Avast ye! Here lie me ooooolde thoughts and those of other people. Ye might think of it as... a collective diary or perhaps a treasure chest buried deep in the sands beneath the olde waters of Davy Jones’ Locker. Read at yer own... risk, matey. Judge not the writing below lest you plan on submitting your own fragmant to my email account (which you can find on this website obvi). Argh!

Written by Chris Molnar. December 20, 2020. Well, today happens to be Chris’s birthday. He sent this to me with the description: “prank e-mails i sent to powerhouse's listing for free bubblewrap once to mess with a co-worker!” 


hello i have a special interest in sealed air and your offer is very intriguing. please tell me the contents of this bag and a good time for to come by and perhaps feel inside and look at what I can touch


are bubbles big or small I do like both ways but prefer large this has good feel when I press down


from this picture it does look to me that there are papers and other items can I leave this with you

maybe I pay you money to do this perhaps four


yesterday I arrived at your closing time of 7 and waited for one half an hour but I did not see any worker although I did see this bag of material and did look at it through glass and these used bubbles do tempt so


I do not understand why you told me this bag was already gone it is there. it is cruel and I will pay you perhaps eight dollars although your list does say free and I will return.  please tell me bubble wrap books thank you


i did take the train two hours to the copy center where they do let me buy new wrap it is not so used as yours too firm to touch and cold factory. please I do not know why you do not let me take your wrap, I saw it was gone in the shop, you do not write.  it is soft at my house and I think you could enjoy the good feel but when I come in they told me I cannot ask for you. there is a tree with bubble wrap on the top leaves and that is where I live, please come

Written by Naomi. December 2, 2020. I went to locate a day in my life in my notebooks and found that there was a gap, that between finshing one notebook and receiving another (as a gift for my bday, from Mina in November 2019), that nothing exists to prove that I had something to say about my life at that time. I do remember documenting a particular day when I thought intensely about this one Giacometti sculpture that I liked. Then I had curry (Japanese) later for dinner and had a strong convergence of emotion. Perhaps what I wrote was in my notes (iPhone) or on my laptop (Word Document) or on my iPad (Pages Document), but at this point I don’t think I’ll get to the bottom of it. I keep thinking that the archives of earlier writers, in more analogue times, were more linear and indicative of the “narrative” of an artists life. So when their “papers” were posthumously uncovered, the pieces were more or less arranged to form the story of some decades. Now what do we have? Occasional IG post. Memory of a dream at five in the morning. Dismembered story because none other can now exist.

Written by Jose Carpio (@dr.carpio), published May 26, 2020.

I sat in the stairwell one evening trying to tear my phone in half.

Weighty and compact, its front and back glass panels did not bend. Its rounded metal edges brushed off the force of my twisting wrists, nullifying all my effort.

I continued to twist, wanting to see if I could get to the inside of something (anything), but the outside would not give.

I imagined that the evidence of my force was inside the phone: computer parts mangled by torsion.

Corollary: I imagined my body hitting the water, insides disarrayed, like a dumpling.

My body hitting the water, a distant dream.

By Naomi. March 25, 2020. Today is quiet, and in conversing with myself again I find that hues of maroon have become enriched, lightened around the edges and deepened in the middle. I wonder if those folks will find me at the outgoing tide of the lake, bathed in rubies, and if you—of my imagination, always coming and going—would consider me more me today than yesterday, than last spring, than this past autumn. Some seasons stick around longer than others, and for the most part we dive in and out of loss like visitors to the Earth. You should always express what you believe to be true. Remind me of that tomorrow in the morning in the light. When I woke up this morning, I was dazzled.

Ketterick Waddell. Black/Angst. 2020.
Photographic print. Courtesy the artist.

Written by Ketterick Waddell (@kettdubya), March 24, 2020. Vision is cloudy, yet from the third the light shines through. Dark is the day, and the night. Overcome with an uneasy sense of direction, polarized by every step. It’s as if we knew this moment was coming. When the path is transparent we anticipate it from our peripheral.

Two ways to witness the inevitable. Confronting it with the confidence of a drumline dancer at an HBCU. The bass beating in sync with a heart that drives conviction. The stadium glow bouncing off of vibrant melanin. Or, cowering in the presence of unchecked privilege and ostracizing stigmas. Minimizing your every step in an effort to avoid confrontation and condemnation. Playing the game without surveying the field from your empowered perspective.

Once in a while it manifests itself in the moment. Natural swagger that is in tune with every sound. Motions that flow in rhythm with every stride. Chest out, head high, waves flowing with a tail wagging, never tucked. Camaraderie from complexion, an unfortunate result of conformity.

Never do you have to explain yourself to anyone, you are exactly who you are...

By Naomi. March 17, 2020. And in time enough to be alone the mirror suddenly exceeds expectations, revealing not only what you’ve always seen (now more clearly than ever) but also that which passes underneath. S’pose it isn’t unexpected to see how tightly knit the sinewy parts are with those more fluid. It’s all floating inside me, unanchored, when all is said and done. There’s this assumption that we’re the dock for our souls. Never have believed in the idea of a soul, because how can it be we treat our bodies with such impernance and our more abstract qualities as everlasting? Because what I say is left behind after I write it down? I’ve always felt the absence of someone from my life when the person leaves the room.

By Naomi. March 3, 2020. The shape of knowing another person, and when did you first wonder what your favorite emotion was and why? Did you want it because it returned to you cyclically as in, the seasons changed and here it was once again . . . It’s as if you didn’t decide but were told. The tip of my finger caught fire in the dark and brought warmth that saved me from what had happened the year before.

By Naomi. February 29, 2020. It is a place no one else can see and that is where I will ask you to meet me. You will know of it because I will tell you how it can be reached and which way you should turn to arrive at the mouth to the cave. I await. You won’t find it in the sunlight; it is a place that becomes evident after the downpour of blue rain. This place is the kind that folds around its noises... breathing... the lapping of a handful of water against stone. It is a place that somehow demands so many prepositions despite the smoothness and simplicity of its surfaces. As I said we will meet there... but I will be there first. I’m mostly always there waiting, not for you, but for something. For an idea, perhaps for the extended archaelogical processes that were once promised to take decades and now take just years. Everything is so fast now, but I’m still here.

By Naomi. February 10, 2020. Green, green rocky road. Another green world. The color of witch’s eyes. Jade and grass. Sickliness. Envy. Salad as adjective—... color of nonbelievers. To be rested upon. Climactic, or everlasting. I see it long and out before me and want to walk down the path. Lives out, outside myself, is not wrapped up in my own feelings about other people, about things. Reprimanded in school for eating in class. Hours—over a number of years—watching the knoll. Wondering why my circle wasn‘t as concentric with others as others’ circles seemed with one another. When I was a little girl, my mother taught me to be a person of my own creation. Perhaps... one day, I would bestow that crown on a tiny girl I’d brought into the world... still... to decide if life would be worth living for someone else.

January 13, 2020. “My kingdom for a horse.”

January 1, 2020. The connective tissue of religion—belief (although people seem to love to argue that atheism is a religious practice of its own for its subscription to what they see as groupthink)—has felt elusive to me for as long as I can remember. Was telling my mom the other day how I never really remember having faith in anything traditionally fantastical, those fables that provide architectonic whimsy to children’s lives. As I grew older, my skepticism was emboldened by the overwhelming evidence that religion is underscored by sexism, racism, tribalism, violence, among other things... 

Considering other people’s structures of our world is an ever-evolving personal interest of mine, wanting to know how it is that my own conception of our days can differ so diametrically to another’s. I enjoy thinking about others’ beliefs; love their ancient relics and dependency and ways of explaining. I think of writers like Marilynne Robinson, who I love, and from whom I do not, in fact, feel so alienated. Above all, I gravitate toward her seriousness toward herself , her devotion to her art, an unshakeable need to explore the  fabric of human life on earth.  Perhaps my discussion of it all is some kind of spectatorship, because I oftentimes wish I was able to explain away the terrible or miraculous things as romantically as those who claim divinity. My own capacity to imagine and tell stories has largely been developed through encounters with religion. The mysteries come wrapped in ornate and intricate decoration; I want to dive in.