

Something with weight and consequence. Something that acts rather than waits. Something like faith.

I am not religious, but religion speaks often of faith, and faith seems to be hope sharpened into a blade. Fortified hope.  Hope without contingency. Belief without hesitation. An insistence rather than a wish. Certainty. In this sense, faith becomes almost coercive toward reality itself. Make-it-so manifestation.

Consider the difference in language. You tell someone you are going to do something, and they respond, “I hope you do.” Now imagine they say instead, “I have faith you will.” The first allows for failure; the second pushes it away.

Hope, it seems, carries a quiet admission of doubt. We hope for the best, but somewhere beneath that hope is the suspicion that the best may not arrive. Faith, by contrast, insists on assured belief even in the absence of evidence.  

I don’t want to doubt. Even if belief makes me foolish. Regardless of if the thing I put my faith in never comes to pass. I want to believe fully, with the conviction of the most faithful pilgrim—certain, unwavering, and unashamed—and to live as though that belief requires something of me in return.

As the Bible says, "Faith without works is dead" sounds an awful lot like "Faith without work is just hope."

By the Throat

I accept the worst
and still expect the best.
But the lukewarm
I will spit from my mouth—
not one tepid second
as I take the future by the throat
and let it choke on my refusal.

The future will come.
But my patience is not ash;
I will not swallow it quietly.
I will not bow to delay again.

What I was warned of has learned my name.
I press myself into what will be
and force it to answer.
Let what comes next be clean and unbroken.
I will not soften—I have carried fire in my bones
longer than most widows know how to mourn.

His New Addiction

“You have the best smile."

John stared at the draft message on Instagram. Was it creepy? Over forty-five years, he had learned that the line between an earnest compliment and creepy was thin enough to disappear entirely. He closed the app. Maybe he shouldn’t send it.

From the hallway came his mother’s cough, then the slow drag of her slipper toward the bathroom. John slid the phone under his blanket, muting the glow. He didn’t need her catching him up late again, “on that damn phone.” As much as he hated her, he loved her. She kept him out of trouble. Her hovering was the only thing that had.

In his teens and twenties, he’d lived on his own and couldn’t stay out of jail. Every choice seemed to tilt the wrong way. His mother liked to say, “If it was a fifty-fifty shot, you’d get it fucking wrong.” When she got sick and he moved into the spare bedroom, her routines took over where the courts had left off. He stayed sober. He kept a job. He stayed out.

Now every day followed the same order: wake up, shower and shave, dress himself and her, medication, breakfast, a part-time shift, lunch, AA, medication, bathing her, TV. He could tell you what they watched on any given night. Tuesday meant NOVA. Tonight’s episode was about wild tigers once kept in captivity, now living in a sanctuary.

He could still hear the narrator: Used to his nine-foot-by-nine-foot cage, Sasha continues to pace in a small circle despite the acres now available to him. It may take years for him to adjust to taking up more space.

The toilet flushed. His mother shuffled back to her room. John looked around his bedroom. About the same size, he thought. Did it matter whether the tiger ever crossed the acreage? Eventually there was always another fence.

He pulled the phone back out.

He had tried everything—time limits, deleting the app, deactivating his account. He always came back. Through the small screen, he could slip into other lives.

For a few seconds he was in Greece, eating dinner with Lana. Then a beach, a blonde in a bikini smiling at the sun. A poll appeared: Red or pink this week? He tapped red. She wanted his opinion on her manicure this week.

A video followed—five women dancing in a bar. The tag said Toledo. Two hundred and fifty miles away. Close enough to imagine, far enough to stay put. He watched it again, then once more, studying their faces.

They wanted to be seen. They posted the selfies, the dinners, the locations. They could block anyone. They could make their accounts private. They didn’t. He followed, liked, moved on.

It felt like being a kid at the zoo. In real life, you never stumbled into elephants or tigers. You followed the paths, stopped at the glass, read the plaques. Largest land animal. Found across three continents. Species that would never share a habitat, gathered into one enclosure.

The women had bios instead of plaques. This one swam. This one was a Scorpio. This one lived in LA. This one was a boy mom. The algorithm guided him from one window to the next. He tapped the little red heart.

Then his finger stopped.

He zoomed in. A photo from his favorite account—a girl he’d gone to high school with. He hadn’t seen her in person in decades.

Just fingertips. Hers pressed lightly to someone else’s. Pad to pad, forming a small peak.

John set the phone down and pressed his own index fingers together, harder than he meant to, trying to imagine the pressure. He had never been touched like that. Not even close.

The caption read: Soft launch 😉

His heart thudded. He scrolled the comments, then closed the app and called his sponsor without checking the time.

“Hello?” A pause. “John?”

“I—I just needed to talk.”

Silence, then a sigh. “Okay. Talk.”

“I’m lonely.”

Another pause. “You want to drink?”

“No. I just—want something. I don’t know. I’m sorry I called. I know I’m not supposed to—It's not an emergency."

“Come to the nooner tomorrow,” his sponsor said. “We’ll get lunch.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll see you.”

“Love you, man. Don’t be stupid.”

“Love you too.”

John hung up and wiped his eyes. This was stupid.

From down the hall, his mother barked, “Who are you talking to? It’s three in the fucking morning!”

His stomach tightened, the same old childhood fear. “Work,” he called back. “Covering a shift.”

He reopened Instagram.

The draft message was still there.

You have the best smile.

He deleted it and typed instead:

I want a picture of your tits.

If he was going to be a creep regardless, he might as well be honest. He’d wanted to see them since Geometry. Just a soft launch. Not hard. Not yet.

He expected to be blocked.

The reply came immediately.

$100. Venmo or PayPal.

Maybe money was the key. Even the zoo let you pet the giraffes for a little extra.

Afterward, he slept soundly.

In the morning, he would be good again. He would take care of his mom, go to work, go to the meeting, eat lunch, and return to his room. 

The Only Warm Breath at My Ear

I haven’t been to a Party City in decades,
but I remember the entire Over the Hill aisle
from when I was a child—
pitch-black paper plates,
balloons stamped with gravestones,
cake toppers already half in the ground.

Having never been
to an Over the Hill party,
I used to wonder
who decided this was festive.

Now forty has snuck up on me,
tiptoed behind my back,
hands over my eyes,
warm breath at my ear,
Guess who?

Over the past few weeks,
four people have told me,
“You’re still so young!”

None of them my age.
Most much older—
to which I can only laugh.
Of course I look young to you.

And one—
younger by a decade—
who texts it quickly.
Of course you’d say that.
You’re studying a book
you haven’t read yet
peek at my bookmark page
and return to your prologue.

Despite all this, I know
we are all on death row.
So what is it
tugging at my shirt hem—
death, finally impatient,

or the decade I walked into
alive, reckless with options,
and am now backing out of,
hands half empty,
unsure what next month
even wants from me?

Mother Tongue.

She likes attention.
Was that all it was with me?
Perforated paper, torn clean—
just a strip in the binding.
A reminding—
of notes exchanged
when we were strangers
in a foreign land, sharing
the same mother tongue—
just familiar noise, warm spit,
slick on the pages
wrapped around me.

But I like attention.
Maybe that’s all it was for me.

Off Page.

    When you read a book—even a biography—not everything is included. Perhaps they don’t mention FDR going to the bathroom or eating a single meal, but you trust that, off the page, he ate and shit his way through the presidency. The editor decides these details don’t add anything to the plot, so they’re cut.

    But life isn’t like a book, and these little details actually do matter in making a life. Eating a solid meal to fuel your body, working out and feeling blood pulse through your veins, breathing fresh air—having moments just inside your stupid, human body, far more animal than any of us care to admit—matters. This is what makes up the bulk of living.

Ninety-nine percent of life is off page.

    We spend far more time washing dishes or taking showers than having life-changing moments. And yet even life-changing character development can occur off page. Say, in the last chapter, the main character has a particularly difficult day, and the next chapter opens with: “Over the past five years, Anton continued to regret this behavior, replaying that day in his head and all the things he could have done differently.” Five years occurred off page. Anton has clearly grown and changed. The author decided you don’t need the details—just the end result.

    When this blog started, I often went months without posting anything. There was so much off-page time. In 2015, I posted only three poems. At the time, I was a full-time caregiver to my first husband. I worked part-time. I taught him how to walk and talk. I emptied a shit bag daily. I bathed him. I cleaned an open wound, careful not to move too quickly. I was busy. I assure you, there was much going on off page.

    I barely even have a journal entry from that period. I was simply too busy with the next task to think—much less daydream, much less feel emotions, much less consider what I wanted or needed. I was consumed by a to-do list of care for another human being. My body shrank quietly while everything else demanded more. I reached a new adult low weight.

Being off page then was not a philosophy. It was survival. It worked.

    At some point, when I wasn't just surviving anymore, I became significantly more “productive.” I leaned into the blog. I leaned even harder into being on page. And for a while, it was fun. A challenge.

In hindsight, it felt inevitable.

As if by design, I turn everything I enjoy into something punishing.

    It happens slowly, through my own actions. I move fast, go deep, overcommit. I did it with alcohol. I did it with drugs. I did it with work. I did it with love. I reached bottom quickly, and then—just as quickly—scrambled toward relief. Only drank 5 years before I clung to sobriety and yet I still sit next to people in AA meetings who lived that life for decades. I don’t know how they survived it. My intensity makes me look like a fraud, even to myself.

    I don’t like hurting. I don’t like wanting things until they hurt to want. Over time, you would think I’ve learned how to leave before desire turns on me. But it's always hindsight, baby. One could say this was the primary reason for my divorce from my first husband.

    This blog has always been a repository for some of my darkest, most negative thoughts, and for a long time it felt like a relief to share them in a safe space. It was exciting in August 2024 when I wrote thirty-seven pieces. The productivity felt limitless. I’ve always been productive in some fashion—obsessive, overwhelming, too much. Or so I’m told. I only really notice it occasionally. A few weeks ago, I noticed it clearly.

    I tried to confide in this blog, my longtime confidant, but could manage only a few vague, petulant sentences. Cryptic posts. Fragments better suited to an AIM away message soaked in teenage hormones and quiet rage—as if I were daring the internet to notice me.

    I hope you understand this as I mean it: sometime around 2020, I became an obsessive documenter of my life. I can tell you every book I’ve read in the past five years. The tarot cards I pulled on July 19, 2022—Three of Wands and The Star. How many times I read the AA Daily Reflection in 2024. How many letters I sent, and to whom. I’ve even saved every letter I’ve received.

On shelves and in boxes: the Caroline Archive.
Curated. Cultivated. Composed.

    You’d think I were a U.S. president building a presidential library. As if historians will one day analyze the inner life of Caroline, minor figure, no body. As if I’m a bird Darwin is studying. Even though no one will read my planners or journals but me, the truth is clear: I no longer live off page.

I haven’t been off page in a long time.

    Not like I was in 2015—when I wrote only three poems but also threatened divorce, and my first husband threatened suicide. Eventually, we both followed through. So much can happen when you aren’t tracking, writing, documenting, cataloguing, talking, explaining yourself into coherence. Maybe if I get a little more off page, my life could begin moving again.

    What if I just made dinner, ate dinner, shit and pissed—did the things that happen off page—and lived without worrying where it was going? That strange, luscious, beautiful breadth of living I keep circling but never quite entering.

What if I simply took my two prescription nasal sprays twice a day?

Worth a try, for a bit.