SASHA DAWN

writer, philosopher, collector of tap shoes

Listen if you dare...

visit periodically for random thoughts

(or rants, raves, relishes, and regrets) 

Oblivion begins...


​Lindsey and I left her portable speakers in her backyard shed last week, during a thunderstorm. The Hutches haven't yet bought us new speakers, so we're listening to some grungy funk garage band on her cranked up iPod. The tinny sounds eking through the nano echo, as if a Pink Floyd cover band is singing in a barren, institutional hall, attempting to entertain the crazies locked in a perimeter of padded dorms.


Instantly, with the image of an antiseptic asylum materializing in my brain, I think of my mother, who belongs in one. At least that's what the county shrinks tell me. Funny. She seems so sane, so real, sometimes.


Lindsey's smoking a joint, and I'm eating a cherry Tootsie Pop. The combination of sugar and contact high is enough for me, as my mind is too cloudy to withstand the numbing effects of inhaled marijuana. It's hard to focus on reality today, and not only because being in the shed sometimes feels uncomfortable--as if it's a reminder of something I don't want to remember. Sometimes, I think I'm losing my faculties. Like mother, like daughter.


Amputate, amputate, amputate.


This is how it begins. I fixate on a word until it consumes me. It comes out of nowhere, like a flicker of light on a distant horizon, then waxes and brightens until I see nothing, hear nothing, if not the sound of the word, pushing out from the innards of my brain, begging for liberty.


Amputate.



​Lindsey and I left her portable speakers in her backyard shed last week, during a thunderstorm. The Hutches haven't yet bought us new speakers, so we're listening to some grungy funk garage band on her cranked up iPod. The tinny sounds eking through the nano echo, as if a Pink Floyd cover band is singing in a barren, institutional hall, attempting to entertain the crazies locked in a perimeter of padded dorms.


Instantly, with the image of an antiseptic asylum materializing in my brain, I think of my mother, who belongs in one. At least that's what the county shrinks tell me. Funny. She seems so sane, so real, sometimes.


Lindsey's smoking a joint, and I'm eating a cherry Tootsie Pop. The combination of sugar and contact high is enough for me, as my mind is too cloudy to withstand the numbing effects of inhaled marijuana. It's hard to focus on reality today, and not only because being in the shed sometimes feels uncomfortable--as if it's a reminder of something I don't want to remember. Sometimes, I think I'm losing my faculties. Like mother, like daughter.


Amputate, amputate, amputate.


This is how it begins. I fixate on a word until it consumes me. It comes out of nowhere, like a flicker of light on a distant horizon, then waxes and brightens until I see nothing, hear nothing, if not the sound of the word, pushing out from the innards of my brain, begging for liberty.


Amputate.


Lindsey chokes on her smoke. "You gotta help me write something to Jon."


Amputate the cancer.


John Fogel spells his name with an h, but Lindsey thinks it looks cooler without it. Less is more, she says, although she's far from a minimalist.

"What? No thoughts?"

"Well, there wouldn't be any today."


Check back soon, ya hear? I'm bound to think of something soon...for now, an excerpt: