Eric Barry Writes: Poetry, Short Stories, and Writing

Apologies for the hiatus! I've been busy—writing a goddamn book! But I didn't want to continue to neglect the podcast, so please checkout Chapter 4 from the novel Rainbows. And if you know any literary agents of publishers, I'm looking! -- As far as I was concerned, Ms. Levy was an evil woman. She was lilliputian in stature—I’d later learn that meant small, with nails that protruded from her paper mache hands. Every time she grabbed the chalk, dry and brittle like her, she’d drag it down the board in parched shrieks—shrieks I’d only heard rivaled by the sound of her own voice. Her early morning routine of eating canned sardines and pricking her blood from her finger bolstered rumors that she may in fact have been a witch. We never learned Ms. Levy’s first name. I don’t think she had one. I once heard a quote that said, “to learn the first name of your oppressor is to humanize them, and there’s little in the world more vulnerable than being human.” It’s possible I just made that up. I really can’t remember. Either way, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a crock of shit. I sat in my desk, my head propped against my hand. I thought about the sack lunch waiting for me in my cubby while Ms. Levy droned on about the virtues of cursive handwriting. Processed turkey on dry white bread, always with too much mustard. While most kids looked inside their lunch boxes to find respite in their day, I was always met with bland disappointment. The culinary arts were markedly absent from my home. Our breakfasts were not ones of Belgian waffles, bacon, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, but of Grape Nuts and 1% milk. The rare egg breakfast that did come our way did so via my mom’s patented “crack two into a cereal bowl and microwave for two minutes” recipe. The recess bell rang out. Well, it was more of a tone than a bell, the kind you’d hear doing those tests to see if you were a deaf kid. All the deaf kids were in a special class at Tad Mountain, and everyone was afraid to play with them at recess, and I was afraid of them, too. I just didn’t want to do something wrong and make them feel bad, and so I guess I avoided altogether. But I didn’t feel good about it. I went to get up, hoping that by some miracle of God a Fruit Roll-Up had made its way into today’s provisions. “Chase. That’s not how we make g’s, now is it, Chase?” Ms. Levy pressed down on my shoulder, keeping me from getting up in my seat. I looked down at the paper before me. It sure as hell looked like a g to me. I thought about launching into a harangue, giving Ms. Levy her own lesson in linguistics. About how language is nothing more than an ever-evolving tool of communication, about how its efficacy in communicating is entirely dependent on these imperfections, because we as individuals, as a society, as human beings, continue to evolve ourselves, and the flexibility of language allows it to adapt to context and nuance. My g was just that. A portal of communication through which all were welcome. I thought about speaking a slew of profanities not yet known to me. I thought about the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to pee before class started. I thought about what might be in that goddamn lunch sack. Levy was about to hear it all when I opened my mouth. “I’m trying my hardest.” What a goddamn letdown. “I think you and that chair are going to get very acquainted with each other until you try harder.” Levy scurried back toward her desk, a proud smirk on her face. With each tiny step I swear I could hear her twat scrunching against itself like a paper bag full of dried leaves. I’ve never had good handwriting. Things just didn’t always translate from my brain to hand the way I wanted. My parents thought the bad handwriting might be auspicious of a career in medicine. Instead I gravitated towards writing. I guess I liked making things hard on myself. Compounding the issue was that I suffered from hyperhidrosis, meaning I sweated excessively, from everywhere, anytime one might be expected to sweat—and many times one would not. During tests sweat would make its way from the grip of my hand, dancing down pen to paper like a sultry stripper. Thankfully we had a family computer I learned to write on, meaning all the profundities a five-year-old had to offer weren’t lost to the sweaty sands of time. Once again the recess bell rang, and the pattering of LA Lights shoes and the smell of Hi-C Ecto Cooler filled the room. God these desks were miserable contraptions. One-size-hardly-fits-all metal cages, hard to get into, hard to get out of, with a chair whose back was surely behind an entire generation of scoliosis. Tap-tap-tap-TAP-TAP-TAP-tap-tap-tap. I bounced the head of my pencil’s eraser off the etched and graffitied surface of my desk. My dad told me stories of when he was a kid, how he and all his classmates used morse code to communicate with each other. I looked around to see if anyone had heeded my distress signal. No such luck. Levy once again shuffled to the center of the room. “Class, next we’re going to be learning about…” Third grade. How many more dreadful years was I supposed to endure this? All this drivel that would have no practical impact in my life? I counted in my head. Nine years. Jesus. “Each of you will be responsible for your own worm…” Worm? What the hell was Levy going on about? My eyes snapped to attention. In Miss Levy’s hands she held one of those blue Danish cookie tins. Inside the tin she revealed several large mulberry leaves sitting atop a paper towel, the leaves lined with hundreds of specks of white. “These are the eggs. And you will be responsible for raising your silk worm, until eventually, it becomes a moth.” Well, holy shit. Responsible for another’s life. I felt a surge of goodness, and a sense of import swelled inside me. Being in charge of bettering another being’s life felt like the opportunity I never knew I’d always wanted. Levy set the tin down on a counter. “Now file up alphabetically,” she commanded. “By first or last name?” Someone asked. Chase was my first name and Greyson was my last. That goddamn “G” would be the end of me. We lined up single file to pick which white speck of potential would be entrusted to us. Most of the eggs were clumped together on the underside of the leaves, near their midrib. “Chase, if you don’t hurry up I’ll pick one for you,” Levy prodded. That old bag should’ve been running an orphanage. The eggs were largely indistinguishable from each other, some slightly larger, some slightly smaller, all an off-white color, all vying for a shot at viability. All except for one lone dot clinging to the outermost edge of a leaf’s blade, exiled from the others. “That one.” “Which one?” “The dot.” “That one looks like it’s already dying.” That’s more than Levy could say. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” “It’s your grade.” We were being graded on this? What did Levy think this was, handwriting? I was handed a torn-off piece of mulberry leaf and a tiny plastic case. Inside the case, my little dot. I walked carefully to the back of the classroom, cradling the future in my hands, and placed it inside my cubby. I leaned down next to the case. “I’m going to name you Dotty,” I whispered to the egg. I decided this would be as good a time as any to peak into my lunch bag. Processed turkey on dry white bread, always with too much mustard.

A working draft preview of chapter 3 of Rainbows, the novel I've been working on this year. I would really love your earnest thoughts, which you can send to ericbarrywrites@gmail.com, or on instagram @ericbarrywrites, and twitter @ericbarry. -- The Covenant had a community center with a gym and pool, and every Friday night they’d hold these barbecues where all the families in town would come down and the kids would drink grape soda and play games in the pool while the adults ate ribs and talked about God or something. The food was amazing, much better than anything my parents ever made. Ribs, sausages, burgers, brisket, potato salad, ice cream, you name it. Only problem was the yellow jackets. Any time you made a plate those fuckers would swarm it. If you set it down for just one second, you were finished. Without the food, those nights were pretty crummy. I dreaded swimming. My skin was so ghostly white that putting on sunscreen was always a humiliating affair, and more often than not, my parents would miss a spot, leaving me with the sun-charred outlines of their hands on my back. Even as the sun was setting, I’d get burnt. Eventually they resigned themselves to just sending me into the water with a t-shirt on. I was marked from the beginning. My body always felt like it had strayed from whatever it was supposed to be. My skin too white. My penis too small. My stomach too padded.   A few weeks after The Closet Game, my parents decided to look at houses again. “We’re going to go for a drive.” They’d do that on Sundays, driving their car from open house to open house, walking inside and imagining the life they could be living before moving onto the next. “We’ll be back by dinner. If anything comes up, listen to your sister.” Meredith was six years my senior, far enough apart to avoid sibling fistfights and Christmas morning jealousy. Also far enough apart to never feel like we were going through life together at the same time. I watched from our guest room window as my parents car pulled out of the garage and down the street. I ran into their bathroom and grabbed my mom’s hand-mirror. I couldn’t stop thinking about The Closet Game, and how different Lindsay and Greg’s bodies looked from my own. Where their skin was smooth and golden and resilient, mine was pale and and freckled and susceptible. I went into my bedroom and locked the door. My parents let me have a lock on the door, which I rarely used as nothing very exciting ever happened in my room, but today I was glad to have it. My sister’s door was always closed, and I could hear “Baby’s Got Back” playing through the walls. I took off my shirt and sweatpants, and then my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle briefs. They seemed embarrassing at the time, but slightly less so than the all-too-revealing and stain-prone plain white underwear. I held the mirror underneath my nose to see if I could see inside to my brain. I learned in a PBS documentary that the Egyptians used to take the brains of the dead out through their nose to help preserve the bodies. Every time I breathed out the mirror would fog up, but eventually I held my breath long enough to see a bunch of nose hairs and darkness, and I figured if the brain was up there, it wasn’t something I wanted to see after all. I set the mirror on the ground and stood tall, looking down at my reflection. I was a giant! My testicles and even my penis looked huge from down there. Where were Lindsay and Greg now? I squatted down over the mirror. There was a line, like a stitch, that started at the underside of my scrotum and made its way under me all the way to my ass. What the hell was this thing? I remembered an episode of Oprah, where children were born with two sets of genitals, and their parents had to decide whether to modify their kid’s genitals to be male or female. Holy God—my parents had sewn up my vagina. I was sure of it. I shuffled forward a bit. There it was: my asshole. Christ almighty. What the hell was wrong with it? Sure I’d heard the term asshole, but when you’re walking around your ass doesn’t look like a hole, it’s a crevice, a slit between two cheeks. I’d always assumed that when you shit the whole damn crevice part just opened up, like one of those fire helicopters my dad had showed me pictures of releasing water to the forrest below. My hole wasn’t even perfect. The skin twisted together, making thin folds to hide in, until they vanished in a center point. It looked a lot less like a hole and a lot more like someone had overstuffed a hamper with a bunch of sheets. A thick blue tube bulged out, askew from the other lines. I poked it with my finger. It felt like rubber. I was a seven-year-old with hemorrhoids. I was just getting started in life and I was already a wreck.

A working draft preview of chapter 2 of Rainbows, the novel I've been working on this year. I would really love your earnest thoughts, which you can send to ericbarrywrites@gmail.com, or on instagram @ericbarrywrites, and twitter @ericbarry. -- A great fear and fascination of sex was instilled in me at Greg’s house.   The Closet Game was indeed a game to be played hidden and away from the eyes of adults.   “Come in here with us,” Lindsay implored. “Um. I’m just gonna watch this time if that’s okay.” “What’s a matter? Are you scared?” She had no idea. “No. I just. It seems bad.” “Just get in here.”   Greg slid the closet door open slightly further, and I entered into the void.   “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” I couldn’t understand how she was so confident, no fear of our judgement. Even at eight years old, she knew her negotiating power as a female. “I’ll do it next time,” I said, praying she wouldn’t persist. “I’ll go,” Greg volunteered himself. Her own brother. The Closet Game seemed to be one all too familiar to Lindsay and Greg, played countless times, a matter of routine when a guest was over.   Greg unbuttoned his corduroy pants and pulled them down to his knees, underwear and all. Lindsay took her brother’s penis in her hand, examining it with fixation. I felt my own penis become slightly engorged. Despite my reticence to engage in the game at hand, I was admittedly intrigued by Greg’s penis. It did not resemble my own. It was longer and thicker, and had an elephant trunk-like nature as it contoured to its end, with no discernible head present. Moments with my father in public restrooms had revealed that his was a man’s penis; thick and massive, that which time would some day afford me. But in seeing Greg’s penis, a fear was instilled in me: I am different than other boys, abnormal and lacking in what I have to offer. “Okay. Now it’s my turn,” Lindsay commanded. She lifted up her pink floral sundress, revealing she was not wearing panties. Her mound was bare, a stark contrast to my mother’s 1970’s inspired bush. Her slit ran down her golden tan skin until it disappeared, leaving me dumbfounded. Where was her vagina? I had always assumed the vagina hole was nestled securely behind that thick mound of hair, where a man’s penis would be. Everything I was witnessing made me deeply uncomfortable. Then Lindsay reached over and kissed Greg. She pulled back from her brother, and then brought her hands which were still holding her dress back down, and instructed her brother to pull his pants up. “That’s how you play The Closet Game.” Lindsay slid the door open and we were surrounded by light.

This is a very unique episode, featuring an early preview of the first chapter of the novel I'm working on, "Rainbows." I would really love your earnest thoughts, which you can send to ericbarrywrites@gmail.com, or on instagram @ericbarrywrites, and twitter @ericbarry. -- When you first find out about death, the whole deal seems pretty rotten. And once its knowledge touches you, it’s a grasp you feel right until the end. At least that’s how it was for me. Maybe that’s where the loneliness started. The understanding that this was all going to be for naught. That we were brought into a world filled with pain and loss and sorrow, told to chase the joy, the shiny things, told to manufacture and lust for happiness. Knowing the whole while that inevitability and time would slowly pluck it all away. And in the end, we are all truly alone. Left to the worms and mites, as impressions fade through generations until our name no longer finds residence in the air, and the sun scorches our earth lifeless. I don’t mean to be bleak, but it’s a lot to take in when you’re seven.   The woman with the angular haircut and glasses began pumping her feet and hands, and the organ music—the kind you associate with Sunday morning headaches and car sickness as you stare with your head pressed against the car’s rear passenger window—began to fill the room. That’s pretty much how it went every Sunday morning. Our church was called the Covenant, and as far as I could tell it was non-denominational, which did seem a bit more welcoming than the alternatives. But nonetheless, khaki pleated pants and ill-fitting powder blue dress shirts and ugly dresses and outdated hairdos knew no denomination. The most horrendously boring people gathered every Sunday to cross another chore off the weekly list. In a way, I don’t blame people for believing in a god. It certainly helps with the dread, and though my own beliefs have wavered through the years, I always got the impression I was seeking to anchor them to a deeper truth than sheer existential peace of mind. Not that I consider seventeen old, but I feel like I was never afforded the youth of my peers, my mind and heart plagued with the gospels of a reality they may never discover no matter how old. I also know this makes me sound like a little shit.   The church tip jar was passed around, and I placed the seventy-five cents reserved for my post-sermon doughnut into it. Here’s to you, God.   “Chase!” The sound of my mother calling my name was never a welcomed one, her voice walking an impressive line between nasal and shrill as though she were imitating a dying crow. She was 42 at the time. I would later learn from my father that I was an accident. He had been led to believe my mother was on birth control, when she surprised him with news of my conception on Christmas morning, disrobing to reveal me growing inside her. The next week he lay on the operating table, ready to have his ball bag sliced open. My mother called the surgery center and implored the nurse to run into the operating room and stop the procedure to no avail. At least that’s what he told me. I stared, thinking things children should not be thinking of their parents. My mother was not a fat woman, but two children and a food addiction had taken their toll, and her own parents never gave her the self-esteem necessary to combat the effects of time. She could hardly see without her glasses, which never helped in the many moments she struggled to find them buried deep somewhere in her purse, or car, or or the couch cushions, or her other purse. I could never quite place her hair: some days it seemed burgundy, others it reminded me of strands of orange pulp found at the bottom of a can of juice concentrate. She claimed her hair had been permanently fried in a salon accident after she fell asleep in a dryer chair, her hairdresser making friendly with one of the husbands in the bathroom. What my my mom lacked in eyesight, self-control, and sherbet hair, my father made up for with being hard of hearing, spartan discipline, and a hairline that looked like it was seceding from his forehead. He was tall and fit, but awkward in control of his body and personality. I never understood what it was that attracted the two of them to each other, and admittedly would often resent them for my own physical shortcomings, but I guess the deaf leading the blind is the most romantic of the configurations. “Chase! Come say hi to Greg’s parents.” Greg Pierce was my same age, and looked and sounded much like that kid from the “You on Kazoo” videos, to help paint a picture. He had a sister in the fourth grade, Lindsay, who even at nine was insanely hot. The kind of hot that was so penetrating you knew this wasn’t just a kid phase, she was in this for life. She was blonde, skinny, and had a propensity for lifting up her shirt to show off to the boys. I understand you’re not supposed to talk that way about a nine-year-old, but for chrissake who do you think seven-year-olds are ogling anyhow? The three of us attended Tad Newton elementary school in Redwood City, a middle class city halfway down the San Francisco peninsula. I stood by my dad’s side as polite conversation took place, wanting nothing more than to be out of the stuffy church that smelled like bus seat fabric. “How are things at the firehouse?” Greg’s dad asked. He was a tall, lanky, all around dork. With a mustache. His name was Don. Very 80’s. My dad gestured to me. “Yep, he sure is getting big.” It’s hard to explain the feeling one has as a child when you’re embarrassed on behalf of your parent. It’s as though you want to reach out to the other parties and assure them that you’ll be okay, that you’re aware of the situation at hand, and measure will be taken to address it. Greg’s dad powered through. “If you and Lynda wanted to go looking at houses, Chase is welcome to come over and play with the kids.” “Do you want to go over to Greg’s, Chase?” I spotted Lindsay through the glass wall of the church, running in her sundress on the grass field, taking care as not to let her bare feet step on any hidden rocks. “I’d like that,” I replied.

I rant about a couple people's reaction to rainbows and ownership of my body, or something. Oh, and a tiny poem. email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com, instagram: @ericbarrywrites twitter: @ericbarry -- Chasing rainbows, to no end Following a path of perpetual bend Tears roll by as I smile and stare Not quite sure what was ever there  

A poem about searching for something you didn't want to find. email ericbarrywrites@gmail.com or @ericbarrywrites on insta, @ericbarry on twitter. -- I set out on a journey, Heart open and eyes set wide I grabbed her hand with no set plan And said hey let’s kill some time   Whiskey and tequila, What’s mine is yours and yours is mine With pressed lips, where fingers slip And a chaser filled with brine   So you don’t know Which way to go Or what you’ll want to find But restless hearts, beat on their parts With undiscovered lies   You asked for some seeds of doubt Watering alone, hoping something would sprout But there was no plant, just your watering can And a concern no concern would be found   I guess looking’s a foolish man’s game So I said hey let’s give it a play On top of the trash, the marks on your back It always ends up the same way   So you don’t know Which way to go Or what you’ll want to find But restless hearts, beat on their parts With undiscovered lies

A piece I wrote about a recent experience. If any musicians out there are interested in setting this to music, I'd love to hear your interpretations! email ericbarrywrites@gmail.com or @ericbarrywrits on insta, @ericbarry on twitter. -- Lay me down With your words   Needle me Till it hurts   Out and in Your hand it knows   Start over again The story goes   So paint a picture, however you see fit Make me your work of art, Filling in my empty parts   Your broad strokes, and interpretations I’ll open up, I won’t complain Leave me with your permanent stain   And once it’s all over.. We’ll take in what's been done We’ll bite our lips like some schoolyard kids, “Hey thanks, I had fun” And we’ll leave each other, maybe with a hug But when we part ways, no matter what we say, We’ll look back in the mirror on what happened that day And from time to time, we may change our mind, But we’ll never slip this skin   So paint a picture, however you see fit Use me up, I’ll be fine with it, Make me your work of art, Filling in my fucking empty parts   Your broad strokes, and interpretations I’ll open up, I won’t complain In fact if you had to ask me, I’ll be back again But here we are, it’s the price I pay, finding safety in familiar pain, So strap on, strap down, your hands, on me now And leave me with your permanent stain

Thom Selleck is looking for an escape from his present life as an escort, so travels to the past by way of Cuba. Though he soon realizes Cuba is not a place of the past, but of an alternate dimension. Social Links:  instagram.com/ericbarrywrites twitter.com/ericbarry facebook.com/ericbarrywrites email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com  

This week we're doing something a little different, as I'm posting a live performance of a story from my real life involving my first foray into sex work from the Chicago podcast Your Stories on the Nerdologues network. I'm off to Cuba but will update ASAP. Social Links:  instagram.com/ericbarrywrites twitter.com/ericbarry facebook.com/ericbarrywrites email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com

My Inside-Out Beauty What role of disgust must I fulfill In order to fill the hole that I feel In order to feel whole and feel real An order of happiness found in a pill Is it "Fuck! Shit! Mother of God!" "I am made ugly! Parade the facade!" Is it bubbling, boiling, oozing with fat? "Acne on my face! Moles on my back!" What will be demanded of me To proclaim imperfection and help me to see That I once was blind to the ugly in me Some exercise in catharsis to purge this beauty An exercise in fingers and bile and throats An exercise to see what misery company loves most An exercise in “Ready? One two three lift!” An exorcism of esteem, an osmosis of shit Hairy nipples, hairy ass, hairy balls, hairy legs Hair he dreads, hair he snips, hair he clips, but his head Butt his head ram his head in disgust to the wall Butt his head ram in it, to makeup what’s too small To makeup for what was once clear, Too makeup to makeup for labels and queers Let’s makeup and take-up our worries and fears And fill in the gaps with made-up real tears I made up and stayed up and ate up and prayed up Potato, Alfredo, I made my own weight up In the end I could send a whole list of self-loathing Perfected projections of imperfections disclosing "I hereby decree," I decided to sing Fuck it, my voice is another terrible thing Forced into dwelling and showing and telling Verbally sprinting while emotions keep swelling Why pry open lids to the rotten in me? Blood skin and bones is all I can be Live by truth, live through fear, live with hope, live in time Live bisexual, live contextual, live it all, live it live From head to toe, thrive in your skin From ugliness to beauty, live beginning to end. From the beginning no focus, out of focus, can’t focus The negative tricks and the body image broke us The negative tricks and the hocus and pocus The folks were confused, their feelings made bogus In the end, live by truth, live sincere, live in time Live bisexual, live contextual, live it all, live it live From head to toe, thrive in your skin My inside-out beauty, live beginning to end -- Social Links:  instagram.com/ericbarrywrites twitter.com/ericbarry facebook.com/ericbarrywrites email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com

A man gets trapped in the bathroom and lost in thought on a first date. Social Links: http://instagram.com/ericbarrywrites http://twitter.com/ericbarry http://facebook.com/ericbarrywrites email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com 

On this week's episode, we're doing something a little different as musician and new author Collette McLafferty stops into the writer's den to discuss her new memoir Confessions of a Bad, Ugly Singer, available on Amazon and all other online retailers. Collette and I discuss her background growing up as a performer in the suburbs of Chicago, her move to New York, and how she eventually found herself embroiled in one of the most ridiculous lawsuits ever filed, and the equally maddening and inaccurate media coverage that surrounded the suit. Transcript of the interview to follow, but for now, please listen. Social Links: http://instagram.com/ericbarrywrites http://twitter.com/ericbarry http://facebook.com/ericbarrywrites email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com 

Apologies, it's been a few weeks. I decided I'd rather spend the time to release something I feel is worthwhile than just push out halfhearted stuff for the sake of it every week. So I will continue to try and get stuff out as soon as possible, but pieces may fluctuate in regularity. Social Links: twitter.com/ericbarry instagram.com/ericbarrywrites facebook.com/ericbarrywrites Google Voicemail: (415) 779-6855 AGAINST THE MOON I want to watch the moon with you because it’s something pure and trueAnd if it should ever fail to rise, I’ll wait with you and watch the skiesThat first night we never knew, what would come and what would doBut naïve ways once held untrue, brought truth to youth and came unglued Wishing stars, wish to give, all we take that we must liveI wish that I could burn so bright, granting wishes through the night They say the sun will set, the moon will rise, to never challenge, nor surpriseThings are what they are, will be what they’ll be, to never expect differently Things never change, things never move; set will the sun, rise will the moon. I want to watch the moon with you and dance in black and shades of blueI want to hold your face to mine, against the odds in spite of timeRough and tumble, thick and thin, rich or poor, loss or winI wonder if love is true, do people bet against the moon? Across each other we start to smile, lips separate and reconcileWe come together fingers graze, celestial bodies set ablazeOceans apart or by my side, should paths diverge or worlds collideAll the feelings, all the sights, will stay with us throughout the night When there’s nothing left for us to see, I’ll show you more and you’ll show meThe lowest lows, the highest highs, until we settle in our eyesOur lids will close, our hearts will sync, and then we’ll travel in our dreamsYour hand in mine, our breath now shared, we watch the skies, no longer scared I want to watch the moon with you, because it’s something pure and trueBut when the moon forgets just what to do, I’ll be with you to watch that too

This week we continue following the journey of a young woman in her quest to find herself and an unlikely partner in the bedroom. Follow the show: Twitter.com/ericbarryInstagram.com/ericbarrywritesFacebook.com/ericbarrywrites Email: ericbarrywrites@gmail.com Listen to more from Heartache at soundcloud.com/heartache Listen to more from Julian Gray at juliangraymusic.com 00:34 - Heartache - No More Control 04:16 - Hans Zimmer - Quantifiable Connection 09:40 - Mum - The Land Between Solar Systems 12:30 - Julian Gray - Breathe 13:25 - Hans Zimmer - Where We’re Going 19:41 - Phil Collins & Philip Bailey - Easy Lover 20:06 - Mum - K/Half Noise Corinne and the Cheese (Part 2): On Tuesday, July 7, 2015 my Honda Civic broke down on the side of El Camino Real in San Mateo. It would not be inaccurate to say that in many ways, I too broke down that night. I pressed my forehead down to the steering wheel, and closed my eyes.   I was 30 years old and living at home in the Bay Area. I was 30 years old and failing out of community college—which I didn’t even know you could do—and like many it wasn’t because of lack of capability, but lack of interest, which I suppose when you get down to it isn’t entirely different. My mom and dad had never gone to college. They married young, and had me even younger. There were bumps in the road of course, but, they had survived. My life was supposed to be better. They had worked so hard to make sure that my life would be better. I worked at a frozen yogurt shop to make money. I was the sole person responsible for getting the Chocolate Cheesecake flavor on our menu.  I also seemed to be the only person who knew that even someone with a Harvard degree and a subscription to the New Yorker sounds like an idiot the moment the word “froyo” leaves their lips. As time wore on, I tried to find purpose. I saw a psychiatrist, Dr. Kitzman, who would ask me how my week had been, then just stare at me for 48 minutes before asking for $90. I tinkered with different prescriptions. But no matter the medication, everything was just… floating. I  didn’t wonder where my life had gone wrong, but I definitely wondered why my life hadn’t yet gone right. There was no direction to go, so picked one.   At 30 years old, with $819, a body pillow, and my Honda Civic to my name, I set out on the road, from San Mateo, California all the way to El Camino Real in San Mateo, California, a grand total of 3.7 miles before my carburetor or transmission or one of those words literally exploded. Bang. Smoke. The whole production. Even my car was climaxing. I sat there, crying for what felt like hours, or however long the song “Trap Queen” by Fetty Wap is. I didn’t said goodbye to my parents. I was afraid that if I did, I’d never end up leaving. I opened my eyes and lifted my forehead from the steering wheel. It was 1:50 in the morning. It was raining. My cell phone was dead. Two blocks back had been a sign for Heidi’s Pies, a late-night diner. I breathed in. I breathed out. I turned off the engine, gathered my backpack, and headed towards the rotating neon sign. I opened the door,  the bell hanging above it ringing out tinny. The lights were dim and the place was empty. A man came back from the kitchen. He was greasy. His white apron was greasy, his thick hands, filled with tension as though his blood pressure was so high he’d burst with a pin - also greasy. His face looked stinky, and greasy. And his slicked back dark hair, balding, was greasy. “Hey sorry, miss, power’s been out, we’re just running on a generator. We’re outta pretty much everything, I’m about to close up shop.” “I was hoping to get something to eat.” “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m the only one here. No Heidi. No pies.” The sky rocked with thunder. I looked back, the torrents of wet bouncing off the defective light poles. “Boy it’s really coming down out there.” “It really is,” I said. “Could I charge my phone for a few minutes?” The man let out a sigh. “Sure, hand it over here.” I sat down at the bar and handed him my phone. “Well. I guess as long as you’re waiting, I could probably offer you a couple’a  grilled cheese sandwiches.” I bit my lip and looked through him in a way I could tell a woman hadn’t looked at him in at least 20 years. “I’ll take it. I’ll take it all.”   I reached for my panties, paying no mind to the grease that was staining them. It would serve as a reminder of the night that forever changed the course of my erotic desires. His name was Brian. As he penetrated me with fingers and member alike, the smells and oil of cheese penetrated me as well. They say the largest sex organ in the human body is the brain. I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that it must be true. Because something happened that night, in my brain and in my body, that opened me up in ways I never thought imaginable. Brian handed me my phone. Full charge. I explained my plight to Brian, leaving out a few choice details like the proximity of where I had called home just an hour ago. He offered for me to stay the night, but I told him I was going to wait for a tow. He told me he’d give me $300 as a gift, I thanked him, and I told him I’d see him again, but I knew I wouldn’t. I walked to my car, got inside, and had the best night of sleep I’ve ever had.   The next morning I called AAA. The driver said I’d thrown a rod—if he only knew—and my engine was ruined. It was a ’93 Civic, meaning replacing the engine was probably more expensive than the car itself. I told him my parents would be picking me up to take me to the mechanic, and he towed the car off. Then I flagged another man down, and hitchhiked my way to the Greyhound station. New York City was my destination. Because if I was going to be stagnant, at the very least I was going to do it in a new surrounding. And thanks to Brian, I knew one way I could find a hot meal and a little cash along the way. I wasn’t completely confident that I’d solved the mystery. And why would I be? You don’t exactly grow up looking at diagrams in health class and learn “this is where the cheese goes.” A new world had opened up. One full of possibility, but with no roadmap. I found myself in Asheville and decided to take the plunge as it were, for science. I walked into the Whole Foods, typically too rich for my blood, but if I was going to skimp on quality, now was not the time. I stopped in front of the cheese section. And breathed in. Then out. That was something I was learning to do. Breathing. But this time the air around me was tantalizing. I drifted along the barrier, running my fingers along my options. I suddenly understood what it must be like for most women who walk into a bar with lust, picking anything they want. My fingers slowed and settled on a very comfortable choice that had never let me down so far: brie, triple creme. Back at my motel, I lay in bed, the wedge on the pillow next to me. I shifted my eyes towards it, and back at the ceiling. Ceilings were familiar. Comfortable. I felt virginal in some way, as though the brie and I both knew we wanted to be there, but were making small talk until one of us made the first move. I reached over, my finger picking at the plastic wrapping. Eventually I gripped the wedge, and pulled back its plastic wrap, exposing the tip. I slowly brought it down between my hips, then lower. I began rubbing.  I’m sure now seems like an odd time for modesty, but the rest continued mostly as you’d imagine. And my working hypothesis, indeed appeared to be working out even better than I had  hope for. And from that moment forward, there was to be no intimacy without cheese.   By September I found myself in Bushwick, New York. I had met a musician, a pianist in D.C. named Jeff, who was also looking to manifest his dreams, or at least catch a glimpse of them, in a city that seemed to be teeming with them We were crashing with a friend of one of Jeff’s old college roommates Stacy—as these things go—Stacy had been on an email list for the Rainbow Brigade, a self-described intentional community, a collective of artists and alternatively minded individuals who lived and worked and partied together in an undisclosed warehouse in the neighborhood. They were having a party that weekend called Taste, and who could turn that down?   I learned you always have your ride drop you off a couple blocks away, that way the cops don’t get suspicious. But given the sound system these guys were working with, I don’t know if ten blocks would’ve made a difference. We entered the party through a cellar door on the side of the building. The basement level was lit only by flashing strobes and the glow of cigarettes watching like eyes in the night. Sweat, molly, and the thumpity-bumpity beats of dangerously well-intended gum-chewing youth filled the room. I lost Jeff in the crowd and made my way through the sea of humid bodies and smoke until I found a staircase and began to ascend. Upstairs I was confronted by a world no less alternative, but stylized as if to say that it was a privilege to be there. Velvet curtains draped from the 15-foot ceiling to the floor, candelabras adorning wooden tables surrounded by couches. A woman walked by and exchanged glances with me, wearing nothing but silver-plated pasties in the shape of a flaming sun, and a long sheer skirt in moonbeam blue, the same color as the glowing makeup beneath her eyes. She held a plate of baklava, honey and almonds. I followed her into the next room. There, an even larger room, more couches, and now mattresses, occupied by men and women tangled with one another, some in similar degrees of elegant yet earthy garb, but most in nothing at all. Platters of various foods and hukah’s surrounded the mattresses. It felt like I was somewhere between Eyes Wide Shut and Burning Man. “Care for a bite?” A man put his his hand on the small of my back and approached me from behind. He was 6 feet and entirely naked. His hair was thin but his beard thick, and the room’s flames reflected in his eyes which pierced through me. He breathed out as if with intention to intoxicate me, and the effort was not in vein. I looked down at his platter. Strawberries and apricots, table crackers and cottage cheese. “Yes, please.” He took my hand and guided me across the room, navigating between contortions of bodies. We landed on a couch in the far corner. He shared his name and asked for mine. “Is this your first time here?” “Yes,” I said. “This is a place where a lot of things happen for the first time.” “That’s why I’m here,” I said He leaned over and began kissing my neck, undoing my bra through my dress in the process. Soon I was propped up on the couch, my new friend on his knees on the floor before me. As he ate me out, one hand propped back my leg while the other grazed a strawberry over my nipples, eventually gliding down towards my belly button. He brought the strawberry closer to my opening, and then looked up at me. “The cottage cheese,” I said. He looked surprised, and in that moment I could see a speck of self-consciousness. He dipped the strawberry int the cottage cheese. “No.” I said. He stopped and looked at me. “Just the cottage cheese.” “I’m sorry,” “You heard what I said,” I had all the power now. He took his two fingers and submerged them into the compartment of small curds, and looked back at me, now a boy. My eyes told him to bring his fingers closer, and he did. He turned them upward, and then pushed forward, into me. “Oh God,” I let out in exultation, my body enraptured as wires of lightning flared through it, anchored to his fingers. He began to move his fingers in and out at this, and I gently but firmly slapped him in the face and then grabbed him by the hair at the back of his head, bringing his face up to mine, where I kissed him. “Use the spoon.” “What?” “Use the spoon.” “I don’t understand.” “Oh poor thing, of course you’re dumb. USE-THE-SPOON.” He reached towards the side table where silverware had been neatly rolled, presumably for an impending meal, but dinner was going to be served early. He took the large table spoon and immersed it into the cottage cheese. He brought it towards me, now loaded with years of shame, and curiosity and wonder, and when he saw the conviction in my eyes, I saw a new spark in his, this wasn’t something to be done reluctantly or with shame, but with abandon for I wanted something no one had given, and he was here in brave service. His left hand pried my wet slit apart, his right, readying at the entry. He moved the heaping spoon into me. “YES!” I said. “M, uhh.” He began moving the spoon in and out without instruction, and I began rubbing my clit. As my body was overtaken by the intensity, I began to spasm, and I soon felt like I had to pee. “Keep going!” I shook and I thundered, and a surge flowed through me and out of me. Just then Phil Collins came on. My boy was covered, both of us painted in smiles. All the mouths of the room were agape. Alive.   I stayed at the Rainbow Brigade that night, and for several years thereafter. But people change. Neighborhoods change. The warehouse was sold. I now live with four roommates and the daily fear that one day they’ll eat from the wrong drawer in the refrigerator. I got a job at a cheese shop. Which I guess in retrospect, seems kind of obvious. But I promise, I am nothing but professional at work. Still, I’m scared. Somehow, as a collective, we’ve decided it’s okay to give up privacy in the name of righteous indignation. I can’t help but think of jilted lovers. A picture or a text I shared. One I fear they might share as well. I don’t worry what people will say. People are reasonable. I can talk to people. It’s what the internet will say that scares me. It wasn’t that long ago that people were touting the internet as this bastion of authenticity—a place where those who offered up their privacy would be rewarded for bearing their authentic selves. For showing their humanity, warts and all. But they weren’t rewarded. For that kind of radical transparency to work, it needed everyone. Every questionable photo. Every breakup email. Every unpopular opinion. Instead, those bearing their cracked souls, had those cracks torn apart, dug into by others, who reveled in their dragging, because it meant that they could be rewarded, in essence, for deciding not to show their version of whatever their warts were. I worry about my job. My housing. I wonder what joy there is in robbing someone of their personhood and offering them up to the mob. The reality is, if you want to survive on the internet, you have to be the least authentic version of yourself possible. You spend your whole life looking for something. What do you do when you find it, only to have to hide it from the rest of the world? They say the brain is the biggest sex organ. The truth is, I don’t know why I’m the way I am. I’m certainly not here to say that my orgasm or any woman’s is the end all be all. But I do know this: I have a very tolerant and stable internal pH. And my name is Corinne. And I don’t want to hide anymore.  

A woman struggling with life inside and outside the bedroom finds love in all the ripe places. Questions and comments ericbarrywrites@gmail.com Google Voice # (415) 779-6855 Twitter: @ericbarry Instagram: @ericbarrywrites Corinne and the Cheese (Part 1): It would not be inaccurate to say that I had a love affair with cheese. It also would not be inaccurate to say that I’m a woman who doesn’t like to mince words, so before you start snapping your fingers and thinking, “this girl gets me,” I need to be clear: I like to fuck cheese. -- I remember my first encounter. I was running down a flight of stairs towards our kitchen—I must’ve been two, three years old—and my mom said that magical phrase “Sweetie, lunch is ready!” God my mom had a way with words. I scaled the chair to the kitchen island where meals were always served. She ushered the pan from stove to countertop, my plate awaiting like a landing pad below. And then I saw it. Two perfectly butter-burnt golden pieces of bread, enshrining the Kraft singles as they coalesced inside, melting out in excess like hot curdled sex from its edges. I bit into that sandwich and all that is holy and dairy and carbs made love to my mouth. I wore a bib for protection, and as I chewed, the juices spewed, my mouth perched between bites in a permanent smile. I didn’t know it at the time, but that grilled cheese - or as I called it for several more years - girl cheese, was nothing but a gateway into what many would consider an unhealthy fetish, or at the very least, cardiologists and gynecologists would agree was an unhealthy dietary practice. While most kids on the school yard were trading their lunches for Gushers and hostess cupcakes, I was trading for Handi-Snacks and string cheese. I understand that to some this may sound farfetched. But as you wrestle with my words, wherever you’re reading this: I can assure you of two things: sharing these words with you now has been no easy task, and that if you had that cheese inside you, you’d know this story is anything but fantastical. -- I lost my virginity at 16. It was uneventful, much ado about nothing. You see the movies and you read the magazines and you feel like you’re missing out on something. That you’re doing it wrong. This pattern continued, the banality of lovemaking, fucking, bumping uglies—whatever poetry you wanted to bring to its name, the end result—disappointment—remained the same. There’s a great sense of shame that comes from not being able to achieve an orgasm. You’re told that it’s meant to be this holy grail. The coda to the pas de deux that is lovemaking. It’s not that you can’t enjoy the dance without it, it’s just that the dance never feels conclusive without it. Over time, sex starts to feel more chore-like for both parties. If what can’t be done in 10 minutes can’t be done in 20, and what can’t be done in 20 can’t be done in an hour, what difference does much more than 2 minutes make? At first I’d lie. I’d tell them that I never came on the first date. It wasn’t a sustainable lie. So then I’d tell them I couldn’t cum without assistance. But then, thanks to the internet, sex-positivity became le mot du jour, and suddenly boys were bringing more battery-operated devices into the bedroom than a Best Buy, and so, that lie had to go too. Eventually I said that I could only cum by myself. Without anyone else in the room. I figured that this would remedy the situation, but the reality was, there couldn’t have been a worse lie for me to tell. Suddenly my orgasm became a conquest not of my own but my lovers’. I’d lay there, pussy sopping with an hour’s saliva, only to pat his head, and tell him to enter me. And then I’d continue to lay there, limbs being battered, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over. Which is not to say that these men shouldn’t be applauded for their concerned efforts, but simply that at a point, sex became less about enjoying them and more about enduring them. -- The first time I lied about an orgasm I was 24. I can’t remember the man’s name on top of me, but I think it was Doug. What a dumb name. It’s just “ugg” with a “D” attached to it. He was hammering and nailing, occasionally tossing his head to cast his sweaty hair to the side. I didn’t find anything particularly attractive about Doug, except that he was yet another step in the direction of staying the course, the ostensible destination some mythical happiness that must be earned through the sheer passing of time. And it had been last call at the Whistling Pickler.  Sitting on his couch, a mere three blocks from the bar, I contemplated if Doug could be the one to solve this ancient mystery that was my body. But two Michelob Lights, and an unveiling of a “a shirt that said something about being a feminist” later, Doug tongue-speared my throat, and down goes Hope. As Doug pumped away, and I lay there, both of us sad in our own way, the thought crossed my mind, ‘what if I gave Doug what he wanted?’ Which was the satisfaction of knowing that he was the one; the one who could satisfy; what if I gave him the victory he was thrusting after? “Oh yeah, fuck me with your big cock. Fuck me with that big, fat cock.” I’d never said such words. Also, it wasn’t that big. “Yeah, oh my god. Ohh fucckk. I squeezed my thighs firmly against his and began contracting them in rapid succession. I put my hands behind my head and grabbed for as much pillow as I could. “It’s happening,” I said, to avoid any ambiguity. I kegeled. And boy could I Kegel. “Mmmm oh yeah yeah yeah, mmmmm” My voice started vibrating, my face scrunched up, and my eyes actually began to well. “Ahhhh.” I sighed out, signaling relief. “Yes. Yes! Oh fuck yeah, I am the fuck king!” His words, not mine. He shot inside me. I didn’t like using condoms, but I made it seem like it was his idea. His face fell into the pillow behind me. My face perked into a smile. It was over. It had never made sense to me before, but at that very moment, I realized why so many women before me had been faking orgasms. And so from that point forward, that became my modus operandi. Until I forgot to check my oil.

In our inaugural episode, I write about a Facebook post in which a women discussed her discomfort with a man talking to her on the train, and the confusion that often surrounds knowing how to approach women.  

Checkout the new podcast I'm launching,  featuring short stories, poetry, general musings, and more.   It should be available next week, so check back on iTunes, @ericbarry on Twitter, or the website at www.ericbarrywrites.com.