Life’s Weird, Brown Corners

By Michael Kelman Portney

There’s a word for the odd, unfiltered, and often overlooked parts of life. We call it “brown.” It’s a concept borrowed from the band Ween, who turned this simple color into something deeper—a term to describe anything that doesn’t quite fit, that feels off-kilter, raw, or just plain weird. To Ween, “brown” became a symbol for the unapologetically strange and authentic, the parts of life that aren’t polished and pretty but are undeniably real.

This article isn’t about Ween, though. It’s about what that idea of “brown” represents: the strange, messy corners of life we usually ignore or try to sweep away. These “brown weird corners” show up in our personal lives, in our collective psyche, and in those dark places of the mind and memory that we often avoid. They’re the places in life where things get a bit murky, where nothing is perfect or glossy, and where realness reigns.

We’ve been conditioned to value the opposite of brown—polished, filtered, clean-cut realities that align with the stories we tell ourselves about how life should look. But when we only live in those spaces, we lose something essential. We lose the unfiltered and the authentic; we lose the parts of ourselves that refuse to conform. These brown weird corners are more than imperfections; they’re the raw truths that often reveal who we really are.

Personal Examples of Brownness

Take, for instance, the stale cheese smell of a pizzeria my father and I used to visit. Smell is a powerful memory trigger, and somehow, that strange old, greasy cheese smell felt like its own version of “brown.” Sometimes I’ll walk into a (bad) Italian restaurant and I’ll smell that smell, and it fills me with joy. It’s not a particularly good smell, but it makes me happy nonetheless. There’s a brownness to the nostalgia that comes with certain smells, especially those we encountered as kids. They fill us with memories we can’t fully access and emotions we can’t quite place.

Then there are those unexpected encounters with people from the past—high school friends, ex-coworkers, individuals who’ve drifted away. When we run into each other, it’s like opening a door to a forgotten version of myself. We exchange pleasantries, sure, but there’s always this weird tension in the air, this silent acknowledgment of who we used to be and the unspoken memories between us. These encounters exist in a “brown” space, reminding me that people from our pasts often don’t fade away cleanly, that the connections we’ve shed still linger in unpolished, unresolved ways.

Or take that box of old letters and photos shoved into the back of my closet. Every few years, I pull it out and go through it, feeling like I’m visiting another life. There are faces frozen in smiles, notes scribbled with excitement or anxiety, people who were once close but are now strangers. Going through it feels like confronting the ghosts of my past, seeing parts of myself that I’ve left behind but that still linger, demanding some kind of acknowledgment. That box is its own brown corner—a cluster of fragments that don’t fit neatly into the rest of my story but still claim their place.

Then there are the late-night conversations with friends that take an unexpected turn. We start off talking about something casual, only for the conversation to veer into uncomfortable territory—old insecurities, unspoken fears, unresolved issues. Suddenly, we’re talking about things we never meant to share, emotions creeping into voices, silences hanging in the air. These are raw moments, too personal to fully acknowledge, yet undeniable in their truth. In the morning, we move on as though it never happened, but those strange, brown corners of intimacy stay with us, reminders of the complexity behind every friendship.

There’s also my folder of half-finished projects—a digital graveyard of outlines, fragments, and ideas that never became anything more. Each one represents a spark of inspiration that faded out, a path I started down but never followed through. Sometimes I open one, and it’s like peering into an alternate life, a version of myself who thought these ideas would define me. That folder is a brown corner of my life, a testament to all the things I wanted to become but never did. And in its own way, it’s beautiful—an awkward collection of potential and failure that says as much about me as anything I’ve completed.

Lastly, there are family gatherings with tension under the surface—those events where everyone plays their part, smiling and chatting, but the air is heavy with unspoken words and unresolved issues. There’s love, certainly, but there’s also a discomfort, a clash of history and personality that everyone feels but no one mentions. It’s an unspoken reality, a reminder that even our closest relationships have “brown” moments, the awkward, unresolved pieces that complicate the idea of family but also make it real.

Embracing the Brown

These are my “brown” moments—the weird, unresolved, sometimes awkward parts of life that linger in the background. They remind me that real life isn’t neatly structured, that the richness of human experience is in these raw, messy moments that refuse to be smoothed over. In focusing only on life’s glossy surface, we miss out on these corners, on the parts of ourselves and each other that don’t fit any easy mold.

So, next time you find yourself in one of these brown weird corners—whether it’s a fleeting memory, an uncomfortable encounter, or a hidden, messy part of your life—consider sitting with it. There’s a reason these moments exist, even if they don’t fit the story we’d prefer to tell. They’re strange, yes, but in their own way, they’re beautiful. They’re pieces of a fuller, richer picture of reality, one where we embrace the uncomfortable and find value in the unpolished.

In a world that’s constantly trying to tidy things up, there’s something radical in simply letting these corners be, in recognizing that life’s “brownness” holds a kind of truth that is essential to who we are.