I wrote the following when I was 23.  Which, if you can believe it, feels like ages ago when I think of where I was then and where I am now. 

I was still semi-fresh out of college, still drinking with the college mentality of every weekend needed to be a binge.

Tony was living in an old farmhouse with a group of guys and needless to say, there wasn’t a whole lot of ambition permeating from the walls or anything.

I look back now and roll my eyes at the drama and the drinking and the…well…drama.  But I also smile because, well, such is life.  I’ve grown up and so has he.  We’re now active participants in society and on those rare occasions, even act like adults from time to time, what with the paying of the bills and that marriage license and all.

But, like all the different “periods” of my life, I like to read back on my writing at the time and reminisce about where my brain was at during that stage of my life.  I read back on high school writing and remember first falling in love.  I have “mystical, magical” written into almost every poem.  And maybe even a poem or eight about the beautiful tree house we’d live in on some remote island and ooo, look at those bees that just turned into flowers and we’re all in love, holy shit, holy shit, someone stop me. 

And then in college, when one of my senior courses was a seminar on the Beatniks, I definately had some crossover  influence.  Neal Cassidy characters and the bohemian bop-prosidy style.  I still enjoy reading that period. 

But some of my most interesting stuff came from the gap after college.  I read it now and realize how confused I was.  How torn I was between being that college kid and being thrown into the real world, talking about bullet points in a meeting on Monday morning and throwing back countless shots on the weekends.  It’s not pretty, but it’s reality.  And so I chose to share with you a piece of writing from those days.  Because that girl is mostly a memory now, but she was an important gap for me.  A bridge, if you will.  Let me introduce you.  She was a definate spitfire.

Like a Sudden Thunderstorm in the Morning

The sway of her hips

was already out the bedroom door

before she was done shoving clothes

into the recesses of her backpack,

navigating the zipper as quickly as possible

around bulges in the nylon.

His soft whine whistled through the air behind her,

lost in the wake of her steady gait,

and absent of steam before

it could negotiate her return.

Her tricep hardened with authority

as it lifted the bottle of rum

off the grimy kitchen table.

Without turning around,

the volatile weather pattern

housed in her petite frame

was out the door.