Good, smart women, brought low by the creeping expectations of where they “should be” in their thirties, insecurities and subterranean wounds driving the maintenance of friendships.

Did they all knowingly talk mad shit behind each other’s backs? Or was that just the collection of my field notes?

I don’t blame women for feeling trapped by the expectations and script we were force-fed since birth. I’m simply bored by the overwrought stories, having wrested myself from the rubble of my own.

I’ve seen some of the greatest minds of my generation turned mad over believing if they just followed “the script” they’d be fulfilled.

Too many women offset their own dreams thinking the centering of men would turn them into a main character. And I can say this because I’ve had to face those sliding doors—the devolution of love, failed engagement, feeling really good living alone and free.

But I’ve also found that provincial minds lead to provincial hearts, stuck in the mud of shame and envy, not realizing that self-regard can have an expansive radius.

The unimaginative thinking around who we can be to one another becomes unkind when it sours into competition. Patriarchal thinking tends to bring us down, but so does internalized misogyny.

This is what ultimately ends many friendships: when the ungrappled shadow of the unconscious becomes too conscious to ignore, when you realize their closeness wasn’t a bond, but a means of stoking envy; a way to climb a rung on some invisible ladder. And, given the chance, they would sell you down the river to get with a guy who didn’t even go to their birthday party.

But now that I’ve been sold down the river, I know the lesson of the counterfeit friend: how to become a good swimmer.

I had always believed insecure men were a true menace to big and small town society, but for the sake of gender equity, the same is true across all genders.

Unprocessed shame makes desperate people of us; the unliberated will humiliate themselves and others in pursuit of a counterfeit dream.

There is not more love on the other side of what you think is winning. There is just more of you.

That’s why I think it really all matters: how you treat someone in good and bad moments, how you uphold your own integrity, how you don’t absorb other people’s projections and insecurities, how you call people out on their BS in just the right way. Your timing. Meeting the moment vs. shirking away. That’s who you end up being. Intentions matter, but actions are what actually count.

TLDR: Counterfeit friendship is ultimately a consequence of unexamined shame, and learning to recognize it requires having wrestled with your own shadows enough to choose integrity over the figment of belonging.

A counterfeit friend reveals themselves when they are not willing to take inventory of themselves. They’ll apologize for a version of the story but not parts that were real betrayal —the dishonesty, sneakiness, strange motive, or simply how they moved weird out of a wild insecurity.

I’m writing a lot of fiction these days, which means all my studying of human behavior is coming together.

And I’ve come to find that every compelling protagonist is also their own antagonist. It just matters where you are in their story.

In fiction, and in life, there’s a pervasive form of cowardice that becomes more intolerable with age. Friends would sacrifice and betray a bond just to avoid and not reckon with their own shame.

All characters make mistakes, but cowards don’t just avoid the truth—they also avoid themselves.

Those who cannot face their own shadow never truly know themselves.

And I’ve now seen that the counterfeit friend is merely a coward and deeply insecure.

Go to therapy?

When I’ve faced a counterfeit, it usually comes with a few clear patterns:

— They like to ingratiate new people into a circle so they have someone to turn to when other ties in their group sour.

— They rarely address an issue directly and honestly with the intended party, but will talk about it behind someone’s back 100x.

— They break their friends’ confidence, again and again, revealing stories or details about other people’s lives as a form of social capital when it wasn’t information for them to ever reveal. They also just say unkind things about “their best friends” when they aren’t in the room.

— When they feel caught or called out, they are ashamed, but instead of speaking honestly, they contort the story. And then, when that technique doesn’t work, they try to control the narrative and use gossip to share their version of the story with others, its impact only to malign the person who held up a mirror to their counterfeit character.

The tactics of the counterfeit friend usually boil down to using people as props, triangulating information, striving to have the upper hand to maintain status, and avoiding accountability when someone outside of the group dynamic calls them out.

I believe most people try to be good, but not necessarily honest. It takes energy to be honest and kind. Many people carry cowardice with them. In spinelessness, they don’t say what is real; rather, they hold up a facade.

They will protect their self-concept before they protect the truth, and they will choose versions of the story that maintain that identity rather than hold their own shadow for a moment.

As it turns out, the person who refuses to examine herself becomes obsessed with controlling how other people see her.

But I don’t write this because I think I am beyond reproach. I’m not perfect, and sometimes my earnestness is very unlikeable. My javert nature is rarely a good time, but it feels necessary.

My personal sickness has always been wanting things to be fair and just, or at least poetically fair and just, in a near pathological way. I think a lot of people are disarmed by my direct nature—that I try to say what I always mean. But I had to become this way if I wanted to be a writer.

The unfortunate truth is that striving to be an artist means you can’t be spiritually chopped. It’s a hard bargain but that’s the cost and reward.

Great writing is not really about the writing as much as it’s about being very honest—the most honest you can be.

So it’s been the great disillusionment of my life to see how shitty people get a million chances, and I go crazy especially when liars lie, cheaters cheat, and the counterfeit get another swing. But I suppose that’s the whole point.

The world isn’t always earnest but it can strive to be, nature always finds a resolution, and nobody can escape from themselves. That is karma.

I read a quote this week that threads these themes together:

“People will envy you for the aura you went to hell for.” —

The pattern feels textbook at times. Those who have yet to contend with their own shadow tend to be envious of those who have already gone to the underworld and back.

“You could have what I got,” I say beside Persephone, popping pomegranate seeds like bon-bons. “But ya gotta swim in the River Styx.”

It’s made me realize how in my hard-driving obsession to avoid spiritual chophood, I don’t give myself enough credit or kindness, which is ironically, spiritually chopped.

I rarely give myself credit for the confidence I’ve gained from wrestling with my own shadows.

That the voice I’ve developed is not from win after win, but a sequencing of small humiliations to find myself along the way.

And because of that, I can’t withstand a counterfeit friend, because it requires you to go backwards on yourself.

It’s not that I think they’re evil, it’s that they’re very lame, and I wish them transformation.

My hard lines and boundaries are not because I’m unforgiving, but because I’ve been too forgiving in my past. I’ve held tightly onto disappointments I should’ve released and sacrificed my own dignity for what was never real to begin with.

I had always believed friendship was a portal to set each other free in our truest selves. Friendship is precious, and those who squander it are lost from themself.

But friendship is not proximity nor convenience. It’s not social climbing. It’s not about trying to get ahead, but enjoying where you are together, growing. Because where you’re going, there is just more of you.

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I don’t think we talk enough about how design thinking was, first and foremost, a mode of conscientious thinking and living, and a postmodernist philosophy, before it was co-opted as one of the 21st century’s most effective methods of R&D innovation. (More on John Dewey in a future installment.)

Design thinking = Empathize → define → ideate → prototype → test

Much of what we think is inventive in business is actually noticing what is already occurring in the natural world or already set in motion in society. And then, applying those noticed processes, patterns, or methods into new contexts for commercial gain.

Design thinking, conscientious decision-making aimed at solving discrete or systemic problems, is a tradition we can continue to return to for creative refreshment and invention. But I want a new understanding of how design thinking and AI will collaborate, given that knowledge and creative work are scaling into a commodity being sold back to us.

I’m “writing in public” to explore and teach myself the origins and underpinnings of design thinking as a philosophy and practice, and how I want to apply the method in my life and career amid the AI onslaught. At this point, AI is as much a recreational drug as it is a powerful asset in human and computational history.

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So this means I have to define (or convince myself of) what it means to “use AI conscientiously,” since I’ve already gained many of its benefits. With AI, I’ve expanded my expression and the mediums I work in; I’ve kept pace with the velocity organizations now expect by building systems; I work with datasets and code I didn’t know how to manipulate before 2023, and I can organize vast amounts of qualitative information.

But I’m also still very much negotiating with myself on what “using AI with integrity” means and if that’s even possible. For example, all my personal writing or visual art is created by me, and in commercial settings, any generated content is 95% of the time rewritten or heavily edited, which I believe is becoming more and more the norm amongst creators. My goal of “using AI with integrity” is to “never delegate away understanding,” a phrase coined by Charles and Ray Eames, and a mantra I try to always uphold. Ultimately, I’m trying to avoid leaning on LLMs that lead me to an existential crisis. In those moments, I try to reframe how I’m using AI: that I am the builder and orchestrator of the system, like a director leaving a lot on the cutting room floor rather than automatically consuming and running with its outputs.

There is value in delegating tasks and execution to AI (only at times—as craft still matters), but never outsource the core cognitive work of deeply understanding the problems trying to solve. That’s where I think creative direction and design thinking collaborate well with AI, as it’s infinitely elastic.

If good design is like good writing (an outcome of good thinking), then AI can facilitate curiosity and guide creatives to see more expansively and to consider different points of view we’ve yet to gain through lived experience or individual study. (I also think good prompt engineering teaches us to ask better questions and learn to write in exact and clear vocabulary. But that’s another topic for another time.)

In this vein, IDEO Edges (cc: Hannah Rosenfeld and Jenna Fizel) explores a human-centered framework for using AI in design research, given that the prerogative for solving most problems today is how fast we can do it and how far-reaching we can go (e.g., speed and scale). They share four potentials of AI to “enrich the research practice and prototype what’s possible, meaningful, and responsible.”

→ To widen the aperture of our thinking

→ To help us notice nuance

→ To challenge our assumptions

→ To immerse us in data and context

In this context, AI is not just an accelerant of speed and scale, but also of depth, personalization, and potentially inclusion and equity. But that potential is conditional, and only if those orchestrating the systems and research choose to apply and build solutions to serve those intentions. That’s the power of design thinking collaborating with AI. We can do more, but ultimately we choose how to apply our choices in real life.

I’ve never liked binary thinking, and that’s why negotiating AI with creative work and problem-solving has been dominating my psyche. Design thinking has been a useful framework for exploring what has ultimately become an existential crisis. AI is infinitely expansive. So much is exceedingly possible. And so, now that we have these new capabilities, we have to grapple with our relationship with AI, along with the choices and consequences that come with it. The consequences of using AI are something we’re not talking enough about in corporate settings. It’s unpopular and often ill-advised to express dissent against the rapid acceleration of a technology when institutions and systems that pay you and prop up the infrastructure of your life benefit from the mass adoption of said technology.

That’s why I want to leverage design thinking not only in my life and vocation but also in my relationship with AI. Just like all have a relationship to politics, whether we choose to address it or not, so too do we have a relationship with AI. And in seeking radical honesty in life, I’ve come to accept that I am part of a larger system I don’t always agree with or want to align with entirely. That’s why I think being resistant to the gleeful turnover of thinking is part of societal progress; to be sand in a machine is sometimes the very small and yet very important role in hopefully evolving or building a better machine.

I don’t like this opinion of mine, but I think it’s an honest one: I don’t believe we live in a system where we can opt out of AI (unless you take radical measures / live off the grid / are resourced well enough to be divested and independent of systems accelerating its adoption). And despite my existential concerns, I also believe AI has the potential to improve society, but it will come at a cost, just like all trajectories of technological progress. What we need to collectively consider is the conscientious use of AI and how we manage and withstand and alleviate and protect against the consequences of AI, as the societal risks are as great as its potential. I think that’s where design thinking must play a role, not just in our own relationship with the technology in our everyday lives, but also in how institutions and organizations build new solutions to mitigate the inevitable societal risk.

____

I wrote “Designing conscientious use of AI” as an entry point into a personal research project on how I’m learning more about design thinking and negotiating my relationship with AI. Follow my thinking on the subject, along with other side quests coming soon.

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Dad exorcises fire:

grumpy hell in justice

keeping little mercy:

no open pocket questions

re: strict timelines.

U venture why St. Xavier

yearned for the zephyr.

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An abecedarian poem is an ancient poetic form where the lines or stanzas begin with consecutive letters of the alphabet, usually running in order from A to Z.

on a platter

to be picked—

like the world

has always been

upside down?

Like, I’m not some guy’s rib—

Like, I’m not also a mouth?

Like, I’m not also the snake?

No, I’m not just the mouth—

I’m the fruit and the mouth,

I’m the fruit and the mouth and the trees!

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I clean out the pantry

to find three ancient fortune cookies.

I smash each with my fist

and read that: discontent is the first

necessity of progress. So I stop

berating my whirling, my revolutions,

the thought of knowing

every turn moves me forward.

II.

To hold faith

means to carry doubt—

even in small measure,

every way in the sand,

stepping forward

is a thirst for both.

I beg the earth, asking:

Really?

The dream for Certainty

and God gives

the Diet Dr. Pepper Vending Machine

in the desert: a mirage in the distance:

a commercial hope—

we need soft drink.

We crack one

wide open together

and go: glug, glug, glug.

III.

I finally swing one foot out of the cage,

and contend with my open-faced grief:

set on the line in the sky—

I remember all the ways I participated

in my own abandonment—turning on myself

kept me earthbound—when all this time,

I could’ve known this sun sooner.

— former edit —

III.

Yeah: in a sour mind,

belief is complicated—

I contend with faith, which means

I always carry doubt—

even in small measures,

every way in the sand,

you can’t step forward

without the thirst for both.

I wonder if heaven is a relief

more so than a joy

as earth has me asking:

really?

I dream of Certainty—and God gives me

the Diet Dr. Pepper Vending Machine

in the desert: a mirage in the distance

a commercial hope,

but rarely is it real:

the sacrament:

the refreshment,

a soft drink

we crack wide open

together and go:

glug, glug, glug.

I carried in the well

of my chest—

and I wanted to be a train.

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clean my closet,

say it out loud,

open a window:

a chapter

of blessings—

where I hear

the bell ring.

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The plan was to meet the next day at 8 a.m., the last stop during Crystal’s morning walk. A layer of mist hovered above the ground as sunlight broke through gray clouds. Pockets of light covered the street like patchwork, and the lamps following the path leading to Henry’s front door were still lit. She reached for the door and felt a voice behind her.

“Hello.” Henry’s reaching hand grazed her back. Crystal gasped. He barely cleared her shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied.

“I’m easily started,” she said, recovering.

“Thank you again for taking care of my plants,” said Henry. “They’re like children to me.”

“I know the type,” she said, cutting the tension. “I’ve never haven’t had many in my life, but my father had quite a green thumb, so I like to think this could be genetic.”

Henry gestured toward the path, and they headed to the garden entrance. Henry pushed a key into the lock, and the door shifted open. Crystal tilted her head as she walked through the threshold. On the otherside, the path was laden with stones, like a temple.

“What you’re walking on are white crystals. You’ll find them everywhere you may step in the garden. The ions have a clearing energy. This wall is the first layer of protection. The crystals are the second layer of protection.” Henry guided Crystal through a tunnel of vines, the curved entrance to a lush labyrinth that coiled within the walled garden.

There was no way to know what lived from within the McCallistar garden from the curb of Spring Street. The internal path was lined with short trelises of flowers and wild vines, an inflorescence of violets, lilacs, and wild bushels of Baby’s Breath. Henry picked up a spray bottle that was thoughtfully hooked to the wall. Every other word, he demonstrated his daily practice of spraying the faces of flowers with what he called sweet water. Then, he pulled out a stool, stepped up, and flipped on a switch. Mist emerged from all directions. Crystal felt herself sigh.

“I run this mist in the morning and evening, but for only 15 minutes at a time.”

Eventually, they reached what felt like the lobe of a lung, surrounded by clouds of beautiful weeds. With every step, Crystal felt they were getting closer to the atrium where she knew the Redwood would be.

“Each flower was selected to protect what I’m about to show you. Collectively, I knew they’d all play a role. But before I show you the tree, you have to promise me something.” Henry said.

Crystal’s mood lifted; she heard a humming. “What is that sound?”

“Ah, I knew you were very sensitive, Crystal. Attuned to your environment. What you are hearing is the chatter of plants. The undulating chorus is a warm welcome, isn’t it?”

Henry repeated himself, asking for discretion, to protect what he was about to show her. Crystal agreed, mesmerized. How could she hear the plants? Time seemed to slow down. Or it could’ve been her who was slowing. A delicate glow surfaced on the edges of her focus. A purple flower stretched from the wall. She approached it slowly, contending with the petals' delicate curve, mesmerized by its geometry. She remembered this flower as the type her dad would plant when the yard would thaw every March. Weeks later, a lavender parade created a beautiful boundary around their home. She hadn’t seen this flower since the last spring he was alive.

How much time had passed was unclear. But Crystal felt Henry reach for her waist, grab the handle of skin, and squeeze it so tight that her soft focus sharpened. Crystal realized she couldn’t speak.

“No one can know about the tree,” Henry said. “You’re the only one I trust.”

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Did the garden door lock from the inside?

Henry began to shuffle forward again, curving along the last bushel of white alveoli. There was a sudden exit from the lung of the garden into the atrium of the garden. The Redwood stood in the middle, its thick legs taking root as the white path gave way to dark soil.

Finally, she was able to string together words: “How did you get this here?”

“It goes where it needed to go, Crystal,” Henry said, the first time he heard his calm voice slip into annoyance. He softened again: “This isn’t an ordinary tree, Crystal.” Henry shuffled around the trunk, ushering her to the other side.

There, Crystal saw the opening, like a weeping seam that ran four feet up the tree. The underskin of the bark was exposed, like chapped lips glossed with sap. It was hard not to stare, but with the same desire to look away. Inside the cavity, hundreds of small holes breathed in harmony, opening and closing—a biological heave. “This is the phloem.”

He spoke slowly, explaining that the exposed skin was arguably the most vital part of the plant. The translocation allowed for sugar to move from the source to the sink.

The mist from the exterior garden permeated into the atrium. Everything she began to hear grew louder, but her vision blurred around the edges. Crystal wasn’t sure whether it was due to the mist or her astigmatism. And then she heard Henry take a breath to reveal what he had been waiting to say with great anticipation:

“This is a Hominis creatio. There are two left on earth. And this is one of them.”

“What is a Hominis creatio?” Crystal asked.

“The tree of life. One of the last remaining trees of life.”

“I’ve never heard—”

“It is something of magnificence. Nature’s greatest wonder. Because it can generate.”

“Generate what?”

“This one has a knack for generating human flesh. Men, in particular—well, the likeness of men. A tree like this has never been documented in the annals of modern botany. For centuries, guardians, like myself, a dwindling vocation, have attended to their nature,” Henry continued. “These trees can grow desire, or commune with what one desires, and generate it. Powerful, godlike abilities to project. Based on our current records and the records passed down by the lineage of guardians, different trees have developed specialties. No different than the fruiting process. Just a different fruit. Guardians have documented the release of paper currency from its branches, precious stones, and even letters and notes. And once, an extraordinary novel that changed the course of history.”

“What book?” Crystal said.

“I can’t reveal that as it would threaten the understanding of truth. I can share that some believe the book has many authors. I’ve shared too much. I’m sorry. The guardians’ job is to care for and cultivate these Hominis creatio, and to protect them from public knowledge. They’re on the brink of extinction, but we cannot let their existence be known,” Henry continued.

“Each Hominis creatio develops its specialty, and this one possesses the creation of flesh, or the likeness of flesh.”

Crystal took an unconscious step back, unspeaking.

“This is a lot to comprehend. I understand.”

“I’ve only let the most trustworthy and responsible of people to witness this tree. You are only the second. I’ve noticed you since you’ve moved back home with your mother. You are a caretaker. And I wanted to give you a chance to see something extraordinary.”

“Crystal?”

Henry held onto Crystal’s waist and repeated, “I needed someone trustworthy, as I’ve been called away. The other remaining Hominis creatio has fallen ill. The phloem. There isn’t much time, and I must get to the guardian.”

Henry watched Crystal take a seat on the wooden bench in the atrium. “In exchange for your care, there’s a real possibility: What you wish for, Hominis creatio may very well give you.”

Her mouth was slow, but she found herself nodding. She watched herself outside of her body. The mist continued to overtake the atrium. Had it not even been fifteen minutes?

“I can help,” Crystal finally accomplished. “Can we turn off the mist?” It had become unbearable.

The instructions were simple: The tree needs water, preferably sweetened with honey, but pure water will do. Then, Henry clarified: “The tree feeds on feeling—the emotion of its caretaker. But there’s not much more you need to do than provide your presence. What is left in the air will be absorbed.” Nothing more, nothing less. Crystal just needed to visit.

The mist suddenly shut off. Henry patted the side of the trunk like a large retriever. “Trees do get lonely after all.”

As a helpful reminder, Henry pulled out a 3”x5” card from his pocket as he led Crystal out of the atrium, back on the crystal path. They reached the door more quickly than she anticipated.

“Everything is self-explanatory,” Henry said, handing her the garden key and the index card. “I will see you in three days.” He ushered her through the short door quickly and said goodbye. Crystal stood in the mid-morning light as if she had just overslept.

She read the index hard placed in her hand:

Tree sitting instructions: Morning and night: enter the side garden gate, turn on the mist, enter the atrium, water the tree, sit with the tree for at least 15 minutes. Say goodbye to the tree. Turn off the mist before you leave. Do not let anyone inside.

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This is the fifth installment of a long story called The Tree Sitter. Go here to read Part I , Part II, Part III, and Part IV. Become a subscriber to get the latest installment.

It’s almost like 
insecurity has me 
arguing with god 
for the gifts he gave me. 

I find myself human 
in between 
graciousness 
and defiance 
knowing not good enough 
is the stone on my back 
and its rebuke being
the river running over it. 

A hand rests on my shoulder 
at the first sight of purple in spring.

That’s when I find a language of god 
in knowing nature 
and how it is all designed with purpose: 
that I am nature, too, like the spider 
is more than a mathematician 
and the bird, outstretched, 
treats the sky 
as the home 
and the perennial object  
to push against.

I treat my faith 
like I treat wonder—
like a spire cycling
between the unbelievable, 
and offering a reason for believing:
that all nature seeks resolution. 

On a quiet night, like this, 
I sit by the Bay window, 
slightly ajar, the tv on.
The air carries jasmine. 
I eat microwave popcorn, marveling: 
at all that has worked for me,
even the disillusionment I am grateful for 
as there was the great sequencing 
of decisions that had to happen
for me not to be left out of the equation. 

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my way out of malaise—

driving through Mojave—

they call it nothing out here,

but no landscape is nothing

just like no canvas is nothing:

the found spring in potential:

the curves of the earth:

rock sculptures casting shadows

slate against slate,

everything is edges.

I seek the full picture—

the widen aperture—

the upward slope

of the mountain range—

how the sand turns saffron with time,

from this distance those flat hills are pink—

an other world pink—

a table I’ve never seen

against an Easter sky

where the hawk swoops by and accuses me:

never in need of new direction

only new eyes.

I finally see elsewhere

away from myself:

pushing through burnt red canyons

ready for being: the mesa: the moving.

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The three of them sat at the kitchen table. “What was the last sex dream you had?” Crystal tossed out as she reached for the maple syrup, sugar crystals crusting along the rim of the cap. There were some condiments and seasonings left in the cabin year-round, and this, along with a Honeybear, was among the loot.

“Every night. About my husband,” Beth said without missing a beat. Alyssa nearly choked.

“I go through phases,” Beth continued, a palpable statement given her disordered eating. “I do think of Dan most of the time. Us having sex like we did when we first met — just in every location you can imagine: the kitchen, France, a dirty nightclub, outer space,” scrapping the gathered pancake off the fork with her teeth. “But then my brain makes amalgamations of different people—lately it’s mostly Keanu Reeves. I’ve been watching a lot of Keanu Reeves edits — Keanu riding a motorcycle. Keanu as a doctor. Keanu Reeves from the Matrix.”

“My last sex dream was probably two weeks ago,” Alyssa said, “I never really remember the man, but more about the feeling. The details get blurry by the time I wake up, but this last one I was alone in a subway care with someone sitting right next to me, and I came in my sleep when he touched my knee.”

“How Victorian,” Beth said.

There was a pause. Beth and Alyssa waited for Crystal to say something, a silent, well?

“I don’t know how to explain it. They are intriguing. Then urgent, like I’m being watched or chased. And now they are just getting stranger. A man turning into a tree. My head, cracking like an egg.” The table hummed in recognition, but nothing else to say.

“You know, neuroscientists still don’t have a reason as to why humans dream,” Alyssa. “It could be the nighttime filing system, a way for our brains to process and recover. We really don’t know.”

“Just don’t believe anything Freud said about dreams. The little freak,” Beth chimed in.

“I wouldn’t think too much about dreams. It could be hormones. It could be some weird chemical in those hot fries you ate on the drive up here,” Alyssa said.

They broke the morning stillness with laughter. Crystal tossed her crumbled napkin at Alyssa’s nose. The gold light streamed through the kitchen blinds. The three decided to make more pancakes. There was one more day of doing nothing. The sun was all theirs. No one else on the lake. One more day of summer, together.

—

Later on, Beth packed a bowl in her navy one-piece swimsuit and sat cross-legged on the picnic bench in the shade. Her crinkled blonde hair fell across her face as she tucked it behind her ear, then sparked the lighter, lifting the flame to the top of the bowl. The three of them. They didn’t do this often anymore, but muscle memory is a funny thing. She took two slow puffs, stared into the middle distance, and then passed it over to Crystal. Beth lit it again for her, helpful and intuitive like a friend adjusting a revealing bra strap in public.

Beth was feeling good. Crystal contained several muffled coughs, reaching for the flat La Croix left on the outdoor patio table from last night, slightly horrified at what she just consumed. Alyssa walked toward the picnic table from the kitchen door, wearing a bucket hat and a black string bikini. Alyssa always had the best body among the three of them. “Wait up,” she said, balancing three bottles of water and a bowl of cut cantaloupe, “for health,” she lifted the fruit like a sweet and insatiable mime. Alyssa turned on the music, taking a few delicate puffs from the piece.

They repositioned when they were sufficiently high, laying three towels in parallel on the soft grass above the lakeshore. Crystal baked in the sun and felt a rare breeze pull through. The bowl of melon that sat in the middle of them began to sweat. The waves on the shore lapped. Their conversation turned to a comfortable silence. Easy pop played from the portable speakers.

Crystal drifted off, sinking deeper into the grass. Her mind went to a new corner— a rough hand found her knee, fingers curving along her inner thigh. Her eyes were closed as she felt a heavy trunk pressed down along her torso, leaves brushing the sides of her arms as they moved down to press against her pelvis. Crystal remained at the brink of sleep.

Crystal jolted awake to the snap of a sunglasses case. Alyssa and Beth headed into the lake for one last swim. Crystal stirred momentarily in the jet lag of her dream. Don’t be a little freak, she thought to herself. When she opened her eyes, she took a deep breath to pause in her wakefulness. She reached for a square of the sweating melon in the bowl; the light orange flesh juiced between her fingers, gorgeous against the green summer as the sun began to lilt. Something was stirring in Crystal — it really wasn’t so trite as the desire of a man. Just the notion that desire does come in all directions. From summer, from wanting something different than what she currently had. She joined her friends in the cold water.

—

Crystal wanted to shower the drive off. It took longer than they anticipated to drive back to Menasha. The three of them grew cranky on the way home, but promised they would do another getaway before winter. They drove into the driveway on Spring Street, the large Maple tree having dropped several leaves since she left. Labor Day Weekend approached. Crystal opened the door to an empty house and took a breath, knowing her mom was out with friends that afternoon. She saw the mail had fallen from the slot. A gray square envelope had “CRYSTAL” in an unknown handwriting. She picked it up as she went upstairs to shower, placing the card on the banister. She stripped off her clothes and turned the shower on, cold, to lightly rinse her hair and body. She squeezed the last of the shower gel into her hand, gathering it into a lather across her chest, between her legs, and under her hot pits.

She stepped out of the shower, pulled a towel around her body, and tossed the empty shower gel into the bin. She continued to dry off as she walked down the hall, wrapping the towel around her chest into a makeshift dress. She pushed the envelope open with a simple release. A piece of transparent parchment slid out with a message:

Crystal,

I plan to go out of town this Labor Day Weekend, and I need your help. Will you tend to my plants and garden while I’m away? Please call, and I will show you around the property.

920-473-3367

Your neighbor,

Henry

Crystal reached for the phone.

This is the fourth installment of a long story called The Tree Sitter. Go here to read Part I, Part II, and Part III.

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of a yellow dress

as I hold the heat

of anger — 80 degrees

in the month of March —

$200 billion more

for a war

we never asked for —

already so much spring

the world overwhelming

I wasn’t aware

I’d have so many regular dreams

I crave regular dreams

a slow news week

to take a deep breath

to dive into a cold ocean.

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There is no bullshit
in the apocalypse:
we say what we mean
& mean what we say —
there is no settling
in the apocalypse
no more love bombing
more like giving it
all! that! we! got!!

We cope in thinking
there is freedom in relief:
there is freedom in endings:
we can’t put up with nothing —

there is no ghosting
in the apocalypse
no somewhat fine
mediocre aimless
scrolling, texting, talking
sex with someone
you do not love —
only true love is left
in the apocalypse:

In California,
we don’t waste time
or good weather
or clean water
nothing is normal
only hyper normal —
in the apocalypse? no,
I’m not a boring bitch:
I have my dream body 
because I have a body. 
I find everything beautiful
as it could be the last. 
The world could fall away
like worlds fell away:
when schools turned to dust
when we chose machines over bodies
when we began to program
the gleeful turnover of thinking.

I wonder if it will be quiet
or like Looney Tunes: 
the Song of The Anvil,
the last hymn we hear?
The future dashed
for the sake of one, 
or maybe three, 
deranged men 
who shit themselves daily
spinning the world into tantrum.

I would choose
China Beach on a day like today:
the Golden Gate Bridge, in final form,
the headlands, the cascading light,
maybe a ship coming into The Bay.

Moments before:
the ghosts inside us, 
beginning to plot. 
But what if I start my period?
Would I let the blood run down my leg?
Would I still wear my Invisalign?

Maybe, a strange sign of hope —
or, my gratitude for the material world:
one last time to honor what we got: 
like how we keep the house clean
how we remain kind
how we sing. 

Would we let ourselves laugh
as our one last choice
of feeling? 

Would I cry
for the world?
Would I wait until 
the sun turned green?
Would I choose to be alone?
Would I stack stones?
Would I swim into the ocean?
Would it be my life
that flashes or
would it be all of life that flashes?
The one collective gasp
of love — the quantum entanglement: 
the web of us realizing
it could’ve gone a different way.

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that I must contend

the curve of a tulip.

The stakes are so high

that any chance I get

I’ve got to go outside —

reach the beach

watch the yolk of the sky

settle into a blue tomorrow.

The stakes are so high

that I stand in the street at night

and ask the worm moon:

Where do a thousand dreams go

when they are vaporized?

I sometimes want to say “sorry”

for being a woman

for wanting us to be free

for making noise

but the stakes are so high

I’ve decided

that even with a boot on my neck

I will try to scream.

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Crystal didn’t take the car. She broke out into a jog. It would take her about 20 minutes to reach the farmstand on foot. She turned left once she reached the end of the road. Only one truck barrelled down the highway, and then it was silent. She heard a loon cry, unable to know its direction. Crystal didn’t know what she was going to say when she reached the farmstand. She didn’t even have her wallet. She didn’t have her phone. In the near distance, she saw the red building emerge. No cars were in sight, so Crystal crossed the street running diagonally to the other side. And then Crystal slowed down her pace to catch her breath and compose herself. She was sweating. Totally casual.

She was 100 yards away and stopped again to adjust herself, pulling down her bike shorts that had ridden up and smoothing her t-shirt.

Crystal was coming up from the back. Ben was facing the avocados, orienting them all so they were tilted in the same direction.

“Hey!” Crystal barked, a slight loss of control, “Bad news…The caramel apples you sold us were rotten,” she sang playfully. Oh, good one. She rolled her eyes in her head.

“Rotten?” Ben replied calmly, but his eyes opened wide with a smile, “Whatever do you mean? I made those just yesterday.”

“That’s right. I’m here to request a refund. Is that what you call ‘quality produce,’” Crystal nodded to the painted sign that hung from the rafters. She couldn’t believe she stooped so low as to neg the man she was having sex dreams about. The caramel apples were delicious. The best in her life, in fact. She hoped he knew she was kidding. He had to.

Ben seemed amused. He could play along. Ben put down the avocado he held in his left hand, but not until he bounced it sweetly in his palm.

He walked slowly toward Crystal. “Well, what could I offer you to make this right?” he asked. “An exchange?” he asked.

They dropped the words. Crystal watched Ben walk over to the nectarines on the stand behind her. He eyed the collection of fruit, first scanning the orbs with beautiful markings, like an abstract watercolor made of yellow, orange, and ruby. He then selected one carefully. He held it close to his face, inhaling summer. Crystal watched as his lips pressed against the skin of the fruit, his teeth broke the flesh, and juice came down the sides of his mouth.

He turned back to Crystal: “Try this.”

He held the fruit close to her mouth and watched her bite into the nectarine next to where he made his first mark. Crystal reached to wipe the juice from her lips when Ben reached her with his mouth, enveloping her in his warmth. A sweet breeze flowed through the rafters, a relief, as Crystal felt his arms were sticky with heat.

Ben lifted his hand toward the top of her shoulder, grazing the strap. She could now see his scar up close, rough, like a sloughing eucalyptus tree. This was what was so familiar. The feathered bark brushed against her cheek as Ben tucked a strand of Crystal’s hair behind her right ear.

Ben absorbed Crystal into his arms, kissing her fully. Her sweat had mostly dried. “Salty,” Ben said into her ear. His breath then reached her clavicle as as his hands reached for her back to release the three-pronged clasp. One remained hooked, and Crystal helped unlatch it, when the bra then fell to the dust. Ben pulled her close to shield her bare chest. No one had driven down the highway in hours. There were no shoppers. It was a clear morning. The skies were blue. A small whirlwind kicked up dust through the pull-out where the farmstand stood tall.

Crystal pulled Ben closer and parted her legs. She leaned back against the fruit cart of avocados and felt the weight of her back pressing against the overripe fruit, the rough skin. They grew lost in each other. His mouth descended from her lips, reaching the slope of her neck, her pink chest, where his mouth took her nipple like an Itasca grape. From the road, the dust reached halfway up the red wooden barn, but no one could see what was happening underneath the rafters.

Ben reached his hands further down as he felt Crystal sigh in relief and take a deep breath. She felt him grow hard as he pressed himself against her. There was little separating them. His hard-pressed denim was enough to part her lips underneath the thin spandex, and they continued on as he couldn’t help but thrust against her with his jeans on. Her body swelled. The heat ascended from inside, and a flood rose through her base. He detached from her mouth. Looked her in the eyes, smiled, and playfully yanked her shorts down. He then got on his knees. She felt his tongue reach the top of her — but she knew that any farther, it would be impossible to stop.

“Wait,” she said. Ben stopped as he held her, looked into her eyes, and listened.

“I want to know something,” Crystal said carefully. He was an inch away from her neck now. “What happened?” She looked at his hands. There was a long pause. His face changed. His eyes dropped. She thought she saw his eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry — this is none of my business,” Crystal said in response, suddenly ashamed. She ruined the moment. How could she have said that? He didn’t speak for a moment. And then shook his head.

The tears were not tears but a thick sap that formed and began to crystallize in the corners of his eyes. He broke from Crystal and took a step back as he lifted both hands in surrender.

Crystal sucked in a tight breath. Bark began to break through his tender skin, and the same tears she saw in his eyes flooded from the open flesh rippling across parts of his body. He was hardening in places, making him unrecognizable. He was being subsumed by wood, each of his limbs, his gentle neck, each finger transformed into thick or spindly branches. Crystal struggled to speak. She struggled to breathe.

“Quickly,” he said, “before I’m gone.” Crystal rushed toward him and pressed against the trunk of his body. The transforming branches absorbed Crystal into his arms. His mouth remained open, and she reached for the last of him, or what was left of him: his mouth, and the psithurism — the sound of wind moving through leaves that kissed her neck. His branches wrapped around her back. She could hear: “You have to know that I wasn’t made to be here forever,” he said slowly in the rustling.

Crystal pulled back to look into the remnants of his mouth, sap trickling down the sides.

“It’ll all make sense soon,” she could hear without his voice. She whimpered into his mouth — and her eyes flickered in the midmorning light.

The color of see-through skin; it was as if the entire sun had taken over her mind. Crystal forgot where she was and watched the electrical pulses flash beneath her eyelids.

Familiar light trickled into the bedroom. Crystal realized she was half asleep. It took her a minute to let go of what she almost had: the desire of the farmstand and knowing the real truth on how Ben became Ben. She stretched underneath the duvet, clothesless.

Crystal continued to stir in bed when she heard some pattering at the door. The light knocking continued, when Alyssa poked her head from behind the door:

“Good morning, princessaaa. How did you sleep?”

Crystal wasn’t able to speak just yet, so she hummed.

“We gossipped with the Whispering Angel, huh,” she remarked.

Well, this version of the world didn’t feel real yet, Crystal thought. Why did she have to ask that question? Why did she ruin the moment with Ben?

“Well, take your time. Just after nine. And Beth is off keto today,” Alyssa sang, “So we made pancakes.”

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is noticing the proximity

of two stars

and their closeness

in the map of the night —

to witness love

is standing before

an unexpected horizon

where the blue of the river

becomes the blue of the sea —

to witness love is

seeking the golden yolk

of the chanterelle

in the soil of the oak

& believing in the benevolence

of nature: a recognition

of the inevitable:

god bringing everything

meant to be

together.

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I grow weary

from an insidious brand of love —

not true love, but those hungry for a vessel:

who seek status over connection:

a penchant for stacking oneself

on top of another.

I grow weary of those

who do not ask questions,

and call to be seen in light

when they never wonder

where light comes from.

I grow weary by those

who do not seek

the intelligence of kindness —

and hold an unwillingness

in the heart.

I grow weary when

I’m told it must be a burden

to be singular —

but I carry love in freedom 

through green fields alone.

I am not afraid to walk at night.

I am so good with myself,

I grow sick when I forget

that I matter.

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In the wake of the afternoon, the three of them lay on the dock until their skin felt tight.

“Ok, now it’s summer,” Alyssa said, under a trance.

“The water is so much warmer than I remember.” Crystal began to float on her back.

“The pleasures of global warming, baby,” said…

Read more

Read more

The wolf moon in January

always pulls me into a stupor,

the same stupor of youth

when we believed it could actually

be made out of cheese:

A delusional season

of enumeration,

as we begin again at one,

counting grams,

weighing our hearts against a feather,

singing a new lyric each night like:

“In this house,

Parmesan is a protein.”

We hardly speak out loud about

what makes us forlorn

as we stand at the fridge

that carries the fresh first page

of a new calendar: 2026, the year of our lord,

where the wine of possibility pairs nicely

with strange winter anger —

years and years of repressed something or other —

why is it that this

particular moon

always makes me want to howl?

Why is it that this

looping of life can leave me feeling lost,

why is it the looping is one more chance 

to be born in wonder.

The dead of winter has never been the beginning,

but somewhere before the beginning:

the middle of sleep

where dreams begin,

not heaven, not unlike the womb.

A place where the wolf paces in a tomb of hope.

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