Author: Casey Jane

Written: squished on my couch by a sleepy dog

Powered by: La Croix (lemon flavor = only flavor, IMO)

Inspired by: the real-life Fortune Telling Birthday Book, featured image above

“September 9,” Meg begins, reading from the Fortune Telling Birthday Book they found in the box while cleaning out the attic, “Magnetic, intuitive, and with some latent psychic powers, you have many different interests and have a leading part whenever possible.” 

“So you’re a psychic now?” her sister Alston asks while continuing to sort the boxes contents. The carpet beneath this is almost invisible, covered in piles of photographs and files, books and baby clothes. 

“You never know,” Meg replies, thumbing through the book for her sister’s birthday, “April 29: you are cautious yet shrewd, positive and intuitive, but sometimes people take advantage of you in spite of these qualities.” 

“You’re being taken advantage of by this writer,” Alston mutters, “Also cautious and shrewd are basically the same thing.” 

“Yeah, and they’ve used the wrong ‘your’ in like, a bunch of these,” Meg says, but she continues to read. After a few pages she reads aloud, “December 16: you are spiritualistic, idealistic, and somewhat religious, you are fond of music and art, and you are a great entertainer and enjoy society. You are sincere, honest, and frank, although you have discretion and much tact. You are a loyal friend and a bitter enemy. Your home life will always be happy and harmonious.” 

Alston puts down the box she’s been digging through. “That sounds just like mom,” she says finally. 

“The part about being a loyal friend and bitter enemy? Remember when Chester knocked you off the swings at school and mom refused to let him have one of your birthday cupcakes at school, even when the teacher started threatening her?” 

“Remember what dad used to say about how she scared the shit out of everyone? No one messed with her.” 

“How she always cried when songs came on that she liked. She couldn’t make it through most car rides without crying over how beautiful something sounded.” 

The sisters look around at the neat piles of what was left of their mother’s life. Meg closes the book, places it on top of the rest. 

“Your home life will always be happy and harmonious.” Alston says. 

“Well maybe I really do have latent psychic powers then.” Meg says. 

Written: in my bed

Powered by: a few too many Cosmos…

Inspired by: Chill Hits playlist on Spotify  

 Albie yawned and checked his watch again. It was almost midnight, and still no word about the IPO. The guests downstairs were beginning to wonder where he was, what he was doing in a room alone when he had invited all of them over for some “good news”. But still they drank his wine and enjoyed his back yard complete with a pool/hot tub combo and bocci ball set, the sounds of the Santa Monica waves stifled by jazz music across multiple speakers. 

When Frida walked in he was facing the window and contemplating his own reflection, but when he heard her, pretended to be lost deep in thought. 

“You’re out of champagne,” she said, meaning, “I came up here because I’m worried about you old friend. Don’t you know we’ll all still love you without the fancy house and parties and booze? Or, don’t you know that when that disappears, so will all the ones who never mattered in the first place?” 

“Damn,” Albie replied, meaning, “I’m so glad you came. You’re the only face that could remind me that everything will always be ok, as long as you’re here. Or, since you’ve been here everything has always been ok, and I’ve been too busy to see it clearly.” 

Frida nodded and went back downstairs, leaving the door open to the sounds of conversation and high heels across the hardwood floor. Albie gave himself one last glance in the window, nodded as well, and then followed her. 

Written: on a bench in Lincoln Park

Powered by: vanilla iced coffee with oat milk

Inspired by: asking Bobby to give me three words to write about (he gave me: dogs, leash, blood) 

The rumble was set for eight a.m. As always Jackson and Johnson were slow to get ready, preferring to eat their Fruit Loops and watch cartoons (what, you don’t think dogs know what cereals is? Cartoons? Guess what, we know what that hot brown liquid you drink every morning is too, it’s poop. And you think we’re weird). 

The twins wanted to stay inside but the need for fresh poop drove Wyatt out the door with them in tow, heading for the café beside the park. Iced poop in hand, the four of us headed for the fighting pit. 

All the usual contenders were already there, getting warmed up. Schvitz was loping around in circles, sizing up the competition. Lucy was barking commands, hopping excitedly on her front paws, trying to get everyone’s attention. Sprinkles was hiding beneath a bench, already fed up with the sheer number of noses shoved up her butt. 

And then there was Doug. A fifty-pound hunk of ropey muscle and tartared teeth, but I knew I could take him, and I knew today was my day. Dogs don’t have the same misguided notions about gender, there is no difference between boy-pup and girl-pup, no “taking it easy”, no “ladies first”. We shot right into it, as soon as Wyatt unclipped my collar and the formal first sniff was over. We were entwined in the dance of battle, Doug jabbing left with his snout and me dodging right. I had him right where I wanted him when I could sniff that something wasn’t right. 

I glanced up and saw Jackson and Johnson in their own human version of a tussle, their nails scratching and sneakered-feet kicking. Jackson managed to topple Johnson to the ground, where he started to cry. His knee was bright pink and spattered with red. Wyatt raced over to them, his iced poop forgotten, and knelt down to help up his son. 

I knew then that my fighting days were over. I couldn’t set that kind of example for my kids anymore, I couldn’t lead that kind of life and then look them in the eye while I silently beg for the crusts on their PB&J’s. I gave Doug one last snap to the jowl, so he’d never forget whose boss, and then trotted over to my family. Back in the pit, Schvitz was still jogging and Lucy was still barking, (Sprinkles, mysteriously, had disappeared), but I would never go back there the same way again. 

Written: half-heartedly, after trying & failing on a few other ideas

Powered by: pasta

Inspired by: LoFi Beats playlist on Spotify

Every time she moves the plastic beach chair squawks beneath her and grains of sand grind between her butt cheeks, covered by $130 worth of high-waisted nylon and a coat of sunscreen that missed the now-crispy skin in her hip crease. A hardback novel lays abandoned beside her as she tilts the screen up and her chin down, not breathing she takes her forty-fifth and final photo, certain that one will be worthy of a post. She closes her eyes and tells herself she is not too hot as sweat gathers in the shallow pools of her elbows and drains down onto her thighs, tells herself, “I deserve this.” 

Written: in my at-home office 

Powered by: a brown latte from Dua, the friendliest coffee shop in D.C.

Inspired by: social media 

Pandemic (Math) Problems

1. A metro bus carrying 18 people drives west at 20 mph during what was once known as rush hour. It takes the bus 6 minutes to arrive at its next stop, where it lets off 1 nurse and lets on a group of 3 legal interns who each find masks to be uncomfortable. The legal interns are headed to their 2nd of 3 scheduled happy hours. If none of the 3 interns covers their mouth to cough, how long will it take for the bus to reach its next stop? 
2. Gina has been Facebook friends with Joseph for two years. She has always found his tyrannical posts questioning the legitimacy of the September 11^th terrorist attacks and shared videos of children with deformities after getting the flu shot ridiculous, but does find herself scrolling through the 100+ comments while she meant to be folding her laundry. If Joseph posts three news articles claiming that the coronavirus is a hoax designed to indoctrinate us, how many comments will Gina read before the posts are taken down? 
3. If Lin simultaneously signs on a new project (A) at work and homeschools her twins (B) at the kitchen table while her husband takes meetings (-C) from the home office, she will be seen as a “good mother.” (X) is the cost of Lin’s agreement. Solve for (X).
4. Hudson and Amelia can’t believe how careless the people around them are being about social distancing. They have both been very strict about staying home since March. In April, they only went to visit their friends once (each). In May, they only saw Hudson’s parents outside at Nina’s graduation party (and also twice in April for family dinner). They both wear masks on their twenty-to-thirty minute bi-weekly trips to the grocery store, and have only been to Target once for dog food (and a few new home décor items, since they have been spending so much time inside: 3 bathroom rugs, 1 toothbrush holder, 2 cute new purses, 2 lamps, 1 adjustable laptop rack, and of course some snacks). In June on their annual family beach trip (because they deserve it, dammit) they only interacted with other people outdoors, except for their nightly trips to the wine bar while the kids stayed with a babysitter. If the combined outrage of Hudson and Amelia increases exponentially in relation to the number of trips they take, at what point will their ability to continue following CDC guidelines break? 
5. Arnie wakes up at 8:42 am to make coffee and a piece of toast for himself. He sits in front of his computer mostly playing Spider Solitaire but occasionally refreshing his work email until 11:18 am, and then takes his brisk daily walk which lasts until 11:35 am. His dad calls at 1:05 pm, and at 4:27 pm he plays Call of Duty with defcon69 until 8:29 pm. If Arnie beats off in the shower twice at 11:41 am and 8:53 pm, what time will it be when he stops feeling so lonely? 

Written: on my couch

Powered by: the last of the Oreos

Inspired by: A Writer’s Diary by Virginia Woolf and the real-life ridiculousness of fireworks this year (see this Times article for proof)

*

It started in May. The Rachel Maddow Show was almost over when the first boom caused them both to jump. Mutt lifted his head from the couch, ears rigid and eyes wide, both ready to defend and terrified at the thought. 

“What are we celebrating? Did I miss something?” Tash asked wryly.

Every night that week they were startled by fireworks. Sometimes it was early, just after dinner. Other times it would wake them in the middle of the night, the light-sleeping Tash accidentally elbowing a catatonic Gwinn in the face. The noise was too much for Mutt, already prone to anxiety from his former life as a stray. He began to pace the length of their bed at night, mis-matched nails clicking against the hardwood floors as he went, until he couldn’t take it anymore and would jump up between them, shaking and panting heavily in their faces. 

After months of the blasts, they felt haggard and paranoid. Gwinn would make herself multiple cups of coffee, forgetting them on the counter and then returning and thinking they were Tash’s, agitatedly dumping the now-cold liquid down the sink. She would find a full bottle of mouthwash tossed into the trash without being used. She would find her mail opened but couldn’t remember reading it. She would be telling Tash a story, some recap of her day, and find that Tash wasn’t even in the room with her. 

She heard them everywhere. She heard them as she left her yoga session. She heard them as she drove herself home. She heard them as she went inside and found Mutt on the couch without Tash, she called for her but the answer was not her voice, she looked more closely and saw that this was not their house, that she didn’t recognize anything, and then 

*

It started in May. On her way home from work Gwinn stopped by the market, to pick out pieces of salmon, a bundle of asparagus, some lemons. 

“What are we celebrating? Did I miss something?” Tash asks devilishly. 

Up the stairs in bed, she comes at the same time as the fireworks shudder the windows. Mutt, who was left downstairs, begins to whine. 

Sweating and tingly, she rolls onto her stomach and waits for Tash to come back from the bathroom. Satisfyingly spent, she begins to drift to sleep when the next explosion brings her back with a gasp, and then a sigh. She can feel Tash on the other side of the bed, reaches for her hand but can’t find it, turns to hold her close but this body is the wrong one, she jumps and pulls away as it reaches for her tenderly, and then

*

It started in May. It got so bad that Mutt refused to sleep at all, started whimpering and peeing when they turned out the lights. They tried everything they could think of to soothe him—special treats infused with CBD, letting him sleep next to them in bed, a white noise machine—but nothing worked.  

By the time July 4^th came and went Gwinn decided that enough was enough. She refused to live the rest of her life sleep-deprived. When a particularly hateful burst woke her, she rolled over Tash to see the clock on the table. 

“What are we celebrating? Did I miss something?” Tash asked sleepily. 

Gwinn kissed her forehead as she got out of bed, told her to go back to sleep. Downstairs she pulled on her sneakers without socks and took her car keys, sliding each one between the fingers of her fist, the way her sister showed her when she was in high school.  

Outside she wandered vaguely in the direction of the noise that jolted her awake, for the first time hoping to hear another one. A series of pops and bangs a few blocks north led her to an alley that she refused to walk down in the dark, but then there was Tash, bearing a brightly lit Roman Candle in her hand and racing out onto the street. She ran with her knees turned wide to keep her pants up, the pockets overloaded with more slim cylinders of explosives. Adrenaline floods her system as Gwinn begins to run after her, reaching for her exposed shoulder, forcing her to turn around but when she does it is not Tash’s eyes or nose or mouth, and she shoves the Candle spattering with sparks in to her face and then

*

It started in May. Or maybe it was August. The months aren’t as important when its years that have gone by. Her life runs through her like a stream now, interrupted only by the fireworks. Everyone hates them, the way they startle them out of their daydreams, or nightmares, or realities, forcing them to tell the difference. In memory they are all the same, the anniversary dinners and cabinets full of coffee mugs and feeling what isn’t there and the way the street looked at night and all the ways it could have been different and then

*

Written: on the back porch overlooking the alley

Powered by: apples & peanut butter

Inspired by: Aesop’s fable “The Jay and the Peacock” which you should read first 

Blue-bellied lonely jay, she flew by gazing at the birds in the fields below. See the peacocks with their plumes erect, with no need to search for beauty beyond the tails of their family, so plentiful that the molted colors lay forgotten in the dirt. She touches down, wishes to disappear into the promise of love held within each feather, takes one gently in her beak and pulls it over her head like shelter. Lost in the comfort that comes with pretending, she does not notice the peafowl unwrapping her, revealing her own wings, rumpled and downy. 

“Haven’t you ever wanted to be something different?” the jay asked the peafowl. 

“It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds,” replied the peafowl. 

Written: in my at-home office

Powered by: a day of binge-watching movies on the couch

Inspired by: an old photo on my camera roll

It happened on the Golden Gate Bridge: he was adjusting the strap on his bag which held three laptops and a surprisingly angular twelve dollar bottle of water while she had just gotten the hang of her feet clipped in to the petals of her road bike, her hands easy on the handlebars and ignoring the pinch of her too-tight helmet when his strap slipped around her handle bar and sent them both jerking into one another, knocking noggin to protective plastic. 

“Did you see that?” the Uber driver yells, but then remembers he hasn’t picked up his passenger yet. 

Written: at my weekend getaway in the woods

Powered by: Haribo Goldbears 

Inspired by: Wild + Free playlist on Spotify 

It was the kind of place where people posted signs outside of their RVs, maybe with their last names on them, or something like “Camp Hakuna Matata”, decorated with painted drawings of a boat out on a lake or a long-legged frog asleep in her hammock. Kids drove too fast in rented golf carts, clinging to the collar of their dogs desperate to jump free, and women rode in the back of pick-up trucks with their legs dangling from the bed, sun-spotted and wrinkled. 

The group of them were piled around the red picnic table, koozies soaked with condensation and two trash bags tied to the handles of the car doors, one for trash and the other for recycling. They had planned to spend the day hiking, maybe swimming in the lake. But once they got the site set up, a beer was instantly cracked and now the sun was beginning to set. They were each boozy-mouthed and crispy-skinned, and the dog had long ago retired to the cool gravel beneath the truck bed. 

“Anyone want to get the fire going?” one of them asks, “We can roast s’mores.” 

“Fucking, s’mores,” says another, but the faded tone of her voice makes it unclear if she’s exhilarated or agitated by the thought, and no one stands from the table to light the pile of wood in the pit. 

Across the table and squished uncomfortably between two sweating bodies, she can’t get last night out of her head. No amount of alcohol can seem to keep her mind from the memory of their conversation, how his face had fallen when she told him about the offer, the raise and the move. It happened on the floor of their bedroom, which she was unable to think of as their bedroom because it had once been his parent’s bedroom. Surrounded by sleeping bags and hiking boots, he shook his head at her. “But aren’t you happy here?” he asked. 

“I don’t even know what happiness is,” she told him back. 

She felt justified in her response, her feeling that living in this same place since kindergarten, coming to this campground with their friends every summer since college, she had missed out on part of her opportunity to learn what true happiness should feel like. That the others who had not stayed had somehow been afforded more of life than she had been given, more chances to become someone different. And she wanted that option, to be someone different. 

 The clacking sound of a beer bottle connecting with the picnic table made her jump. “Skinny dipping,” one of them announced, and she felt his hand squeeze her knee excitedly as they all squealed and screamed in response, in the drunken giddiness of the moment. 

But then the breeze blew enough to cool their faces and peel their hair from the sweat on the back of their necks. One of them tossed around another couple of cans and they stayed, crowded around the table, the meat of their thighs sticking to each other, not even noticing the mosquito bites. 

In a humorous and wide-ranging interview for The Observer Effect, venture capitalist Marc Andreessen was asked how he reads so much. His response resonated with me: 

“I’ve really read all the time since I was a little kid, it’s been a lifelong thing. It’s basically trying to try to fill in all the puzzle pieces for the big discrepancies. A great term is ‘sense-making’. Essentially, what the hell is happening and why? The world’s an incredibly complex and erratic place and trying to figure that out…it’s kind of a lifetime occupation.” 

Reading is a part of me. Whenever I am without a book, I find myself searching for one to pick up. I am an academic reader, a beach reader, a car manual reader (yes, back when I had a Wrangler, I read it’s manual). I’ve been known to read when I show up early for meetings, when I’m waiting in line, when I first wake up and just before bed. I brought a book with me to prom. You can judge me all you want, but Jeffrey Eugenides’s Middlesex is an un-put-down-able book. 

I’m also very much a “sense-maker.” I was that kid constantly asking my parents “but why?” about everything, and not because I thought it was funny to irritate them. I love mysteries, I love philosophy and spiritualism, I love science, all because I enjoy the balance that comes from attempting to solve unanswerable questions. I think that’s what we’re all trying to do, each in our own way; we are constantly sense-making. For me it’s through reading and writing, for others maybe through listening or speaking or running or meditation. 

One of the great gifts of the current pandemic has been the extra time at home, and I’ve been obsessed with the trend towards tackling big books as a result. Another incredible venture capitalist Catarina Fake writes about this gift on her blog. I love her idea of chronicling her reading of many-paged books, and just might copy her as I am halfway through the 700-page House of Leaves, and am considering either Infinite Jest or Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs next. 

I’m also learning more about the concept of deep reading, committing to reading every word on the page without skimming and staying with a text for an extended period of time instead of reading in bits and pieces. Ezra Klein discusses his deep reading habits on his podcast, and you can even join or start a deep reading book club where you and a group of people take turns reading a book out loud together (in person or virtually), annotating and discussing as they go. As my ability to concentrate becomes more and more scattered as a result of doing everything from home, where my “office” is also my “gym” and is just down the hall from my bed and also the kitchen, this practice is super comforting to me. It’s challenging, but has the potential to put me into a rare flow state where I’m perfectly synced with the words and can get a much more satisfying learning or storytelling experience than I would get from reading for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. 

“The world’s an incredibly complex and erratic place and trying to figure that out…it’s kind of a lifetime occupation.” I think we’re all really feeling that right now, amidst so much uncertainty. I hope we all continue our life’s work of sense-making, and I hope we all keep reading big books.