This is America.
We do not live within the context
of daily tragedy
like a lot of the rest of the world
we occupy as a nation.
The necessity to strive for survival
gives way to the boredom and pathos
of excess thought process:
a beautiful gateway to consumerism
as holy,
so long as your local storefronts
and digital screens
continue to provide
new and interesting distractions.
I write this knowing I am,
and will be, guilty of such distractions
from time to time...
Sometimes more than I wish.
We are allowed to dwell on tragedy;
we analyze it and absorb it
deep within our skin,
sinew, muscle, bones, organs, mind.
Such benefits of thought render us
invalid in our reaction time.
When my reaction time exceeds
the average American
I begin to worry.
I worry.
Aaron C. Molden
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Thursday, June 4, 2015
The Abortion
She decided to have the abortion.
When she first found out she was pregnant the only thing she understood was that she was unsure how to proceed. For the first two and half decades of her life she never imagined that she might want to be a mother. Now, she was unsure.
After she graduated from college, she found a job a an administrative assistant at a clothing company she followed in a New York fashion magazine she had been subscribed to since she was in high school. She came from a modest, but lively Midwestern town. At an early age she would have already known this position was nothing short of a dream job. She would be in the fashion industry.
She had always been a pretty girl and she made sure, as soon as she understood it would be to her advantage, that she would always be prettier; more attractive to both men and women, if she was conscious and discerning of what she wore. For as long as her friends could remember, when she saw something in a catalog or magazine or in a department or thrift store and she truly believed it, she would tell them how good they would look in it. "You have to try this on."
Can't you see? It was a dream job.
She put up with a lot of shit her first year at the company. She put up with it with a smile on her face for the first few months, but eventually she started to give shit back. She also gave her opinions and her ideas about fashion to people she respected, as well as, people she did not agree with. Someone from the company noticed and was impressed. Within a year she was hired on as a fashion agent. She and several others had a collective budget for research and development. She understood that fashion was never finished and, at her age, she was very happy this was true.
There were always men around (there always are) who would make advances: old industry creeps, mail-boys, corporate men, moody man-boys in the copy writing and creative department, etc. She had sex with some of them when the loneliness of being by herself another night seemed unbearable. Some of them were just friends though, and she would spend the night with them, laying in her sweatpants; they would talk as they would hold her in their arms; both men and women she knew and loved.
Those nights where we must not be alone.
She loved many of them, if only for a time, but she required herself to be eventually disappointed with the relationships at least 50% of the time. The other 50% were banked in her mind for longing when she needed it.
With this mindset she met him. He was smart, but not overly arrogant. He was attractive, but not overtly narcissistic; this would later manifest itself more apparently when he revealed his true life goals which did not involve her. He was bookish, but still faintly athletic, with enough muscle structure to make her believe he could be a model if he tried a little harder; for some reason she was glad he didn't try harder. He cared about the things he wore (of course, for he was in R and D, as well), but had a hard time flat out admitting it. He remembered being a know-it-all when he was younger, so he tried to fight the urge as an adult; sometimes he failed at this. He apologized when he was wrong, always hoping to make amends, earnestly, for the mistakes he made.
She told him she was pregnant with their baby.
"What should we do?"
"I don't know."
There was a long silence. He had his head down and she pensively ran her fingers through her long brown hair. She was looking out the window of her small Brooklyn apartment.
"You should get an abortion."
This surprised her; his blunt statement. He was the only suitor she could honestly remember thinking I could have this man's child, and after just a short thought, he believed she shouldn't. He couldn't.
She said "I need to think about it."
She decided to have the abortion. He paid for it and held her and kissed her after they left the clinic. She cried into his shoulder. "I don't if I can take how I feel right now." she said, her voice muffled in his shirt sleeve.
"You're going to be alright." He said earnestly. "I'll be here for you." It's not that he didn't want to have children. It's not that he didn't want to have children with her. It was simply too soon. As talented as they both were (she was an agent and he was a field photographer for the fashion company) it would have been nonsense for them to give up on their dreams.
She suddenly felt flush with a white hot rage within her. "Why would we have to give up on our dreams." She screamed as she pushed him away from her. She punched him in the chest with as much force as she could muster at the time. It did not hurt him, but he knew she meant it. "Tears began streaming down her face. "We could have been a team. We didn't have to give up anything, you asshole. We just would have had to adapt."
He put his head down and clenched his forehead with his fingers.
She looked at him with his head down. "Despite what you may think about this relationship, we are not together. I can't be with you after this."
He looked up at her.
"I thought I loved you, but I was wrong."
She found a better job at the same magazine she had been subscribed since she was in high school. Before she found out she was pregnant, she had sent her personal portfolio of recreational fashion writing to the magazine and they turned out to be impressed. "The way you describe these printed pencil skirts is divine." The slender woman with solid white hair, all black pant suit, and thick rimmed glasses with circular lens announced as she sat in her office. "It's as if I'm seeing them myself, or better yet, wearing them."
She was offered the new writing job after the abortion and she took it. She eventually became head writer. After that, eventually, editor in chief.
She got married. Or she didn't.
I wrote this story.
It's not the worst thing she regrets, but it haunts her from time to time.
It haunts him sometimes, too.
After she started writing professionally they never saw each other again.
Aaron C. Molden
When she first found out she was pregnant the only thing she understood was that she was unsure how to proceed. For the first two and half decades of her life she never imagined that she might want to be a mother. Now, she was unsure.
After she graduated from college, she found a job a an administrative assistant at a clothing company she followed in a New York fashion magazine she had been subscribed to since she was in high school. She came from a modest, but lively Midwestern town. At an early age she would have already known this position was nothing short of a dream job. She would be in the fashion industry.
She had always been a pretty girl and she made sure, as soon as she understood it would be to her advantage, that she would always be prettier; more attractive to both men and women, if she was conscious and discerning of what she wore. For as long as her friends could remember, when she saw something in a catalog or magazine or in a department or thrift store and she truly believed it, she would tell them how good they would look in it. "You have to try this on."
Can't you see? It was a dream job.
She put up with a lot of shit her first year at the company. She put up with it with a smile on her face for the first few months, but eventually she started to give shit back. She also gave her opinions and her ideas about fashion to people she respected, as well as, people she did not agree with. Someone from the company noticed and was impressed. Within a year she was hired on as a fashion agent. She and several others had a collective budget for research and development. She understood that fashion was never finished and, at her age, she was very happy this was true.
There were always men around (there always are) who would make advances: old industry creeps, mail-boys, corporate men, moody man-boys in the copy writing and creative department, etc. She had sex with some of them when the loneliness of being by herself another night seemed unbearable. Some of them were just friends though, and she would spend the night with them, laying in her sweatpants; they would talk as they would hold her in their arms; both men and women she knew and loved.
Those nights where we must not be alone.
She loved many of them, if only for a time, but she required herself to be eventually disappointed with the relationships at least 50% of the time. The other 50% were banked in her mind for longing when she needed it.
With this mindset she met him. He was smart, but not overly arrogant. He was attractive, but not overtly narcissistic; this would later manifest itself more apparently when he revealed his true life goals which did not involve her. He was bookish, but still faintly athletic, with enough muscle structure to make her believe he could be a model if he tried a little harder; for some reason she was glad he didn't try harder. He cared about the things he wore (of course, for he was in R and D, as well), but had a hard time flat out admitting it. He remembered being a know-it-all when he was younger, so he tried to fight the urge as an adult; sometimes he failed at this. He apologized when he was wrong, always hoping to make amends, earnestly, for the mistakes he made.
She told him she was pregnant with their baby.
"What should we do?"
"I don't know."
There was a long silence. He had his head down and she pensively ran her fingers through her long brown hair. She was looking out the window of her small Brooklyn apartment.
"You should get an abortion."
This surprised her; his blunt statement. He was the only suitor she could honestly remember thinking I could have this man's child, and after just a short thought, he believed she shouldn't. He couldn't.
She said "I need to think about it."
She decided to have the abortion. He paid for it and held her and kissed her after they left the clinic. She cried into his shoulder. "I don't if I can take how I feel right now." she said, her voice muffled in his shirt sleeve.
"You're going to be alright." He said earnestly. "I'll be here for you." It's not that he didn't want to have children. It's not that he didn't want to have children with her. It was simply too soon. As talented as they both were (she was an agent and he was a field photographer for the fashion company) it would have been nonsense for them to give up on their dreams.
She suddenly felt flush with a white hot rage within her. "Why would we have to give up on our dreams." She screamed as she pushed him away from her. She punched him in the chest with as much force as she could muster at the time. It did not hurt him, but he knew she meant it. "Tears began streaming down her face. "We could have been a team. We didn't have to give up anything, you asshole. We just would have had to adapt."
He put his head down and clenched his forehead with his fingers.
She looked at him with his head down. "Despite what you may think about this relationship, we are not together. I can't be with you after this."
He looked up at her.
"I thought I loved you, but I was wrong."
She found a better job at the same magazine she had been subscribed since she was in high school. Before she found out she was pregnant, she had sent her personal portfolio of recreational fashion writing to the magazine and they turned out to be impressed. "The way you describe these printed pencil skirts is divine." The slender woman with solid white hair, all black pant suit, and thick rimmed glasses with circular lens announced as she sat in her office. "It's as if I'm seeing them myself, or better yet, wearing them."
She was offered the new writing job after the abortion and she took it. She eventually became head writer. After that, eventually, editor in chief.
She got married. Or she didn't.
I wrote this story.
It's not the worst thing she regrets, but it haunts her from time to time.
It haunts him sometimes, too.
After she started writing professionally they never saw each other again.
Aaron C. Molden
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Free Speech
Banning what one can write or say
will never ban what one can think.
Thinking is inevitable
and it only hurts those
who do not understand.
that the words they so recently
read or heard
are just that: words, ideas.
Everyone of us
has everything we are capable of
within us, somewhere.
Guilt is the plight of the self-aware,
the human.
This is a burden as well as a skill.
And it is not the definition of smart.
It is the definition of aware.
Aaron C. Molden
will never ban what one can think.
Thinking is inevitable
and it only hurts those
who do not understand.
that the words they so recently
read or heard
are just that: words, ideas.
Everyone of us
has everything we are capable of
within us, somewhere.
Guilt is the plight of the self-aware,
the human.
This is a burden as well as a skill.
And it is not the definition of smart.
It is the definition of aware.
Aaron C. Molden
Monday, May 18, 2015
In The Canopy
In the canopy, the city disappears
beneath the trees.
The low hum of the cars on the highway
can be heard through the rustle of the leaves.
Thankfully, facing south,
they are not seen from the canopy.
The wind is persistent
in it's general flux in direction.
Swinging this way and that.
The tree branches move;
the inconsistent, but gentle lull
of your mother's arms.
It is lovely in the canopy.
I don't think I could have picked a better home;
fourth branches up, here in the canopy.
It is so much higher
than anyone's home I know around here.
It is all branches and trees,
pastel flowers and leaves,
with a nice view of the river.
At night, I watch the stars burst
in the midnight sky,
wishing always
you were here with me.
Be well and know I am happy here
as I hope you are there.
Aaron C. Molden
beneath the trees.
The low hum of the cars on the highway
can be heard through the rustle of the leaves.
Thankfully, facing south,
they are not seen from the canopy.
The wind is persistent
in it's general flux in direction.
Swinging this way and that.
The tree branches move;
the inconsistent, but gentle lull
of your mother's arms.
It is lovely in the canopy.
I don't think I could have picked a better home;
fourth branches up, here in the canopy.
It is so much higher
than anyone's home I know around here.
It is all branches and trees,
pastel flowers and leaves,
with a nice view of the river.
At night, I watch the stars burst
in the midnight sky,
wishing always
you were here with me.
Be well and know I am happy here
as I hope you are there.
Aaron C. Molden
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Myself
Here I somethings you may not know about me:
I have never thrown a decent birthday party, nor do I ever intend to unless it happens I want to cook a certain person something delicious. I'm simply not big on decorations.
I do not give presents to people on specific dates very often, but I do dole them out regularly, sometimes even to strangers. Speaking of which, who wants a book by Bill Bryson? You will not be disappointed.
I enjoy sitting on the floor. Much of the time I prefer it. It has a native feel to it anywhere you happened to be, except for maybe a swamp that is lacking a raised deck. Watery weeds are basically eels or snake if you can only feel them.
I do not enjoy talking about sex all of the time. Although I do like talking about sex regularly, even to the point of vulgarity. It simply becomes tiresome and unoriginal if that is the only topic one seems able to address; similar to weather as a topic in a way.
I do not believe a movie is over after you finish watching it for the first time. This is actually true of all story-telling. There are no new ideas, only variations in telling them in a new way.
I value the virtue of mythology beyond entertaining people with stories that seem unreal and wholly fantastical.
I am conscious of my use of prefixes and suffixes. I also am rather anal retentive about correct spelling, and am slightly anxious of my understanding of proper grammar. By contradiction, I rather enjoy receiving words from women I like that are intentionally misspelled due to coyness; etymologically speaking, it can makes me blush.
Most of the time, I am okay with being alone. Many times, I prefer it. In nearly thirty years, not a thing has changed that. Some have tried to take that part of my mind away. It is not a good idea because so far -eventually or suddenly- it has only ended badly.
I prefer biking over any other transport: then walking, then canoeing, then commuting, and lastly driving. I would say I hate driving, but in all actuality I do enjoy driving occasionally, so long as it is through at least a scenic forest or glen; mountains and oceans I particularly prize and horses always improve a view.
People have the ability to hurt me on many levels, but that, as of yet, has failed to kill me. Some day I suppose. So far, so good.
Aaron C. Molden
I have never thrown a decent birthday party, nor do I ever intend to unless it happens I want to cook a certain person something delicious. I'm simply not big on decorations.
I do not give presents to people on specific dates very often, but I do dole them out regularly, sometimes even to strangers. Speaking of which, who wants a book by Bill Bryson? You will not be disappointed.
I enjoy sitting on the floor. Much of the time I prefer it. It has a native feel to it anywhere you happened to be, except for maybe a swamp that is lacking a raised deck. Watery weeds are basically eels or snake if you can only feel them.
I do not enjoy talking about sex all of the time. Although I do like talking about sex regularly, even to the point of vulgarity. It simply becomes tiresome and unoriginal if that is the only topic one seems able to address; similar to weather as a topic in a way.
I do not believe a movie is over after you finish watching it for the first time. This is actually true of all story-telling. There are no new ideas, only variations in telling them in a new way.
I value the virtue of mythology beyond entertaining people with stories that seem unreal and wholly fantastical.
I am conscious of my use of prefixes and suffixes. I also am rather anal retentive about correct spelling, and am slightly anxious of my understanding of proper grammar. By contradiction, I rather enjoy receiving words from women I like that are intentionally misspelled due to coyness; etymologically speaking, it can makes me blush.
Most of the time, I am okay with being alone. Many times, I prefer it. In nearly thirty years, not a thing has changed that. Some have tried to take that part of my mind away. It is not a good idea because so far -eventually or suddenly- it has only ended badly.
I prefer biking over any other transport: then walking, then canoeing, then commuting, and lastly driving. I would say I hate driving, but in all actuality I do enjoy driving occasionally, so long as it is through at least a scenic forest or glen; mountains and oceans I particularly prize and horses always improve a view.
People have the ability to hurt me on many levels, but that, as of yet, has failed to kill me. Some day I suppose. So far, so good.
Aaron C. Molden
Monday, April 20, 2015
Rainy Day
We are not allowed to choose who we love
even if we so desperately choose
to believe we can.
And sometimes it is hard to justify love
in an environment where God is a falsehood
or only an advertisement.
But love is still there, eternally.
Through the saturation of modern daily life
love still manages to appear,
with its meek and apprehensive face,
and shine down upon those who are mostly unaware
or at least pretend to be.
It's raining. It's been raining all day,
but the flowers are all out in full bloom.
Anyone who believes we are no longer affected
by the primordial muck that is true nature
is a fool. I know this because it is springtime
once again. It is a very beautiful and violent season
in our yearly cycle; truly an awakening of our senses.
I hold no sentimental thoughts for it,
but always appreciate it for its visceral gusto
of being, of once again growing
and again giving life to this eternal cycle
that I, as many, take for granted far too often.
This wet grass, these tulips and daffodils,
that broken birdhouse, the turquoise Mazda truck
rusting at the wheel well across the alley,
this notebook I am writing in; struggling
to keep flat in the wind that continues to blow
in a gentle, yet demanding way.
These chalk grey skies.
We know them and sometimes suspect
they will never go away.
Then, eventually, the sun shines once again.
Then, you find yourself encountering
the thing you need to encounter,
even if you didn't know you needed
to encounter it.
This is a sermon for the godless,
the flawed, the thoroughly human,
who do not know why they care, but still do.
Confusion is a virtue you can work with.
Aaron C. Molden
even if we so desperately choose
to believe we can.
And sometimes it is hard to justify love
in an environment where God is a falsehood
or only an advertisement.
But love is still there, eternally.
Through the saturation of modern daily life
love still manages to appear,
with its meek and apprehensive face,
and shine down upon those who are mostly unaware
or at least pretend to be.
It's raining. It's been raining all day,
but the flowers are all out in full bloom.
Anyone who believes we are no longer affected
by the primordial muck that is true nature
is a fool. I know this because it is springtime
once again. It is a very beautiful and violent season
in our yearly cycle; truly an awakening of our senses.
I hold no sentimental thoughts for it,
but always appreciate it for its visceral gusto
of being, of once again growing
and again giving life to this eternal cycle
that I, as many, take for granted far too often.
This wet grass, these tulips and daffodils,
that broken birdhouse, the turquoise Mazda truck
rusting at the wheel well across the alley,
this notebook I am writing in; struggling
to keep flat in the wind that continues to blow
in a gentle, yet demanding way.
These chalk grey skies.
We know them and sometimes suspect
they will never go away.
Then, eventually, the sun shines once again.
Then, you find yourself encountering
the thing you need to encounter,
even if you didn't know you needed
to encounter it.
This is a sermon for the godless,
the flawed, the thoroughly human,
who do not know why they care, but still do.
Confusion is a virtue you can work with.
Aaron C. Molden
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Chasing the Sunset
The simplest, yet greatest phenomenon I have had the pleasure to witness happened when I was traveling west with two women, who I love to this day and I will love eternally, in a Toyota Corolla. Due to the curvature of the Earth and the altitude of the Wyoming Badlands, the sunset seemed would never end. It was all glowing pinks and purples for longer than I ever imagined possible. In those glorious and sober moments I could not fathom a better place to be than in the back seat of that car, watching those two woman talk to each other, but unable to hear what they were saying. Through the wind shield that glorious skyline was the back drop to my utterly mundane, but absolutely beautifully shot silent film. We were chasing the sunset, and to this very day I believe we almost caught it.
Aaron C. Molden
Aaron C. Molden
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