prose

Moonbox Notes #4: May 2022

May 23, 2022

It’s been 7 weeks. A span of time that is impossible to convey without some form of exaggeration. It’s been like dreaming. Mountains rise and fall away. The tightness changes into pain into tightness into dull shapes at the heel or arch or up the calf in cables. There are moments I forget everything. Sleep a black sleep. Then there are flashing scenes: tea bag, tent pitch, the slow tug of a climbing shoe around the heel, a spoon on the tongue, hairbrush, riverbank, paintings of indigenous feminism in a museum. … More Moonbox Notes #4: May 2022

Moonbox Notes #3: April 2022

April 26, 2022

The festival itself encompasses aspects of this as well, the play of meeting new people, the play of finding yourself sipping rum and coke as you watch people spin fire, the play of helping others, the play of witnessing visual art in a public space, the play of learning hard truths — play, as in, the novelty, sure, but also the reciprocity, the indulgence, the curiosity, the embodiment, the unpredictability. … More Moonbox Notes #3: April 2022

Moonbox Notes #2: March 2022

March 17, 2022

Even the Gray Wolf with a dark, mottled coat that stares at me from the wall-calendar photo is a part of this meta-equation. The forested background is blurred, the foreground is soft in grass and wind, the only sharpness being the wolf: a premise, if you will, one that contemplates the viewer. Not unlike a physical bridge, where what happens before and after, or maybe even during the crossing, is specific to the user; the prompt is only ever a bridge. … More Moonbox Notes #2: March 2022

Moonbox Notes #1: February 2022

February 21, 2022

The whiteboard has words like cupless and scree scribbled on it, a part of a list. It has reminders to work on edits for current projects, rediscover and submit writing that has lived on my hard drive for over a decade, have my IUD removed from my uterus, schedule a mammogram for August. For now, at least, I can leave the need to think about removing my ovaries hanging abstractly in the air. … More Moonbox Notes #1: February 2022

In Brief, 2021: What the Brain Does

December 18, 2021

perhaps this is what happens every time I press a key on the piano. A string pulls sound toward itself. I press a finger to pull sound into me. I keep the memory of tones, of grandparents, of parents, of time itself. I keep and I keep and I keep. Perhaps keeping is what ages us, compels us to evade or ignore what we can no longer pull. … More In Brief, 2021: What the Brain Does

In Brief, 2018: My Human Craft

December 25, 2018

And just like the deer, and how the creek left ridges and curls in the sand, did I leave notions of myself, too. Just like that — we take and are taken. … More In Brief, 2018: My Human Craft

Holiday Gift: A Brief Book Guide for Adventure, Environment, Poetry, and Art

December 12, 2017

For those who are looking for a book to gift to adventurous, artsy, environmentally curious friends (or to hint at as a gift for oneself), here is a short and sweet list of titles we’d recommend. All titles can be found on Amazon unless we provide a specific link to elsewhere, and keep in mind that prices may have changed since the publication of this list. Enjoy! … More Holiday Gift: A Brief Book Guide for Adventure, Environment, Poetry, and Art

Yosemite Notes: The Things I Carry

October 23, 2017

The cracks in my skin and the chalk that settles there, skin woven, white lace over burning sand. These are the things I’ve remembered, among things I carry, ephemeral as the action of having written them down: … More Yosemite Notes: The Things I Carry

Boundary Waters, Part 3: Memory of Sounds

July 8, 2017

All our shoulders are sore. My feet incite anxiety when they get wet. Tired legs. Today is more or less a do-nothing day but my body is in a funk. I’m quiet. Almost somber. Energy low. Raging headache. I ask Hatie for some of her Advil. I’m in an endurance hangover, it seems. I don’t even want to expend the energy talking so I daydream about napping. … More Boundary Waters, Part 3: Memory of Sounds

Boundary Waters, Part 2: Lost

July 7, 2017

I can’t explain everything, honestly. We got lost. We might have been in Canada for a few hours, who knows. The water levels this year are high, Hatie says, and the islands don’t look the same – nothing really was matching the map anymore. So we paddled and paddled. Sonya brought an Oru Kayak and her paddling was even more exhausting I’m sure. We also decided to wear stick-on mustaches today; I have my silver leggings, Hatie has gold, and Sonya is decked out in champagne leggings and a matching tutu. We could most certainly be the lost girls of Peter Pan. … More Boundary Waters, Part 2: Lost

Boundary Waters, Part 1: Inception

July 6, 2017

Sonya has started the fire and the light against the lake fools you into believing that if you follow the stone steps down to the water’s edge, you’ll fall away, airborne. Yet as romantic as it all may be, the mosquitoes are what keep you sane and seated, layered in clothing and swatting, occasionally smearing blood that is hopefully yours. … More Boundary Waters, Part 1: Inception

Write Anything, Memory

June 24, 2017

Sometimes it is steam over the stove, watery eyes, days passing like the hairs that slip from my head, tendrils of fate, always happening. They leave evidence to where I’ve been, who I’ve touched, what clothes I’ve worn; yet I’ll never know when or how, exactly. All I can do is close my eyes … More Write Anything, Memory

Red Rock and Life Lessons

January 5, 2017

12.31.16 Vegas. Everyone has their own agenda. But we don’t climb because of wet rock and it continues to drizzle lightly throughout the day. Clouds saunter across the buttresses and ridgelines—desaturation, more or less, like ships penciled by a thick fog, mooring cautiously. I feel like I’m the verge of a head cold. Why does … More Red Rock and Life Lessons

Giving and the Pursuance of (Unknown) Space

December 9, 2016

Words and photos by Sara Aranda Creeksgiving, 11.24.2016 Hungry, fervent hyenas, eyeing the foil and fire, giggling with the steam and prospect of turkey. Side dishes begin to pop up around the table: sweet potato, mac and cheese, sausage vegetable medley, cornbread stuffing infused with mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, broccoli cheese, pumpkin … More Giving and the Pursuance of (Unknown) Space

Indian Creek: Find Me in the Darkness

November 21, 2016

By Sara Aranda Wind. Desert towers. Pink dawn. Red dirt. Outhouse shitter and the smell that comes with it. Daily ritual in down booties. Sling a rope across the entrance so everyone knows you’re taking a shit. I’m one of those “hover-ers” and when it’s done you get out of there as fast as you … More Indian Creek: Find Me in the Darkness

Costa Rica, El Fin: Young and Wide Open

November 7, 2016

10.19.2016 Todd starts talking about the use of pesticides on fruit as he drives us to Limón. “Don’t ever buy non-organic bananas,” he warns. “I’ve seen them do some crazy things. They’ll even drill holes in the stalks and inject poison. It’s bad. And they claim it doesn’t get into the fruit,” he scoffs, “Never … More Costa Rica, El Fin: Young and Wide Open

Costa Rica, Part 3: Spiders & Deep Water

October 29, 2016

10.5 – 10.12 “Ants control the Universe,” Patrick quipped. We had been dropped off at Cahuita National Park, a stretch of jungle along a small peninsula, which has a trail all the way to the point. Leaf-cutter ants were marching along, some with bits of leaves and some with flower petals. Their highways, wide and … More Costa Rica, Part 3: Spiders & Deep Water

Costa Rica, Part 2: (Cahuita) I Am Not Embarrassed

October 24, 2016

10.2.2016 Johnny drives us the 3.5 hours to Cahuita. San Jose is quiet at 6 in the morning, but joggers and cyclists are brightly making their way along the narrow streets. When the city ends the true nature of this land is loud and green, thick and reaching into the sky for a hundred feet … More Costa Rica, Part 2: (Cahuita) I Am Not Embarrassed

Costa Rica, Part 1: San Jose

October 18, 2016

Words and photos by Sara Aranda 10.2016. Preface There’s a weird intimacy with letting the wind blow hair into my face. Late sunlight. Gold. Brown hair. The only gestures for miles are happening right here, cheeks and lips and hair, then fingers to brush away the tingling sensations of touch. Or so it seems. The … More Costa Rica, Part 1: San Jose

Somehwere in this body there are roots…

Tag: prose