3am: Mabel’s New Frenemy

I ascend stairs…or they appear as stairs or steps or…all I know when I lift my leg up and step, something meets my foot. I move one more up and up. Exasperated, I don’t understand why he isn’t slowing down. His back moving further up and away. Up and away. Up and away from me.

Where are we? I showed up and forgot to look around. A tree-house hotel. That’s my first guess. The stairs winding around themselves upward from the center of a lobby. At least it occurs to me as a hotel lobby. Filled with these big-backed and cozy arm chairs. I recognize them. They belong to the hotel/lodge of sorts my family stayed in once.

Floor after floor of rooms. The doors facing in towards the lobby which grows smaller and smaller. For some reason I am confident that this hotel is built inside of a tree. The barky-walls lined with string lights. Stroon haphazardly…but on purpose.

What floor is our room? He keeps ascending. Not looking back. Not in a deliberate ‘I’m ignoring you’ manner. No. Like he doesn’t know I’m following him. Even though I’m calling out his name. Andrew! Sheesh, did you suddenly change your name?! Andrew!!

I feel utterly befuddled. Something in my intuition bone whispers: “He doesn’t hear you anymore. You broke up, remember?”

I just have to get to our room. We will catch our breath and talk. We are just confused right now.

And then I reach a sudden landing and something wild appears in my path. A lioness. The hair on her back sticking up. Fuck, she is really scary. I feel really, really scared.

I want to wake up. I need to wake up. Wake up now, Mabel! Wake up! Imagine the blinds in your bedroom. The lines of light created by the street light below your window. Conjure up the pillow-feel. Your favorite squishy pillow. That good-for-nothing structure-less pillow.

The pillow you are clutching right now outside of this dream.

The lioness shows her teeth. Spit dangling from these shiny and massive fangs. I knew their teeth were scary…but seeing them up close elicits a panic inside my core so bright and shattering that I start crying.

I’m going to die.

I wake up.

I fell asleep on my right side. Facing the window with the blinds that allows in just a touch of street light. Pillow! You formless potato-bag! I’m so glad to see you! I pull it closer into my chest. Burrow my face into the fabric. The poor thing is a bit wet. Tears and possibly a little drool.

I feel so paper-thin and shaky. Like maybe I don’t exist? I tug at a burgundy-colored lock of my own hair. The wild-child bit that always escapes the ponytail during the night. Tug, tug. I still feel ungrounded.

I know it is a few minutes past 3am before checking my iPhone. I check just to go-

-yep, 3:04am. The perfect time to wake from a weird dream and start missing him.

My relationship with ‘A Few Minutes Past 3am’ is complicated. At first, I regarded this time with hostility. An enemy. Loneliness and exhaustion wore me down. It’s more like a reluctant friendship at this point.  

‘A Few Minutes Past 3am’ and I first met a little over a month ago.  Tossed from a dream and into the real.  That night I tried to catch up to Andrew and a rush of water stormed between us. I was drowning when I woke myself up. Gasping. 

I woke up beside Andrew. Sleeping on his side. Facing away. That’s when I remembered. We broke up. And I wasn’t dreaming anymore.

It felt like being punched in the stomach by the force of a cement beam. Something hitting me so violently fast it lost form on impact. The air tasted of blood. The pain so bright my bones ached.  

Back in the present 3am world, I lie very still under my quilted blanket. I’m awake and now painfully aware that it’s Saturday morning. Saturday mornings were my favorite. Andrew and I waking up at the same time. Laying around until we decide if it’s eggs or pancakes. Coffee or tea. 

Fuck. I miss him.

What does this dream want from me? At least once a week I show up in some obscure place. Andrew walks away and I follow. Confused. Because I know he can’t hear me. Like we exist on two separate planes. Which feels traumatizing enough. No need to add a freaking lioness!

A spot near the edge of my bed bends a bit. Under the weight of something soft, perfectly round and already purring. Marna. My cat of unknown age and the pinkest toe beans. She begins crossing the bed towards me. Stepping with the grace of a toddler trying not to wake mom or dad in pursuit of kitchen-snacks. She is truly the most profoundly beautiful creature.

She snoofs my face. I want to bottle the feeling of whiskers tickling my forehead. Delightful. I giggle and surprise us both. Her breath smells a bit like fish-flavored cat food. I refrain from telling her this, as she plops and burrows into my chest. Marna, I believe, appeared on earth one day. Exactly as she is this very moment. Gray and white fur. Fur so soft, petting her is a religious experience.  And that nose. The color of perfect-pink. 

Her back is curled up against my heart. Purring and occasionally letting out a snore-sigh. Without words she tells me “It’s ok Mabel, you can go back to sleep. No more lioness tonight.”


This piece belongs to my new project: The Adventures of Mable*

*A tentative title for a little writing experiment of mine. It’s a very rough first drafting of the foibles and fables of Mabel. She is the newly 30 year old leading character I search for in other books. A Woman. W-O-M-A-NNNN. And also a girl. Age 10 and just before the world and all its opinions and standards chimed in.

Sure, she’s based a bit on me. She is putting into words my thoughts and conundrums. Helping me re-write and understand certain events in my life.

Thank you for reading!

Lucille Clifton – A Poet of my Heart


She created poems with such an understanding and intimacy of words. Evoking a symbiotic relationship between the words and the space around them.

what the mirror said

By Lucille Clifton


you a wonder.
you a city
of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.
somebody needs a map
to understand you.
to move around you.
you not a noplace
mister with his hands on you
he got his hands on

The Adventures of Mabel*

*Tentative title for a little writing experiment of mine. It’s a very rough first drafting of the foibles and fables of Mabel. She is the newly 30 year old leading character I search for in other books. A Woman. W-O-M-A-NNNN. And also a girl. Age 10 and just before the world and all its opinions and standards chimed in.

Sure, she’s based a bit on me. She is putting into words my thoughts and connundrums. Helping me re-write and understand certain events in my life.

But she is not me. That’s why I’m looking forward to seeing how she tells her story.

Thank you for reading!


Mabel Attends a Backyard Barbecue

My name is Mabel and I’m sitting in a camper chair. Trying not to scrutinize my thighs. All thighs flesh out in a chair. Even Beyonce’s.

I’m a new thirty-something. Long-time fan of corn on the cob and a zero-time fan of small-talk.

So imagine my chagrin when I read the energy of this backyard barbecue and clock a ‘everyone’s holding in a fart’ vibe.

I don’t identify as an alcoholic; however, our relationship is complicated. Our friendship the most fickle at some social gathering. Like a backyard barbecue where everyone is a friend of a friend. Small-talk running rampant.

“If small-talk were an animal it would be a teenage flamingo (also referred to as Juveniles, how silly). Both good-natured and sometimes a bit patchy. Small-Talk persists like the brave flamingo-teen who tries to appear effortless while teetering on one leg,”DsTNXAfWoAA2Ath

I excuse myself for the bathroom. My third trip this hour. I don’t have a UTI or IBS. My therapist calls it ’empathy-overload’. My ex called it ‘social anxiety’.

Viscerally speaking, the experience is not unlike a raging moshpit in the space between my heart and throat.

Described more abstractly, it feels like a ripping. A tear and pull between a high level of self-awareness and an irrational wildness. I usually innocently walk into a patio full of people and suddenly believe I’m responsible for everyone’s feelings. I roll my eyes because I know that’s downright silly. But I’m itchy and my heart gets going on its temper tantrum and my beautiful brain tries to keep up.

Bathroom trip #4 comes up fast.  I breathe deeply and wash my hands. They use Ms. Meyers – Lavendar. I’m into it.

And then-

-epiphany strikes. What if I’m not actually unlovable and doomed? What if I’m an introvert who struggles to turn down the fuzzy volume of a crowd. What if I find conversations without follow up questions boring? What if I’m a bit too much for a Backyard Barbecue. In my denim shorts, walking to avoid a bit of chub rub. I don’t mean to shut down small talk. But why are we talking about the weather? I want to talk about how it kind of sucks that our parents are getting older. Too deep? Maybe for a backyard barbecue.

I return to the patio and snag a piece of corn.




Lately –

Break ups happen. Happened. Happening.
And I gave away all of my books from the previous break up.
I didn’t anticipate breaking up-

Here’s how I’m
crooning my sensitive self
to sleep:

Nailed It
Nicole Byer-

on saying “Hi!”
to strangers
across the street
across the plexi-glass
across the many divides.

Annie’s frozen pizza
just cheese
comforted by simplicity
and salt!

My mom
sitting on the edge of the bed
listening to me
hearing me.

Texts from friends
Facetime with friends
Calls from family
Laughter-bursting memories from family.

Golden Paint
Blue Blue Bright-Being

Making noise

Feeling myself smile
at the bizarre times
unexpected times
after a peak of anger
in the slope of sadness.

Sweaty and fighting.
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Resilience Rising


Now that we got that out of the way.

Admittedly, I feel rocked and rough around the edges. Living in the guest bedroom of my mom’s Nevada home. Waiting for a letter from Unemployment. Missing my relationship and our cat and the dreams for our future.

Here’s the thing, nothing went drastically wrong. Life throws curve balls and your swollen heart must hobble to catch on.

To be honest, I’m pissed off. Not empowered. Not yet. I don’t feel like a phoenix rising from the ashes. My home torched down unexpectedly.

Flustered, frustrated, fuming.
Kicking about in the ashes.

To be honest, I’m also ok. Not great. Not really. I watch Brooklyn 9-9 and eat Yasso greek yogurt pops at 2pm. My wall covered by a piece of parchment paper with places to move, careers to start, tools to rebuild scrawled all over.

Supported, softened, stabilizing.
Feeling about in the feely-feel-feelings.

In the mornings I walk for an hour. Racing the raising heat. Sweating out the bizarre strands of processing dreams. Grunting. Letting ‘ugghhhhghghghhgh’ push and burst out into the dry air.

Sun dress and sneakers. Hair on fire.