All posts tagged: diarist

On the $6 Lauren Bacall Mints I Lost

Poem by A.A. Reinecke People hated Kennedy at Harvard (crimson). Do you know why? Do you know how hard it is to be wrong beside people, like him, whose failures are beautiful? I bought you a pack of mints at LAX to say something hard. Is it cowardice if I preface this? I’m remembering the punch bowl at the Mormon party and how when I binge ate Carvel ice cream cake you left a Himalaya on your plate where synthetic pink melted into white. Do you know I love you? And the color of your politics? Or that I was trying to humble myself to our shitty teacher when I smiled at the story about how her son’s nose was broken at Georgetown? Did you notice that in Spanish class the matador on the wall never was authoritarian about your using the restroom? Or that a pair of almond eyes, before being lost in hotel laundry, intended to will from you a treaty? Know I miss you. That I’m sorry. That I wish sometimes you’d …

vestigial habit

you coax my thumb in bone like vestigial habit is a word for the lie your history book forgot to tell you. like hand over thumb is physical meditation: tan oat tan oat tan oat tan oat, a skipped needle asking: do you? do you remember the first night? me a recruited athlete in the sweatshirt and my legs? and the similar shape of our wants? rome is dead. do you remember the funeral? and that brows exist among the ruins? that you taught me to steal? like beauty is the last soup dumpling in the fridge and you took it. like you made your face sucking on the peppermint stick of a pillar and massachusetts had a vacation in the jarbled blood-laurel and elder of your mouth. do you? do you, do you remember the egg nog? spiked so beautiful? or the shape of starving? how you funded my folly? three drinks a day for a raisinnut blister raised in your name? the clover at your temples? when the sky was a marble slab …

my toes say i’ll get into college

ABOUT THE ARTIST: A.A. Reinecke is Tunnel’s newest diarist. She is a writer and poet from Westchester, NY. Her work has most recently appeared in the Claremont Review, and Pulchritude Press. She resides in Northern California where she writes every morning at 5 AM, opposite a print of “View of the World from 9th Avenue” and often beside a glass of Thai iced coffee. In adulthood she plans to write books and live in the woods. Photo from Perah Ralin

Negative Space

//Negative Space// Negative space means giving emptiness weight, making material objects disappear. Negative space means letting shapes rule. You could be subtracting or adding or molding the shadows. It is like hearing what isn’t said in a conversation. Suddenly the silence becomes all the more important.  (Turn the world inside out, and perhaps you can feel the fraying stitches and seams like the inside of a sweater.)


Above is “Self-Portrait” in charcoal by the lovely Kathleen Gao, who has agreed to let me publish this work here. ________________________________________________________________ Dawn Dawn’s red Eye cracks open and blinks back light. Gulls shriek. I spit grits of sand in the pale morning. Another sunrise, bleak & wriggling like my son in the backseat. I smell feathers. And today the sky seems to watch my every move. But I was wrong, the Eye is grey. It reaches its pall around the city and smothers it. Grime coats the buildings, and they stand like sandcastles before on-coming foam. An old man shivers and flaps his arms and sad rags like wings. I thought I didn’t want to be young, but I was wrong. My heart is an empty red sand pail, rolling around on concrete. _________________________________________________________________ Dusk _________________________________________________________________ I’ve been attempting to try new things with poetry lately. Like trying the technique of having certain words or images repeated in a poem, like “red” or the idea of flying in the first poem, kind of like a …

Color Blocks

Explanation for Diarist Series: I’m pretty sure the only person reading this is Kira Gabriel, but I’m joining this diarist series!! I decided to do it because it can be really easy for me to forget to make art/create stuff, even though it’s something that I super enjoy doing. So, hopefully this’ll keep me motivated and force me to create. Anyway, for my first diary entry, I stuck with art that I’m used to- little collages from scraps of paper, cut-outs from magazines, things I find, etc- basically what’s already in my art diary at home. I focused on color in this set because it’s pretty cool how much it changes our perception of an image (also it’s just fun to play with). But, during this series, I’m hoping to branch out and do other types of art (like photography, painting/drawing). So keep ya eyes out for some cool new stuff!

Jelly Bean Memories

A few weeks ago, I was going through old photos at my grandma’s house. Each drawer I opened seemed to be hiding sheafs of memories, like a flock of paper cranes ready to take flight. Even in the middle of boring suburban New Jersey, I could find fifty years plus worth of history and stories and emotions. It makes me wonder where else old histories might be hiding. What other memories lie forgotten in the drawers of our minds? _________________________________________________________________ home           summer is the taste of watermelons. i grew up in the warm sepia glow of lamplight at night, the vague sound of distant fire trucks that somehow tell me everything is alright. the air conditioning is too cold, the fan’s face rotates its gaze around the room, protecting me, reminding me that i am where i belong. outside, the cicadas join a sound that is already in my head. (i translate every touch from japanese, i try my best). summer means long, hot nights where i lie flopped on …

How to be a half-Japanese girl in America

the dust on old photographs i have of japan ask me, do you remember? or conversely have you forgotten? because somehow those seem to be two different questions. somewhere in japan a flower is blooming, pink petals reaching out to the morning, half-flower, half-bud. somewhere in america it is night-time and the grass is sighing under silent sprinklers. somewhere in between is a girl waiting to remember, or perhaps, to forget. Explanation for Diarist Series: As one of the first Tunnel diarists, I’ll admit I don’t really know what I’m doing. But, I have at least a hazy idea of what I might attempt to try to maybe do. In this diarist series, I’m going to use different art forms to explore how the geography of our lives affects who we are. I’ve lived in some different places (England, Japan, America) and I want to explore themes of multiculturalism, differing perspectives, the effect of nature on life. What is art, beauty, home, friendship? Our ideas of these things, although they seem like such reasonable, wholesome, turkey-sandwich truths, are …