Alisa Valdes

Writer. Producer. Human.

The Eclipse, The Bible, Wine and Me


This post is going to be mostly a stream of consciousness, because why not? I’ve been writing so much structured material lately, my writer bones are desirous to scatter themselves across the floor, in shapes never before imagined. At least not by this head, in this place

Today, incredibly, I did not stare into the sun. I am burned all the way through my soul anyway. Ashes blow up and out my nostrils. I am a dragon. He loved me. Then he didn’t love me. He wanted to come over, for a while. Then he didn’t, and he told me I needed to move on. Mostly – no, entirely – this was my fault. I do this.

I will not move on because I have grown roots in him, like a weed through a bunny corpse. I’m more likely to grow around the tumor of his leaving, try to circle my arteries and tendons around the lump and make it permanent. I do that, too. My heart, that sack of potatoes. A bump for every string of garlic inspired towards every one of their necks.

Stay away, woman.

I poke out these endings and these traumas, from the slow, sad music I superimpose over their faster songs, his metal metal metal in my mouth; my pointy battle baton wielded from the conductor’s podium open mouthed, like I held a tube of mascara at the mirror. It is all mirrors, with men. I will draw you in with my big beautiful brown eyes but in the end, you’ll run from the monstrous smear of black war paint that drips down my cheeks when the crazy comes, and it always comes.

I am, it seems, no one anyone can love.

Least of all, him. He, whom I loved more than any of the others. He, the wide-necked Frenchman. Half Frenchman, full of poetry and dark shadow. Genius. Boy. Hers, still – who? Anyone but me, I guess.

I fill the hole with wine.

Also, there was an eclipse. And did I mention it was red? The wine.

I taught myself some cords on the guitar and sang along. I also found God this weekend. Again. I’m not letting go this time. This time, I will live by his laws. Maybe things will get better. Maybe not.

It has been a very long time since I walked barefoot through puddles. This could be the day that changes.


If Topaz Could Talk


(My beloved dog Topaz is about four million years old. No one’s sure just how old, but probably around 18. This is how I imagine her morning monologue goes.)


I’m on the floor. Next to the wall. This is a bed, supposedly. But look at it. Thin and really, just not good. That’s a real bed, right there.

The queen is still asleep in it. How I love her.

James, though. He’s up there. On the bed. He should know dogs aren’t allowed on the bed. I hate him. He is very bad. Very bad. Bad, bad dog.

The queen tries to make me go up there sometimes. She says “Up! Topaz, Up!” I go but I hate it. I feel guilty. See, I learned a long time ago, from someone else. No dogs on the bed! Bad things happen, very bad things.

Dogs, no.

And that James. He is a terrible dog. Just terrible. His tail is too long and he only wags it when he’s mad. The noise he makes isn’t even a dog noise. It’s like he’s dying. Mrwreowr. Whatever!

And those birds he brings home. And mice.

No dog eats mice.

Look how he’s staring at me. Smug, stupid, tiny dog with triangle ears. I think I’ll kill him. Or maybe I’ll just yelp a little and start to whine.

Oh, that did it. The queen is up.

“Shut up, please,” she tells me. She puts the little dog bed over her head.

James stares at me. Contempt. It goes both ways. I hate him.

Maybe today is the day he will die.