banana pancakes

The alarm rang off at 6:00 a.m. I slowly cracked out of my paralyzed lying-position and a few minutes later rose out of bed. This time was early for me, these days. I staggered down the tight hallway and veered left into the kitchen. It was Valentine’s Day, and I ran across town yesterday, scooping up breakfast items and other holiday treats. Porter would be rising in an hour, maybe later, therefore, I better get moving.

The day before I gathered strawberries, pancake mix, bananas, chocolate chips, eggs, sausage, potatoes, orange juice and champagne. This meal wasn’t going to be just breakfast, but a downright feast. Disclaimer: I have no experience making pancakes. Yet, I provided myself with some extra time for a trial run, however, the process turned out to be just as straightforward as the directions on the side of the box.

Nearing 7, the sausage was sizzling, the pancakes were browning, and the home-fries were almost touching a crisp. Then I overhead Porter’s door squeak open and her footsteps pounce down the hall.

“Hey!” I said. “You shouldn’t be seeing this.”

“Are you making breakfast?” She asked. “I woke up early to go out and get you bagels.”

So we were both holding our plans under wraps, but we settled on the grandiose amount of food I already bought. Porter joined me in the kitchen, and I turned up some Bob Dylan to jumpstart our morning. Then I popped open the champagne at roughly 7:10 and mixed up some mimosas.

It’s not frequent we devour large meals to kick off our days. We soon hit our limitations not long after we sat down and ate. Valentine’s Day, like many other holidays, has transformed into a consumer holiday, capitalizing on the love and care between individuals. Although I do feel corporations and companies exploit the customers by jacking up the prices on these days, I nonetheless advance with the orchid purchases and dinner celebrations. It’s an addition to the recognition of the love shared.

We all have lives to carry out, outside of our relationships, and sometimes we become entrapped in our day-to-day affairs. I feel these holidays, allow people to intently focus on the special people in their lives, even if it’s just for a special meal in the morning or at night. It’s a tribute of gratitude to them, by simply acknowledging what you deeply feel for the other. It’s a more open opportunity to be vulnerable and express honest feelings; not that they can’t be displayed on any other day, but holidays are a marked period of reflection.

Porter and I scraped up our plates and stored away the leftovers. She had to get moving, so I proceeded with cleaning up the dishes. We arranged to meet in Chinatown after work to grab some noodles and wine. Holidays are also a time for eating well.



Love Letters

I slumped into a creative withdrawal yesterday morning, unable to string some sentences together. My mind wandered, as always, bouncing around from nonsense to more trivial clutter. Eventually, I woke up staring at a blog article, one of those trite lists detailing twenty things you must do in your twenties. God damn it–this is what I’ve come to. You know it’s bad when you’re actually searching this garbage, merely to avoid whatever you’re suppose to do. Well, this article derailed me even more, nonetheless, some value yielded from it.

The #20 item one must do in their twenties is to write their future self a letter (yeah, I read the entire article). I recall doing this exercise when I entered high school and later receiving the letter right prior to graduation. The letter was somewhat embarrassing, but also reflected an honest introspection. Therefore, recognizing how much I’ve developed in this past year, I figured what the hell, let me wipe my soul onto a one-page letter. So I began.

Letters, in my opinion, are the most personal form of communication. Someone can confess their love or problems over the phone or through text message, but when one formulates their thoughts and emotions only to splatter it out onto a page, that truly evokes real vibrant emotion. For instance: numerous books have been published just on authors’ compilations of letters. Letters deliver insight into the real man behind the pen or typewriter. Furthermore, the process is arduous: requires time to think and time to write, no matter how competent of a writer.

I signed my name, dated it, and stored it away deep inside of my mac folder, only to be opened years away. I felt fulfilled, and actually, galvanized to write more letters. Then, it was patently apparent what to write next– a love letter. Love letters require time– much more time than all other letters. I mean, love is a process, which unfolds and develops over a period, and contrary to mainstream belief, it is not instantaneous. With that, love letters undergo a similar procedure: an unrolling of your feelings, exposing your true, vulnerable identity and rich emotions for the other person.

In a nutshell, I’m not finished. I attempted to do it in one sitting, but that try became futile. Revisions and editing were ceaseless, only to be left with some unorganized feelings. As I stated previously, it’s a process. So, I’m back at it again today, sculpting away, applying syntax with the hope that it might just graze the surface.


We are here to help each other…

My bedroom was pitch black and the only sound was the howling of the ceaseless gusts of wind. I lay spread-out on a rickety bed, then I tossed on my left side and then rolled onto my right side, adjusted my stiff neck as well the position of my nagging spine. My running thoughts inundated my mind, and at this point, all I wanted was to drift asleep. Sleep appeared as the only solution to numb this stint of late-night depression. Then I received a call from my girlfriend, Porter.

Porter’s upbeat charisma rang through the phone and my melancholy trickled through as well. The conversation concluded abruptly, but she was aware something was unusual. Another sleep attempt proceeded, but I was interrupted by a text from Porter. The blinding light from my IPhone struck my eyes, but Porter’s cheerful text served as remedy, boosting my spirits to my accustomed equilibrium.

My resurrection was as if I had just slugged back an energy drink. I shot out texts in a frenzy, in between writing a short story on my phone. I was yanked out of despair, because of the care another person draped over me. These brief moments underline the importance of relationships, whether intimate, family, or friend. Kurt Vonnegut discussed the purpose of life and he said, “We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.” Thanks, Porter.