Untitled Jottings and an Ode to Oatmeal

by Annika Flint


August 20th, 2012

A Book of Stories for my brother. The endless and terrifying world of bad writing. Stacks of paper towers thick in a musty wooden house. Toppling over, hiding the piano, the furniture, the carpet. The bottomless fear of incompetence forever refilled by the barista of insecurity. The false security of triumph offered by caffeine and a cozy café.

August 21st, 2012

Berkeley farmer’s market at Adeline and 63rd. A whirlwind of produce. The bounty of summer, the bright light and tanned faces. A dream, a fabrication of a summer’s day, hallucinated by one dying beneath an avalanche in winter. It’s exactly what you’d picture with your last breast leaving frozen lips. The memory of the sun. The taste of a white peach. A bouquet of purple flowers, and a cello player in a tie-dyed shirt.


Ode to Oatmeal

Sometimes you wake up in the morning after not much sleep and you’re drowsy and you have class in 7 minutes and must eat breakfast and read 3 more pages of the book for the class that is now in 6 minutes because that will make all the difference in the world and there is a quiet girl in the kitchen cooking oatmeal.

Oatmeal. Time slows down, you put the book on the counter.

Awkwardly you saunter over to the saucer and see that it is filled with good things that will sustain you throughout the day. Strawberries, almonds, hemp seed, honey, agave, dates, peaches, apples, cinnamon, peanut butter, bananas, answer, (d), all of the above.

The clock is ticking. The smell is delicious. Your look swings away from the clock and you grab a bowl.

Sometimes breakfast is more important than class and sustaining yourself is more important then reading 2.5 pages of your book.

Sometimes oatmeal has the power to alter time.

Thank you, Oatmeal, for habitual reassurance and comforting sustenance not without thrills of whatever new bits and pieces the day brings.

Annika Flint‘s hair has transformative powers!