Somewhat recently, I’ve been thinking more and more about attending the hall, and there has been times to where I thought that this might be one, such as La La Land (2016), Lady Bird (2017), Get Out (2017), Us (2019), The French Dispatch (2021), The Batman (2022), Asteroid City (2023), Poor Things (2023), and most recently, Hamnet (2025), but I never went, and I’ve yet to see any of these in any venue or form.

Looking ahead though, I think I’ve found the ones, whether just one of them or all of them, I think going back to the theater will take place this summer:

The Death of Robin Hood

Master of the Universe

The Odyssey.

I love both the Dolph Lundgren Masters of the Universe and the Kevin Costner Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, too—favorites, indeed.

I’m so hoping I can get myself to go to at least one of these movies. I’m thinking out of all of them, The Odyssey has the strongest chance.

When I used to work concessions at Carmike Cinemas, I was horrible at the mandatory policy of upselling, and I refrained from doing so unless the manager was hovering around, but I used to sing to my customers a little bit that went, “butter, butter and popcorn, butter and popcorn, butter, butter and popcorn,” as I made their orders.

That jingle popped (popped) into my head again—it’s right there in the back of my mind, echoing. A lullaby of a calling—maybe just like Homer’s sirens.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to truly write about Martha—my head is full of her thoughts and voice, and I think about her family, and all the memories that come with being so lucky to be in Martha’s presence. Such a butterfly. Her favorite drink was Dr. Pepper, and I’ll be drinking one each day next week instead of my usual Coke Zero.

I don’t know if I’ll go through the stages of grief—I’m kind of waiting for it, but I’m aware of my mentalities to understand the way I’ve been acting and feeling lately and awareness has played such a significant role in my life since I entered sobriety.

After I settled into the morning, I wrote:

Yet.
Still sober,
yet and still.

My brother, and essentially my sister-in-law are in town from Seattle (my sister-in-law is from Seattle) for the week for my mom's birthday which on the 4th—the last time they were in Lafayette was roughly in late 2018, shortly after rehab. Since, then, I saw them in 2021 again, with the parents, in Seattle, and my parents have visited them a couple of times after that.

It must be surreal, maybe nostalgic for my brother to back after such long time. So much has changed and so much has remained the same. They flew into New Orleans and drove in on a rental car to my parents’ home today. I met them outside as they arrived and gave them each the biggest hug, laughing in joy at the sight of them.

A bit later on, we all met at my new house. This is also the first time my parents had seen the place since I had fully moved in, and it was wonderful to see the family as a whole at the house. I can't imagine the pure excitement and joy and delight for my parents to feel in seeing us all together again.

We shared a lunch at the new house—poboys, and before everyone arrived, I brought out the good plates, like the ones that aren’t made of paper, and a brought the good glasses, the ones that weren’t made of plastic. I went all out and used the top of line napkins, the top notch ones, like they’re French Parisian straight from the royal courts of Switzerland. I done went fancy, for sure.

My brother tends to shy away from family photos, but I managed to get one or two at the house, along with my sister-in-law. This was very important to me, and the closest the house has felt like a home.

I put on the AC, too, and my sister-in-law took off all the stickers and tags that I still had kept on the furniture and fridge and stove and oven.

After poboys, we sat in the living room, and it really felt like one. No hyperbole, this was the longest I had been in that room—maybe for like 30 to 40 minutes or so.

After about two hours, the family left—my brother and sister-in-law went to Rêve Coffee and my parents went back to their place.

After a bit of time to myself and checking email—I hadn’t fully read it but I think I might have been invited to take part in a podcast about writing (thank you, Bill), I took a nap and then shared some time in the back patio on this pretty day. It’s chilly here by the way which is somewhat uncanny for a Lafayette May, and later on, I went back to the parents’ home to meet with everyone and managed to sneak in a photo of two of my brother while we sat in the living room.

I went to the new house for about an hour, then headed back to the parents’ home for a dinner—we picked up gumbo and some other plates from Don’s Seafood. My dad and I were gifted with Sub Pop garments, and mom will be gifted soon, on her birthday in just a couple of days.

Other highlights of the day included seeing a very old Yukon with some mix and match doors and body frame and the front wheels lifted, bumping big time. 99.9 was kicking it today, too, playing so many fun songs from the past to where I put the volume up and sang along.

All this was needed—so needed. Needed.

Sad. Happy. Grateful. Thankful.

Bliss.

Love.

The Royal Tenenbaums enters my mind when I think about Ben Stiller’s character Chas opens up to Gene Hackman’s Royal by saying, “I had a rough year, dad.”

There are two scenes, though, that are my favorites when it comes to love language—I think this is called love language. The first one is in Napoleon Dynamite. I remember watching this one in the theater when it was released; I’ve only seen it once, and I will most probably won’t watch it again; however, since 2004, there’s that one line that plays over and over in my head even though I hadn’t watched it in over 20 years, and at that, only once.

It’s when Jon Heder as Napoleon—this is near the end of the movie I believe—tells Haylie Duff’s Summer: “I caught you a delicious bass.” While I guess the moment is intentional in comedic wording, unexpected definitely, I find it to be one of the most endearing lines between character, one that exhibits difficulty in showing tenderness throughout the movie to the love interest who doesn’t shy away from Napoleon’s antics (I guess they’re seen as antics—I can write a whole new article about how I didn’t laugh at Napoleon and his ways throughout the movie because I thought they were relatable in many ways in that he didn’t care much what others thought of him; in fact, I found that most admirable.

The other one is a favorite movie overall: Stranger Than Fiction, when Will Ferrell’s Harold tells quite the polar opposite love interest, Ana, played by Maggie Gyllenhall—”I brought you flours” which is not unlike Napoleon’s “delicious bass line.” Here, a tidy, routined grounded man who refuses to veer away from his own center line opens up to Ana, one whose life consists of veering away from any kind of line.

These two are my favorite scenes when it comes to love language or indirect and unexpected expressions of tenderness, and it’s what I strive to reveal in my own storytelling because I find it so endearing and meaningful and engaging, and whether it’s in books or stories or movies or TV shows, I’m always looking out for those tiny gems that releases a character’s truest self: a need or a passion, however quiet or subtle, to say, “hi.”

Senior Spotlight: M.O.

Barnes & Noble was my second home, always a place that connected with my mindset and way of life, and then when I ventured into writing, I would pick up a small stack of napkins and go through the Writer’s Market or other such sources, jotting down submission guidelines and addresses and the names of editors. It was my favorite kind of research—their inventory of literary journals, too, were at a peak, taking up one to two full racks. It was the world I most identified with all the time—being alone and writing and reading.

Then—then, I stumbled into drinking, and my time shared at the bookstore dwindled; no more the late night visits to Barnes & Noble—I was at the bar. I remember one time I went to the bookstore after I had been drinking a bit, and as soon as I walked in, I felt guilty, like I was tarnishing one of the most cherished spaces in my life, and I quickly left, making the decision to never go back while I had been drinking. Even as a drunk, the one bit of sense I had left was to keep the bookstore separate from my spiraling life.

Rehab.

Barnes & Noble again became my second home—my place of peace and comfort. At that point, the sofas were still there (now, no longer), and this time around, shortly after rehab, I focused on reading collections of essays—literary or otherwise. However, most of the time I was sitting at the tables outside with my laptop, my booksack, and notebooks. If I wasn’t searching for employment, I was writing—it all started with poetry and then to flash fiction, and then I completed a rough draft of a novel-length manuscript which I had started to write before entering rehab. I found it interesting how my intentions changed with how to end the manuscript from before rehab and after, too.

I’m tearing up a bit as I write this, thinking about how my father and mother would take me to the bookstore and pick me up; this would happen multiple times throughout the day, as I couldn’t drive after rehab. Without hesitation, anytime—all the time, they would sacrifice their time for me, just so I can feel a bit more at ease with all that was going on in my life.

So many fears I was going through back then and the only way I can try to soften them was writing, reading, daydreaming, and building up my work ethic again in every which way, all because of the love shining from my parents. It was in fact at Barnes & Noble when I received the phone call that I was offered a teaching position, and it was also at the bookstore when I found out that I had a piece accepted by McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, an absolute dream come true for me. The bookstore even kept some of my books on the shelf, too—which was the ultimate dream of mine since the first day I walked the aisles years upon years ago. These are just tidbits, excerpts of my memories related to this bookstore, and I can go on and on about how it has impacted and influenced my life in so many ways.

So, there’s this one spot at the bookstore—a bit of an open area, and this was no more than like a few weeks after rehab where I ran into a friend from the previous life. We weren’t necessarily really close, but we were good friends in the sense that whenever we attended a party or ran into each other at the bar or musical venues—she herself is an extremely talented musician who played in a very popular local band—we always shared a fun time.

At that point in my life, meaning life in sobriety, I didn’t want to run into anyone for multiple reasons—embarrassment, guilt, shame, and though I was working on my 12 Steps and trying my best to make amends to whomever would accept them, running into friends from the past was not my ideal and most comfortable scenario.

The first words this friend said to me: “I don’t think they have any liquor here, shome.” It was her way of telling me hi, and she was saying it totally as a joke, but it completely caught me off guard. Like wow, this is how I’m viewed, and to be honest, this is how I should be viewed because that was all anyone knew about me back then. It was a realization of perception that bit hard—even at the bookstore.

I’m sure I mumbled a bit, in search of words, and most likely with a voice lacking in strength, I told her hi and explained or gave an update about all my recent life-changing events, including now being sober. She was supportive and kind about it—very encouraging, and we caught up with a bit of banter before hugging and going on our way. I had to think—the last time I saw her before that was at a popular little local restaurant, where we sat at the bar and drank and ate and shared a fun conversation about music and books.

Every time I go to the bookstore, I think about that moment, along with being flooded with all other kinds of memories and thoughts about the past, present, and future, but I focus on that short encounter because it was at the point I knew that I will have to work hard and face many struggles in re-establishing my identity, as my previous one was embedded not only in my own life but in the perceptions of those around me. I cried that night after my dad picked me up and took me back home, quietly, in bed, before meditating a prayer and going to sleep. There has been much progress since then in coming to terms with my life back then and where I’m at now—it hasn’t been easy, and I know there will still be some tough sentiments that will pop in and out, whether it’s through memories or experiences. That particular moment, though, was very important to me—it was like splashing cold water on my face, waking me up and realizing that to strengthen my life of sobriety, I had to both face and release the burdens of the past and forgive myself.

I remember that very next morning, I brushed my teeth and looked into the mirror—there, identities upon identities and reflections and reflections, and I said out loud, “you got this.” Then, I hugged my parents, and asked my dad if he could take me to the bookstore. “Let me just take a couple of sips of tea and let’s go,” he said, patting my back.

We went, and I’m going—still going.

Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora

The Cincinnati Review

A Public Space

Unbroken

Floating Acorn Review

Redivider

Ubwali

Thimble

Interrobang

Sontag

Prime Number

Quartet

Malahat Review

Plume

House of Arcanum

Fairy Tale Magazine

NonBinary Review

The Boiler

Gooseberry Pie

Deronda Review

Chapter House Journal

The Hooghly Review

Outlook Springs

Boudin

Poet Lore

Midway Journal

Black Fox Literary

LIT Magazine

Indian Gothic Literary Magazine

Pithead Chapel

The Argyle Literary Magazine

Scrawl Place

Louisiana Literature

Two Hawks Quarterly

Bending Genres

Fractured

Ghost Parachute

Full House

MoonLit Getaway

Joyland

PHIL Lit Journal

Oyster River Pages

Uncharted

Southern Humanities Review

Mel and I, particularly, go way back—around 2009 or so, and I believe he was one of the selecting editors, along with Caleb J. Ross and maybe a few others to choose i am here And You Are Gone as the winner of the 2010 Outsider Writers Press Fiction Contest. That moment was such a life-changing event for me as a writer, and I still very vividly reading the email from the editors in the parking lot of the movie theater on my very tiny and basic cellphone. It might have been the first time I read an email on my phone, too. There were tears.

Mel had also provided a blurb for this little book, too, along with Matt Bell and Rob Roberge. Matt was actually one of the first readers of it when it was a mansuscript, and he had provided such guiding feedback.

Since then, Ryan and I also connected online—this was back in the beginnings of the heyday of Twitter, and it has been such a pleasure to read his words online through various publications as well as his books, including the ones that are written with Mel.

It’s so neat to see how they match each other in their projects, and it’s clear that the chemistry is there—I believe Climate Strange is their fifth book together.

Fifteen or so years later, I am very fortunate and grateful to provide some thoughts on their latest book, and I’ve provided the excerpt from the Astrophil Press website below as well as the full blurb.

I’m loving the circular nature of all this.

Climate Strange is available here: Astrophil Press.

Congratulations, my friends—very much so.

Such embarrassment to be dignified.

Love.

The issue can be found here: Twisted Tongue.

The flash fiction pieces can be found here: Worldbuilding.

Brenna, the editor of Twisted Tongue, is so absolutely kind and welcoming—such a delightful experience all around. Thank you so much.

I’m also including the piece below.

In middle school, I was #5, after John Paxson.

Paxson had somewhat of a familiar shooting technique, and I remember I tried to emulate it as much as possible. For me at least, I found Armstrong had a more unusual shooting technique, and I also tried to mimic his form, but I couldn’t quite get it down. Both players were around 6’2”, meaning, they were somewhat shorter than the other NBA players—or at least, in appearance, it looked like it

They both played significant roles, too—making clutch shots, engaging assists, and possessing a strong defensive presence at the point guard level; this was, of course, when the game was much more physical.

I looked up to both of these players because of their smaller stature but meaningful impact—they were low key, but unlocked so much for the Bulls during their run.

Whether or not I was able to successfully emulate their shots, I certainly wanted my role as a basketball player to match these two players—pass first, strong defense, reliable FG and FT percentages.

I think about basketball and how perhaps that someway trickled into my mentalities of sobriety now. You got to hold your own.

In sobriety, for me at least, it’s a constant thought—to hold your own; to defend yourself against the previous thoughts and addictions, while concurrently progressing toward passing the ball or making a steal, a rebound, or hitting a free throw, a three pointer. Boxing out.

It’s finding the balance in the struggle that guides me to keep going—humility, always, and I’m thankful to be able to practice such a thought every day because of this new life of sobriety.

Grateful.

91.

Just like that, right?

Just like that.

Right.

Love.

This included, some months ago, when I brought back an issue of Louisiana Life Magazine because of the cover and this was around the time we were approaching Mardi Gras season down here. I thought this would make for a nice way to look the house a bit cozier.

I think I even posted a photo of it, either as an article or a note—trying to make the house a home, and it has been there on the coffee table for the past few months. I looked through it, too.

Earlier this morning, as I was looking for another writing related reference online, I saw my name pop up on the Louisiana Life Magazine website.

“Wait, what?”

Sure enough, I saw that Cajun South Brown Folk was being mentioned—then, when I checked to see if it appears one of the actual issues, I found out that it was in the very same issue that I brought back to the house, sitting on the coffee table. All this time, I had no clue that Cajun South Brown Folk was being mentioned in there.

Too funny.

The online bit can be found here—Ways of Seeing: Tales of History, Lore, and Myth, and the digital issue can be found here: Louisiana Life Magazine. I’m also including the kind reference below:

Photos of the print issue below—all this time, it was there on my coffee table, and I didn’t even know.

Cajun South Brown Folk, the poetry collection itself, can be found here: Belle Point Press.

Many thanks to Louisiana Life Magazine for such generous words.

Mainly, I remember during a workshop presented by author Rob Roberge during graduate school when he said, essentially, the dialogue in a story should be two people telling each other, “no.” This was one the most important elements of craft I try to adhere to most when I’m drafting stories or novels.

During that tenure in graduate school, when author and screenwriter Leonard Chang was one of my mentors, and he was going over both one of my stories and an excerpt of one of my novel manuscripts, he was specifically focusing on my dialogue with the critique of “basically everyone is agreeing with each other, and it’s not creating an interest or attraction or engagement.” He was so right. I understand bits of expositional dialogue to provide a bit of context and background, but up until that point in my writing endeavors, I never went past that.

Here’s one of the first drafts of my novel The Muu-Antiques:

After revisions, here’s a more of a final draft of The Muu-Antiques—for a bit more clarity, please note that after revisions, I changed character names and point of view and that Macy’s nickname for Percy is Penelope:

Once I applied to what I learned from these two specific authors, I noticed a bit more depth in my own writing, and the creation of tension and conflict however subtle or over—though I find myself enjoying reading and writing more subtle rise in tension through conversation in storytelling.

All this to coincide with one of my favorite exchanges in a movie—O Brother, Where Art Thou? The quintessential treasure and toad scene epitomizes for me what I strive for in dialogue in my own writing—basically connecting to the insights that both Roberge and Chang had provided. A lack of acknowledgement and a confusion where the two speakers aren’t on the same page (maybe, pun intended) or level in communication.

What I love about this concert of crafting dialogue is that there’s a standstill—at that moment in a story, where two characters are saying no to each other, the words aren’t going anywhere because the characters in someway or another or in a refusal of each other. However, in the overall arch of a narrative, the inertia creates a movement toward tension or conflict or an emotion that guides the story to move forward. So, seemingly, “no” and “no” are stagnant in appearance—perhaps a facade, but in actuality, it’s creating a texture or depth to a story by silently (invisibly?) creating movement in both plot and character.

So, maybe:

“↹” yields to → or even ← ,

where there’s movement, even in going backward results in an overall progression in the narrative.

I don’t know if any of this makes sense—more so than anything else, I think I just wanted to include arrows in this post.

I’ve also been trying to think about how this would translate into Newton’s Second Law in Physics, like is there a way to which variables could relate to dialogue in storytelling where it’s two people telling each other no? I don’t know. This is beyond a stretch, and I’m just making up my own rules within the established world of science and physics.

So, if I ascribe F (initially Force) as tension and conflict, maybe I can give meaning to m (Mass) as narrative or plot and a (acceleration) as characterization which would include dialogue?

F = ma.

This is pure nonsense—I know I know, and it’s too abstract for me to comprehend, but I’m just trying to approach the craft in a different way, and even in this failure, I’m still thinking about writing, that’s all.

“For instance,”
		I’ll say
		and
		then
		I’ll
		say
		something
		like—,
		and
		after
		that,
		I’ll
		add,
“For example,”
		and
		I’ll
		continue 
                for 
                a 
                few
		more
		(time/space);
		then,
“Furthermore,”
		sounding
		like
		I
		know
		what 
		I’m
		saying,
		but
		all 
		I
		mean
		is:
“I love birds”
		because
		I 
		know
		nothing,
		at
		all,
		other
		than
		the
		dream
		to
		fly
		away;
“See—.”

Nonsense, indeed, and I just need to get some vocals out today through discombobulated thoughts, that’s all.

Back to nothing, my friends—I’m just going to head back to nothing.

Be sweet.

Within these couple of days, I devised a plan. I picked up some electronic candles and created a story for our dinner. When the waiter arrived, this is what I mentioned for the most part—a narrative:

“This is my friend, Luke, and he’s very demanding—something like a diva, and he refuses, adamantly, to ever go out to dine at a restaurant without candles. He must enjoy his cuisine by candle, but when I softly and gently, like almost whisper because I didn’t want to escalate the situation, spoke that maybe the restaurant won’t allow us to light candles on the table, perhaps because of a fire code of some sort, he was all so very unpleased and upset, to say the least—such word choice from his mouth! However, he was able to settle on a compromise, though—I picked up some electronic candles so that maybe he could enjoy his dinner, at least a little bit.”

Then I took out the candles and put them on the table. I added:

“He normally doesn’t like taking photos with me because he thinks I’m disgusting, but he’s allowing me to take one with him this time around. This is a rarity, and I don’t think he’ll ever allow me to take another photo with him—perhaps, these electronic candles softened him up a bit. Can you take a photo, please? Quick! Quick! Before he changes his mind.”

Many thanks to the waiter for being so kind and patient with us (or me, rather).

The rest of lunch was a blast—to share time with my dear friend, taking part in stimulating conversations (over candles), always. I admire him so much, and in so many different ways, and I’m always humbled that he considers me to be his friend after all this years, and I will never take it for granted.

In continuation of admiration, not too long ago—maybe a couple of days or so, I was at Barnes & Noble; it was a late outing (for me) and it was pretty empty that night, just a couple of readers here and there walking the aisles, but there was one really significant being there that night. His name is George. George and I go way back—when I was a seventh grader, he was a senior (the middle school and upper school are on the same campus), and I saw him as a role model, one that was accessible, too—not like a famous or unreachable celebrity of some sort such as an athlete, actor, author, or musician or anything, just a young respectable gentleman. Back then, I remember him to be so calming and kind, with the gentlest of eyes. Every now and then, throughout the years, we’d see each other at the local coffee shop, and we’d play chess and talk about books and all, but it has been a very, very long time since the last time we’ve seen each other—years upon years.

It was so special to so unexpectedly run into him at the bookstore, and we talked a bit about the past, especially playing chess and all, the present, and we talked a bit about the future, too. It made my day, to see him, and just like way back then, George is still so very kind and welcoming—still, a role model.

Whoosh and whoosh—up up and ballet.

Tonight, time finds its crevices, making its way into my head through memories of my late Dadu’s study in Kolkata where I learned the typewriter 20 years ago: “the corn on the cob” I would call it, and began the journey of writing an ode to the rishshawed city of morning conchs (I remember comparing black birds to satellites)—never finished, having been firmly unwell for my tenure there, and its inked clack clack clack perhaps flapped inside a journal I will maybe seek for a closure. I can send it him—strapped to an evening bird and through the night, an adventure, until my grandfather’s gentle hands tips it with his fingers, hearing me say, tumi kemon acho and a pranam of love.

I was way too much out of breath and sweating way too much.

This is my Saturday night, my friends, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Feeling thankful, goofy, embarrassed, grateful, and full of light and love.

Thank you, sobriety—thank you, family and friends.

Saturday night, indeed.

Love.

Be sweet.

Hayden: The Hazards of Sitting Beneath Palm Trees

Neutral Milk Hotel: Naomi

Joanna Newsom: Peach, Plum Pear

Alicia Keys: Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart

Bedhead: Roman Candle

Iron & Wine: Jezebel

Negro Prison Blues (Alan Lomax Field Recordings): Early In The Mornin’

Alison Krauss: Down To The River To Pray

Thom Yorke: Harrowdown Hill

Lauryn Hill: Lost Ones

Pink and Nate Ruess: Just Give Me A Reason

D’Angelo: How Does It Feel

Monsoon Wedding: Mehndi

Gwen Stefani: Bubble Pop Electric

Y’all be sweet.

Why?

I don’t know.

Let’s see, maybe, what that means—if anything or everything at all, and that’s what I love about language and its random spontaneity.

Like, just like that, and it’s there.

I can’t remember the last time I mentioned those words or said them aloud—perhaps when sometime years ago, I had a story about a laughing hyena come out, but even then, I never said it out loud. I haven’t thought about that story until just now, trying to figure out when I’ve thought about hyenas.

Will I write about them again? Does this count? Will I see one—they weren’t in my dreams last night even though I acknowledged their existence; I actually dreamt about trying to dunk a basketball. It’s a repeated dream of mine, I emphasize the “trying” because even in my dreams, I’m unable to slam or jam.

Oh, wait—give me one second. Hold on.

So, I just checked my list of publications, and I just saw that “The Laughing Hyena” was the last piece published before I entered rehab. I don’t know how that works or if there’s a subsconscious connection somewhere there—perhaps, a new hyena story for a new life.

There’s this one particular story that has been receiving tiered rejections—I think, one from Granta, which is one of the first printed journals I read and subscribed to, and they also published my dad’s memoir a long time ago. I’ll keep trying. The other from Strange Pilgrims, which has recently become an engaging literary venue for me, especially as its name relates to a Gabriel García Márquez’s title. I feel like this particular story is just on the edge of breaking through—it’s one of my longer written short stories, and now that I think about, it’s probably the longest one I’ve drafted.

This morning—coffee and clouds, and I found the sky’s reflection in my mind. I don’t have much to do today and plenty of it, and I look forward to reading and writing and thinking about mint chocolate chip ice cream cakes.

I found a flower once, and once I found a flower.

Be sweet.