In one of my earliest memories I’m sitting on the lid of the toilet, wearing pajamas, a trash can between my feet. My mother is holding scissors as if she has just discovered what they are. She is a woman of many talents, but cutting hair is not one of them. Still, I let her try. Over and over, I ...
In the months before I first left for college, I started recording my friends. Not video, just their voices: the stories we exchanged in the car on the way to the movie theater, the way we said goodbye to each other after a day at the beach, the jokes we told at sleepovers—which we only found funny ...
Here the stars are bright and begging, like pennies at the bottom of a well. Here the trees are green, even in the heart of winter, for here the winter does not exist. Here I feel hidden, tucked away into a pocket of the night. We are so far from the city, from the lights, from the highway. It is the ...
Have you ever wondered: Would the neural connections in my prefrontal cortex have survived the 20th century completely intact? Would Freud have diagnosed me with hysteria? Is that a woman I see in the wallpaper?
I’ve seen the clip a few times now. Anya Taylor-Joy is on a press tour, promoting her movie The Menu in a BBC interview. “I have a thing about feminine rage,” she says. She kicks the air playfully as she speaks. “This is no disrespect for any writer. I get a lot of men doing really terrible ...
Your first therapist is for a speech delay. She feeds you sentences and you regurgitate them back to her. She makes you drop pennies into a mason jar. She teaches you animal sounds, fills the house with oink and moo. After a few months, she leaves, and your voice stays.
They called themselves an army. They set up camp on a private pot farm in central Oʻahu, locked out the legal owner of the property, and stayed there for nine months. They wore knockoff military uniforms. They carried rifles. In a lawsuit, the legal owner of the land described them as “squatters.” ...
In my dreams, I wake up in my childhood bed. I make my way through the house that is no longer my own and find my mother sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window. The sky is a sheet of gray, a blank face. I cannot even see Diamond Head. My mother cradles a black and white portrait of an old woman ...
Solutions by The State News
