Entries By quin browne
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it’s automatic for me… to wake up, sit on my sofa, sip my coffee, read a bit, then face the rest of the day. it’s automatic for my spouse to talk during this time, nudge me to do some odd chores she thinks need doing and i feel are find left alone. i have my agenda–and she has one for me. the twain do not meet.
so, i changed my agenda a bit to accommodate her. now, when i’m sitting sipping reading, if she forgets that change, and falls back on giving me her version of my day, it’s automatic for me to back hand her across the face. i’ve found it makes my life far more enjoyable in a variety of ways.Posted By Quin Browne On 10.25.2011 @ 10:01 am
the idea of scarves had never crossed her mind in the past. she’d seen them, crayon shades on display on vendors tables in every corner of the city. cashmere, cotton, sheer fabric, long, short–each kind was represented and shilled by men with strange accents, willing to bargain a little if the day was right.
scarves filled a drawer in her dresser now. they covered her bald head, her thin shoulders–draped and tied to hide the worse of the disease and it’s equally horrific cure. she was glad for them, for the warmth, the rich colors–the sense of beauty she sought in a world of needles, therapeutic poisons and pain.Posted By Quin Browne On 03.12.2011 @ 8:09 am
She’d had a life long relationship with food and it’s colors–it defined her moods, her place in the world, her status with life. Joy was something covered in chocolate, a taste of which she’d never grown fond. Golden roast chicken, cooked long and slow, heralded a time of prosperity and luck. Ah, but, it was white food that she cooked the most, where she found success in creating dishes…awake deep in the night, knowing proportions by heart, using the light of the gas flame to boil and stir and bake. Cream of wheat, rice in every version, tapioca pudding, grits with butter….potatoes, baked until they burst, rich with sour cream and swiss cheese; these things held off the black that lurked. When cooked, it gave her the control of it’s painful qualities…the hours she’d spent as a child, made to kneel on uncooked rice or grits, for transgressions real or imagined. On occasion, she’d absently scratch a rough patch on her knee, and find a small grain of rice or a speck of corn grain had worked it’s way to the surface–she put them aside, in a special jar, planning the pudding she’d make one day….full of old rice, sugar, cream and hate.Posted By Quin Browne On 01.04.2011 @ 10:48 am
I’d never worked in pottery before.. the whole idea of getting my hands dirty with clay was far beyond anything I felt like doing. Still, I’d watched ‘Ghost’ six times, and the instructor was hot…so, why not?
One night, I stayed late–he’d almost given up on my ever centering a lump of clay. I’d almost given up on his ever noticing the gap in my shirt every time I leaned over the pottery wheel.
Sometimes, things change.
He discovered my, um, talents lay beyond making cups and vases…and I discovered art tables weren’t just for art.
Sometimes, creating art can take on many forms–right?Posted By Quin Browne On 07.20.2010 @ 4:01 pm
She wasn’t very brave…not really. Her courage extended to dealing with children’s cuts and scrapes and fishing the cat out of a tree. The one thing that was beyond her comfort zone were spiders.
Those, she killed from a safe distance with a can of hairspray and a match. Little black spots on the walls were worth the ability to kill and scream at the same time.Posted By Quin Browne On 06.11.2010 @ 5:27 pm
Marilyn’s dream was to sing to the President. She wiggled and squirmed and flirted her way into that very dream, finding herself in a dress so tight she had to be sewn into it, standing in front of the mic, shading her eyes in order to see exactly where he sat in the crowd.
It was just as she’d seen it over and over in her mind… with the exception she was a 58 year old woman who had given birth (and not recovered from) 4 children and he was the head of her bowling league.
Still, a dream is a dream, and she enjoyed hers to the last note.Posted By Quin Browne On 05.02.2010 @ 5:55 pm
Billie was not a pleasant child.
She never felt it was necessary to share any of her toys, including the Barbie dolls. She did, however, allow others to play with her little alphabet blocks. It allowed her to throw them very hard at others without having to accept responsibility for harm done.
It always amused her to see how how much damage could be done by a well aimed wooden toy.
Her neighbor, Judy “One-Eye” Jones, however, failed to find laughter in the incident.Posted By quin browne On 04.27.2010 @ 5:42 am
he was my beloved. my heart, my soul, the one i was thankful for even when he woke me with his snoring…
he was my beloved. my all. my reason for breathing.
people feel this way about husbands, wives, lovers..
…i felt this way about my cat. god, i miss him!Posted By quin browne On 03.28.2009 @ 9:33 pm
there was this knot, right at the end of the rope we used to swing out over the bogue chitto river on hot mississippi delta days. the whole idea was to swing out, and let go–your body paused for a brief moment in the humid air, almost like wile e. coyote did when he’d run off the cliff. suspended long enough to have your stomach contract in the anticipation of the water that was warm on top and cool at the bottom close over you.
sometimes, you clung to the rope with your toes, wanting to be pushed out a couple of times, to see if you’d build up the courage to do a back flip, warnings of boys who broke their neck doing that pushed from your head.
sometimes, though, you sat on that knot, holding on with wrinkled fingers– you’d sail out, and at that moment, right before the rope would bend and jerk you hard… you’d sail out and could see all the way past summer to autumn.Posted By quin browne On 09.09.2009 @ 4:41 pm
the heart monitor kept up the steady sound, letting all of us know he clung to life. my parents sobbed, sitting there, watching my brother, who had been my friend in childhood and grew to be my nemesis. the man i deleted from my bio’s i submitted when my agent asked for one.
would anyone notice i was the only one praying for it to flatline?Posted By quin browne On 09.05.2009 @ 6:21 pm
we take vows of all sorts in life; marriage vows, vows to be honest, vows to seek revenge. it’s a word of great intensity, one we seldom keep. the vows of being true to one person fade, it’s far easier to lie (even a little) and taking revenge takes second place to sitting on our asses and doing nothing more than thinking of what we would do.Posted By quin browne On 07.09.2009 @ 9:49 am
her laugh was full-bodied and rich, never the reserved form she was told was far more acceptable to young women of that time. it spoke of all she was; warm, loving, happy with life.
thankfully, she never did succumb to the dictates of her mother, never losing that huge guffaw that was hers and hers alone.
it’s what i still remember when i think back–glad i inherited it, mindful only of what i am laughing about when i let loose, and not what people think of the sound.Posted By quin browne On 07.06.2009 @ 12:40 pm
i’ve never been one for sandals, he said. they make me feel as if i should be wearing a robe and changing water into wine, or raising the dead.
i handed him the new pair i’d bought, giving the wifely glare that says, wear these or no more sex.
amazing how that glare works… looking like a saviour was preferable to being chaste…he put them on, and i discovered he was right. with the beard and the sandals, he was rather holy, in a hot way.Posted By quin browne On 06.26.2009 @ 11:29 am
i watched gidget surf on television, making it seem so easy, so effortless.
the first time i tried was the last time.. as i fell off, swallowed the ocean and worried about sharks.
i’m content to watch it now, wishing i could, knowing i can’t.
and good with the knowledge.Posted By quin browne On 06.25.2009 @ 11:52 am
we all have events in our lives that mark us, make us.
my defining event was when danny boudreau kissed me under the bridal wreath bush, promising me eternal love and giving me a ring made from a dog’s choke chain.
our love lasted until third grade, when he met and left me for a girl from the public school down the street.
i still remember the freckle in his left iris, that i’d watch be slowly covered as he closed his eyes to kiss me.Posted By quin browne On 06.24.2009 @ 11:54 am
he ran track to out run the thoughts in his head. going on the perfect circle allowed him to forget his own life was far from perfect, letting him move forward both physically and emotionally.
six miles every day, then he was done. life moved on on it’s own imperfect track, while he held the comfort of the memory of the smooth oval.Posted By quin browne On 06.23.2009 @ 12:06 pm
i can’t find the match i know i put down next to the door. i only need the one, just one match to help me get through the next hour. one match, to use to light this cigarette im’ not supposed to be smoking, that i plan on smoking, that i will smoke.
this is why we invented lighters… matches are lost far too easily, thus ruining the day.Posted By quin browne On 06.21.2009 @ 11:16 am
if i suffocate her now, no one will know she ever existed. i can deny that she was born, and that allows me to deny she died. it wasn’t supposed to happen, it was supposed to be just the one time, and i’d be safe, right? as a virgin, i’d be safe because you don’t get pregnant the first time. right?
she grew in me. hated inside me.
here, in the bathroom… i’ve had her, and i don’t know where to go from here…
if i suffocate her, i can go to my old life. if i don’t….
decisions.Posted By quin browne On 01.01.1970 @ 12:00 am
my life is in stereo. i hear sets of voices in my head; one is offering fun and good times and a massive hangover.
the other chides me to behave, to follow the good book (of my choice) and to never do anything that would make my mother ashamed.
the third reminds me that all decisions have consequences, and to think long before i do or say anything.
far too often, i listen to the last one, that says, “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”, letting me go my own way into that dark night.Posted By quin browne On 09.04.2009 @ 12:50 pm
red vines licorice, air dried to a nice chewy texture, sits on my desk in a cup, right where i can reach it at any time.
not twizzlers, those pretentious bits of cherry flavour, but, thick, well flavoured, perfect sized red vines…
with these around, you can survive anything. bad day, bad hair, writers block, broken heart, that feeling your stomach is a big empty pit of sadness.
biting in, long session of chewing, the taste flowing over your tongue… yes, with these, you know tomorrow is another day.Posted By quin browne On 09.02.2009 @ 5:01 pm
she leaned into the stove, blowing the smoke up into the vent, so that the kitchen would remain pristine.
that thin grey stream carried her anger, her hurt, her wish that he’d die in some huge crash, leaving her a wealthy woman. for a few mill, she could look tragic and forlorn.
pulling air into her lungs, she huffed out a huge breath, cleaning all those little sacs out, or so she told herself. done, she turned to the garbage disposal, flipping it on to destroy the evidence of her secret cigarette addiction. it remained the thing she needed more than sex, more than food, more than being happy.
it was her drug of choice.. well, that and hating him deep in her heart.Posted By quin browne On 09.01.2009 @ 10:00 pm
time is a teacher of many things, i’m told. you learn to be patient (still waiting on that one) to be strong (i’m too afraid to check that out) to know your limits (i weigh 360 and have a drinking problem) and to seek out what you want (that means i have to go outside)
here’s the full list of what time has taught me..Posted By quin browne On 08.28.2009 @ 5:17 pm
i need to go to the gym.
i know that as sure as i know my name and that the sun rises in the east.
here’s the thing.
the gym is a block away.. i’d have to walk down the two flights of stairs to the garage, drive to the gym, find a place to park, schlep all my stuff into the very chi chi building that houses the gym, find a locker, get changed, go find a machine or five to work out on, reverse the entire process and make it home, sweaty and hot from the car which has sat in the sun for the hour or so i was in there.
i can do that, or, i can sit here and watch ‘drop dead diva’ and eat stale red vines (never twizzlers!).
i think not only am i clear, but, i’ve made sense in this explaination…don’t you?Posted By quin browne On 08.22.2009 @ 2:01 pm
What’s your destination?
The question startled me, I’d not thought of any particular place when I boarded the train…simply sat down and allowed my thoughts to settle into the cold oatmeal that was my brain.
What’s your destination?
He repeated it, never losing patience, needing to mark his list with the newest passenger.
I sat a moment longer–actually, I sat longer than it has taken me to write this. I sat, waiting for the answer to leave my puzzled mouth.
What’s your destination?
It came forth, borne on a sigh of fear– sanity…. that’s my destination.
(Written on my blackberry–while I wait in a hospital room)Posted By quin browne On 08.21.2009 @ 12:39 pm
It was a piece of art, the gong that hung in the main hall of the palace. Round, polished to a sheen by those who were called to their places by it’s reverberating tones, it was feared and hated by those around it…they chose to wish it gone. Prayed it would be destroyed by someone, anyone.
However, Sisiter Mary Patrick refused to change out the old ways, and kept it in place, ignoring the rolled eyes and heavy sighs of the uniformed students under her care, secretly enjoying their discomfort.Posted By quin browne On 08.17.2009 @ 11:11 am
at first, it was small, the itch. later, it grew and became more a part of my minute by minute existence. at first, i focused elsewhere, trying to pretend it wasn’t there, that i could banish it by thinking of other things. i could defeat this urge, this need.
thing is, it didn’t stop.
i had to scratch that itch….
….so,i turned on the sci fi channel..on a saturday, when the films tend to be really, really crap.
it’s an addiction.Posted By quin browne On 08.15.2009 @ 6:37 pm
i need a piece of liver, because mine is shot. she told me.
your sister said she’d give me a piece of hers, and i can’t figure out why you don’t love me enough to offer me a piece of yours. this is why i am so much closer to clarissa than you.
i sat, stunned. all of that swirled around in my head, trying to make sense of what is on, what she was babbling about.
i leaned forward, and spoke slowly. mother, i said to her, trying to keep my temper, mother–i can’t give you a piece of my liver because our blood types don’t match, because i am 25 and you are 65 and why should i give up a huge part of myself and finally, i have cancer. but, i’m betting my cancer riddled liver is still in better shape than claissa’s…. or have you put aside the fact she’s a hard core drinker??
she blinked once. twice. settling into her chair, she spoke with dismissal of my comments– perhaps you are right, but, at LEAST she offered.
i knew then i’d never win, and left knowing i was finally okay with my decision to not speak to either of them ever again.Posted By quin browne On 08.14.2009 @ 9:32 pm
it’s my pastime, she said to the man who watched her. experiments and all that stuff. i like to prove things right or wrong, no matter how long it takes. now, if you don’t mind, i need to get back to my project… it’s my hardest one, yet.
he stepped back, away from the gray haired woman, away from the train tracks, away from the line of coins she’d carefully placed on the rails.
and, like her, waited to see if they really could derail a speeding train.Posted By quin browne On 08.13.2009 @ 7:17 pm