so long, 2014
Despite all else, 2014 wound up being a pretty good year for my writing. Without further ado, here are some of my favorite things I’ve had published this year (and as always, you can check out the rest here):
Suddenly I understood what would lead Carrie to electroshock therapy. Yes, I thought, I know this desperation. I would have done anything to get rid of the near-paralyzing anxiety I felt almost all the time. I called a dozen therapists (one of whom graciously scheduled an appointment with me that same week). I would have taken pills. I would have, yes, probably even have undergone electroshock if someone had guaranteed it would work.
I played the game again almost immediately. I wanted to know its every nook and cranny; I wanted to know what each choice would bring me. A couple weeks after those first playthroughs, I found myself wanting, craving, to play the game again. I had recognized myself in it, in those ill-fated pseudo-romances borne of alcohol and a desire to feel wanted. I know what it is like to feel like “You are nothing / Another man has ruined you.” I know what it is to feel like the only two options are: “A guy who you are going to hurt is better / A guy who is going to hurt you would be better.” To hurt or to be hurt, what else is there?
it is true what they say about our orgies they are blood-soaked and wine-saturated and no man has ever laid eyes on us except for our god (he comes he comes he comes) we are holy we are pure and we are wild
It’s telling that Comstock says that the baptised is sinner and saint until revealed to the eyes of man, and not God. His is, after all, an earthly religion, even as it ascends into the clouds on a quantum city. I don’t think you could find a single crucifix in all of Columbia. Jesus is missing and God is mentioned only rarely. (“Even God is entitled to a do-over,” Comstock said into his voxophone , but was he talking about God or about himself?) The resurrection it is most concerned with is personal; it is the second birth that comes with baptism.
No one had ever paid much attention to you, pretty but not enough to hold a candle to your homecoming queen sister. Besides, you were not meant for such things; you were meant for continuing your father, the closest he had to a son. He started showing you the ropes as a young girl, tying you in a knot it will take you years to undo, though you do not quite realize this yet.