better profoundly imperfect communication than no communication at all

divide et impera

Last week I told em that I was one (1) heartbreak away from permanently descending into my inevitable classic bass player persona.

But honestly it was already much too late for me, I fear.

In a pool of sand and silt a starfish had thrust its arms up stiffly and was holding its body away from the stifling mud.

“It’s still alive,” I ventured.

“Yes,” he said, and with a quick yet gentle movement he picked up the star and spun it over my head and far out into the sea. It sunk in a burst of spume, and the waters roared once more.

“There are not many come this far,” I said, groping in a sudden embarrassment for words. “Do you collect?”

“Only like this,” he said softly, gesturing amidst the wreckage of the shore. “And only for the living.” He stooped again, oblivious of my curiosity, and skipped another star neatly across the water.

“The stars,” he said, “throw well. One can help them.”

He looked full at me with a faint question kindling in his eyes, which seemed to take on the far depths of the sea.

“I do not collect,” I said uncomfortably, the wind beating at my garments. “Neither the living nor the dead. I gave it up a long time ago. Death is the only successful collector.” I could feel the full night blackness in my skull and the terrible eye resuming its indifferent journey. I nodded and walked away, leaving him there upon the dunes with that great rainbow ranging up the sky behind him.

I turned as I neared a bend in the coast and saw him toss another star, skimming it skillfully far out over the ravening and tumultuous water. For a moment, in the changing light, the sower appeared magnified, as though casting larger stars upon some greater sea. He had, at any rate, the posture of a god.

But again the eye, the cold world-shriveling eye, began its inevitable circling in my skull. He is a man, I considered sharply, bringing my thought to rest. The star thrower is a man, and death is running more fleet than he along every seabeach in the world.”

Loren Eiseley. “The Star Thrower.” An Unexpected Universe. 1969. page 172, I think

“Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.”

Ate pasta alfredo and garlic bread, watched the Moulin Rouge, now reading a canto of Dante. Got the chance to climb and have some tea earlier, which was a lovely time.

“It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside
I’m not one of those who can easily hide
I don’t have much money, but, boy, if I did
I’d buy a big house where we both could live

If I was a sculptor, heh, but then again, no
Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show
I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do
My gift is my song, and this one’s for you

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple, but now that it’s done
I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you’re in the world

I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well, a few of the verses, well, they’ve got me quite cross
But the sun’s been quite kind while I wrote this song
It’s for people like you that keep it turned on

So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do
You see, I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue
Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean
Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple, but now that it’s done
I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you’re in the world

I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you’re in the world.”

“Your Song.” Elton John. 1970.

Showing up to be present with the people whose presence in your life you cherish and appreciate to no end when you aren’t at your best and you’re worried that anything you do or say or do could scare them off and make them think less of you is fucking terrifying. Like when you aren’t feeling well and you don’t trust yourself with the connections that matter to you, you wonder if even showing up to be present is a mistake because you can’t mess up a good thing when you aren’t there. Do you feel me.

In a bedsit somewhere in London, John Watson is having a nightmare. He is reliving his Army days and his team is under fire somewhere abroad. A colleague cries out his name as the gunfire continues. Finally he jolts awake and sits up in bed wide-eyed and breathing heavily until he realises that he is safe and a long way from the war. Flopping back onto his pillow, he tries to calm his breathing as he continues to be haunted by his memories. Eventually, unable to stop himself, he begins to weep.



Some time later he has sat up on the side of the bed and switched on the bedside lamp. It’s still dark outside. John sits quietly, wrapped up in his thoughts, and looks across to the desk on the other side of the room. A metal walking cane is leaning against the desk. He looks at it unhappily, then continues to gaze into the distance. He will not be sleeping again tonight.

DAY TIME. The sun has finally risen and John, now wearing a dressing gown over his night wear, hobbles across the room leaning heavily on his cane. In his other hand he has a mug of tea and an apple, both of which he puts down onto the desk. The mug bears the arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps. Sitting down, he opens the drawer in the desk to get his laptop. As he lifts the computer out of the drawer, we see that he also has a pistol in there. Putting the laptop onto the desk and opening the lid he looks at the webpage which has automatically loaded. It reads, “The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson”. The rest of the page is blank.



Later he is at his psychotherapist’s office and he sits in a chair opposite her.

ELLA: How’s your blog going?

JOHN: Yeah, good. (He clears his throat awkwardly.) Very good.

ELLA: You haven’t written a word, have you?

JOHN (pointing to Ella’s notepad on her lap): You just wrote, “Still has trust issues.”

ELLA: And you read my writing upside down. D’you see what I mean?

(John smiles awkwardly.)

ELLA: John, you’re a soldier, and it’s gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.

(John gazes back at her, his face full of despair.)

JOHN: Nothing happens to me.

–

This is an excerpt from the transcript of “A Study In Pink,” pilot episode of the British Broadcasting Co.’s TV show “Sherlock,” a modernized retelling of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Episode written by Steven Moffat.

“But your death, it won’t happen to you

It happens to your family and your friends

I pretend…”

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That was a quote from some song lyrics by Matty Healy of the 1975, for a song called “I always wanna die (sometimes)” on a record called a brief inquiry into online relationships published in 2018.

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One thing about working at the café is that I have access to, like, an exceptionally good quality sound system to play whatever music I would like to play before the café opens. I am on one hell of a 1975 kick right now, so I’m in there alone blasting music. Immensely fond of this particular british indie rocker/recovering heroin addict songwriter man. I think he’s a sad pathetic wet cat idiot but we love him anyway.

So the thing about blasting the 1975 generic playlist over the speakers at work. Is that when a song called “I always wanna die (sometimes)” is on the playlist and blasting over speakers there is a real possibility that your boss will walk in on you chopping up some onions and crying and she’ll give you funny look, and then ask if she can have a slice of rye toasted for some specialty butter she stole from over in the consessions department. And you make her some toast and in the background Matty Healy is just going “AND I ALWAYS WANNA DIE SOMETIMES… AND I ALWAYS WANNA DIE SOMETIMES…” and she’s awkwardly standing there as you say of course you will make her some toast out of a slice of rye and you talk about how many foods can be used as a vehicle for stress eating delicious stolen butter and you actually have some pretty good banter going there for a minute and then she walks away and you’re like. Fuck. Standing there wanting to bury your head in your hands from embarrassment.

But then she is especially kind to you for the rest of the day. Not in a condescending way. Just being friendly. And you think – fuck it, the Matty Healy in me sees and acknowledges the Matty Healy in you.

Namaste.

How does one decide what to wear to the orchestra?

We almost didn’t go to the orchestra.

At about noon I had a panic attack so big I almost exploded into a thousand little fragmented shards of glass and Steve, who had no idea what was happening, just had to try to hold me until I got to a place where he could help me remember how to breathe again.

The last straw after a tough week was a conversation that needed to be had because not having the conversation would have been much less considerate in the long term, but honestly in the short term it took a little courage and a lot of energy and for those reasons it may have been the thing that actually brought on the big cry that I needed to have.

Worth it, though.

Steve asked me if I still wanted to go to the orchestra. I said no. Then I said yes on the condition that I could literally wear sweatpants and a carhartt bomber jacket. He just smiled and said that would be fine. We went to the fitness center because not going would have been worse. It was good to move.

Then we got home and had to actually decide what to wear to the orchestra – $21 for each ticket I had purchased so far in advance that I had almost forgotten this concert was even on the books.

I tried on the wrong outfit first. It was a long red dress with a frankly unwise amount of cleavage and bare arms, high healed shoes, dangly gold-colored sparkly earrings shaped like fish skeletons, a gold-colored necklace featuring a pendant with a line drawing of a rose, and red nail polish. A femme version of me exists and is possibly quite stunning, but she doesn’t actually surface often and crucially this was not to right outfit for me to wear this evening.

So I ditched the red dress and high heals in favor of black jeans, a well fitted black blazer to match Steve, and combat boots. But I kept the gold-colored necklace and dangly earrings shaped like fish skeletons, of which I am growing rather fond. I kept the nail polish, too. This was significantly more comfortable than the dress would have been, on a lot of different levels.

We drove to the parking garage and walked in to the little café outside the hall and had a glass of wine. Steve told me a little about the life of Nietzsche, a philosopher who lived with significant mental and physical disabilities for most of his life and whose writings aggressively critiqued anything he believed to be life-denying.

The orchestra’s performance of “Also Sprach Zarathustra” from Strauss was powerful, moving, and cathartic. It is one of those big climactic pieces of music where everyone knows the first six bars, partly because it was featured in 2001: A Space Odyssey in 1968. During the intermission I took of my boots and curled up sideways in the chair in the theater and rested my head against the back of the chair and put my legs across Steve’s lap and looked up at the paintings on the walls of the hall and looked up at the chandelier.

Listened to Italian pop music all the way home.

“Being good will never solve the problem because the problem is not that I am bad”

~ Clementine Morrigan

Once there was this man who used to visit philosophy club and he showed up to a discussion and proceeded to say some things that demonstrated a clear distain and prejudice towards gay people in a room that was literally full of gay people. I am not sure if that was something he knew at the time and he was saying these things from a place of malice, or if he just – didn’t read the room, and was saying the same things he would have said in any room. Which is almost worse.

I got up and left the meeting as soon as I remembered I had legs. But then he followed me out into the dark so he could keep saying fucked up things to me. So I screamed at him to go away and told him to fuck off in front of a few fellow students. He did, but then when we went to go hide in the department and lock ourselves in there with the lights off, he and his friends kept walking past the door in the hallway for almost an hour after that before he finally gave up and walked away. And we walked ourselves home in groups of two and texted the group chat to check in that everyone had gotten home safe. And we filed a report and rewrote the philosophy club constitution to try to avoid having to deal with people being the way he was being. And later on he just kept turning up to meetings and we couldn’t make him go away. He even went out of his way to befriend our advisor. So eventually I stopped going to club meetings and the person that was almost ready to crawl out of my shell and start trying to date women in the way that I knew that I wanted to date women very nearly rolled over and died, but at least crawled back into the shell and decided to stay there for a long time.

When I told a librarian what had happened she looked at me and said something like – what has just happened to you is going to mess with your nervous system for days or potentially weeks, if you let it. That was a traumatic experience and the stress is going to effect your body and your mental state in a bad way. You need to do everything in your power to take care of yourself now to mitigate the lasting influence of what has just happened. Take long showers. Get as cozy as possible. Meditate. Do breath work. Read your favorite book. Listen to music. Exercise. Go for long walks. Write. Everything that will help you feel like you are safe and not in danger so your nervous system can get out of fight or flight or freeze mode.

The implications of happened on the morning of the sixth when they called the election results in the US have done a similar thing to my mind and body. I am having a tough time getting out of this fight flight freeze reaction. It is bad and it is making it difficult think clearly about anything else in my life.

My mental and physical and emotional symptoms are here and they are painful. Full body arthritis and panic attacks and worry spirals. I am fragile. I am acutely aware that other people that I care about are roundly more affected by this than I am. I cannot go online right now without stepping into a sea of hate where everyone is blaming everybody else for what has happened and my own kneejerk reaction is to jump right into the sea and start participating. I cannot go online right now without reading thoughtful loving lists of things to do to keep yourself and loved ones safe from what is about to happen. I read a post from a different librarian saying “your vulnerable friends are not okay right now” and I can’t decide how vulnerable I am but I know I am certainly not okay.

My bones ache and my head is spinning and I have been crying and I look at myself and think things that are much less kind than “none of this is helpful to anyone” and just

loved ones ask “how are you” and I cannot even begin to get the words out.

em and I have just arrived at the conclusion that as a direct answer to recent events, we should all be dying our hair blue

Hhhhhhhhhuh time to buy him flowers again I guess

Okay, so what’s the plan for working with Republicans to get the US to stop supporting the genocide in Palestine? With this new administration specifically.

If your views align with leftist politics and you didn’t vote for the Harris administration because you didn’t think you could work with them on this one specific foreign policy issue, at the expense of countless domestic issues, I would be fascinated to hear literally any strategy for working with the administration we are about to have to create the meaningful change necessary to stop supporting this genocide or any other.

I mean we could tell them that slaughtering innocent civilians is antithetical to christian values, in addition to being fiscally irresponsible [citation available upon request].

But also fascist governments really like money, and weapons dealing is an extremely profitable industry.

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So like. What exactly is the plan?

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The first step of creating change is ensuring public awareness but it is not enough for everyone to sit there and go insane acting as witnesses to the horrors without makiing a plan for what to do

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Hell hath no fury.

Bwahaha. We let that guy win on purpose. We are lulling the right wingers into a false sense of security, now that they are all set to be in control in all the rooms where decisions are being made for at least the next four years. This was a calculated result in protest of the complacency of the democratic party, very much intented to scare the shit out of them and to spur them to grassroots and legislative action for certain key dealbreaking issues, like our foreign policy decisions on one specific active genocide with decades of historical context that we only started caring about last year (not any of the other genocides!!! just that one✌🏽)

We’re trying to encourage you towards long term helpful action and policy making which, you know, we hope is still actually possible! Now that they have put a seasoned madman with a grudge in control of the executive branch, stacked the supreme court of the united states, flipped the senate in their favor, and uhhhh last I checked probably set us up with a deadlocked house of representatives.

Actually, the left totatally does have omnipotent control. Which we could totally have used. So easily. If we’d wanted to. Because the only way for Republicans to stay in power is via voter suppression. But we didn’t do that because we’re cleverer and more righteous and better people than you.

So yeah we are playing a long and dangerous game which will absolutely have consequences for people we love in the short and long term, and we really don’t care, because we can justify this to ourselves.

Also we would rather have a deranged rapist with access to the nuclear launch codes than a woman of color trying to compromise her way into a position of power. Because that isn’t a thing that matters!

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*blows a kiss to the crowd, does backflips off into the sunset*

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Leftists who didn’t care to vote, this is what I think I am hearing you say.

Now let this be the thing that lights a fire under your ass

*reaches out and takes your hand and doesn’t let go for a minute*

Look at me. Look at me. Hey. Good, thank you. While I’ve got your attention –

*hands you a jar of cold water and watches you doggedly until you have managed to drink some of it*

Okay.

Big breath in. Hold. Release.

In 39 years I would like for us to be sitting on a front porch together somewhere reminiscing about the way US politics were back in the 20’s. Do you remember that year? God, that was shitty. Remember how none of us could sleep because we were wondering if the good guys were going to win, and we thought – is there even such a thing as good guys and bad guys, and it got really philosophical for a hot minute there. Do you remember how we sent that punk of ours off to Brooklyn on an overnight bus because she cared enough to vote in her hometown. In 39 years I’ll be reminiscing about what politics were like back in the 20s and I would be honored if you would still like be there to do that with me. Please. That would mean a lot to me. Okay?

Okay.

Just the Misha Collins part of the meme.

have just convinced drunk Steve (three shots of emotional support bottle of whiskey and a very long day) that zydeco dancing in the living room, petting the cat, looking at pictures of waterfalls, listening to the same song over and over again (ft. vaugely risqué lyrics and pretty acoustic harmony), and watching V for Vendetta are all objectively better activities for staying up late than watching election results coverage

No matter what happens
There’s still going to be work to do.
There are still going to be things to fight for
People to stand up for
There’s you.
No matter what happens, there is still going to be an infinite collection
Of small corners of the world
Where an apparently insignificant outcome comes down, in the end
To a conversation
A judgement call
Based on the previous inculcations
Of perspective, insight, nuance, fact.
Brief flashes of understanding
Of things I hadn’t seen before
Because I didn’t know to look
These are things which, in small ways
Affect everything I do
All the actions that don’t seem like they mean very much
By themselves.

No matter what happens,
No matter which rich white man wins
There’s still going to be work to do.

One path might be worlds more heartbreaking to walk than the other,
Especially right now.
And we don’t know yet
Which path we’re going to be walking

I will walk down either path, even though
I guess I could turn my back on everything
And I guess this is technically a choice, to keep walking
Even if I have to stop and rest periodically to keep my legs from giving out
I’ll be back, on the path, when I can
Because this is a choice I decided to keep making
A long time ago.

And it helps me to remember
Even when it’s impossibly hard to remember
That I am not walking alone.

–

I wrote and published this poem for this blog on November 4th, 2020.

Four years ago I was drinking cheap whiskey, watching comedy central, perpetually doomscrolling, wanting to cry, feeling as though I was living through the beginning of the end of the world because my specific chronically online internet echo chambers kept telling me that was true. This was me trying to fight back against that hopeless feeling.

I have absolutely needed to rest

but I still haven’t turned my back on everything

I’m still walking

And I still have you.

my fake persona at work at the café is a grumpy antisocial butch with a filthy mind who collaboratively objectifies hot people for fun but is intentionally respectful and supportive of women, doesn’t like the company of men and will talk shit about them, doesn’t care about politics, is teachable and responds well to praise but gets closed off in response to criticism or anyone attempting to teach them “the right way” to do anything, doesn’t take shit from anyone, is thorough about completing the daily list of tasks, and is confident and calm in a crisis (especially during a busy shift).

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my less fake persona with my friends is a socially awkward nerd with a sensory processing disorder armed with a paper cup of chai tea and a flannel collection

I cannot sleep. Perhaps if I shine a flashlight that tells me bad news directly into my eyes for a couple of hours, that’ll calm me down and make it easier for me to relax.

for Halloween I am dressing up as a butch lesbian

there are times when I should be forbidden to write, such as when I am actively dysregulated and it’s late and I should be asleep but I’m not and writing feels less like partaking in the divine art of creation and more like inflicting something harsh upon anyone who cares to read – including myself, a little further along the timeline, when I wake up with a headache and a belly full of regret in the morning.

this concern does not usually stop me, though perhaps it would be kinder and more loving for everybody if it did.

Why do people smile when they look at me. It’s like – this smirk as if they know something that I don’t know. Why are they doing that. Why. What have I done. Is there something stuck in my teeth. Am I beautiful? Is that it? It cannot be that I am beautiful, I look like – like two elbows. Have I said something wrong. Are they laughing at me. What is going on. Why are they looking at me like that. Please don’t, it’s embarrassing, it’s as if they can read what I am thinking and they think it’s funny but I don’t know why. Christ. Lord help me. What are they laughing about. I cannot possibly fathom what I am doing to provoke this. I expect nothing less in the future than to be constantly bullied as if I am one of the boys and yet people keep loking at me as if I have done something ingraciatingly cute when I really haven’t. Why. What happened. Is it because I made a joke that indicates that I am not a sweet innocent summer child and that’s unexpected because I look like one. Let me be –

Complete mastery of one’s native language in the spoken or written form has little relationship to one’s ability as a writer. If nothing else the minor grammatical errors and typos and other mistakes will carve out a distinctive voice for the writer and also let the reader know that what they are reading was not made by generative AI but rather made from scratch by a human being. Beyond a certain point past which the writing is clear, comprehensible, and pleasant for the reader – striving for an arbitrary standard of linguistic perfection is a distraction from actually having something worthwhile to say. Why should we say “this peice of writing is a rough draft, unfinished, not good enough for the eyes and minds of other people” before it has been scratched up with a red pen?

In other words turn in the gods damned paper it is likely good enough already

I would rather get him flowers than poison my own lungs and those things cost me almost exactly the same in terms of this stupid artificial currency I have to work with and so it’s not a difficult decision to make

Genuine question for the politically conscious and the socially concerned.

Imagine you are young and broke. This week you have $25 superfluous dollars that you don’t have to spend on rent or a car payment or a phone bill or groceries or gasoline etc.. There are currently local, state and national elections happening, the outcome of which will have significant implications for the well being of billions of people. What are you doing with your $25?

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(a) donating to a campaign fundraiser to support a candidate you’d prefer to see in charge of the executive branch of the government of your nation for the next few years. Alternatively, supporting a more local campaign.

(b) donating food to a local pantry. You want to see good done in the world, but you don’t trust far away politicians to make that happen. You’re doing your best in your own little corner of the world.

(c) donating directly to a cause you support, such as a nonprofit organization that operates independently from government. You think the limited resources you have to give are better allocated directly in the hands of organizations you believe are doing good work, outside of the political sphere.

(d) spending a little extra money on a luxury item you personally would like that would improve your quality of life, such as a pair of shoes or a paperback, a nice meal, tickets to see a show. You are putting your needs and wants first. If you don’t do these kind things for yourself, who will? You do not think of this as selfish, you think of this as putting your own oxygen mask on first.

(e) getting flowers for someone you love very dearly, because if the world is going up in flames you will be damned if you aren’t going to use your limited time and resources you have left to do everything in your power to make them happy.

(f) buying booze or drugs or cigarettes or all of the above to numb yourself to the incredible pain of watching the fall of civilizations in real time.

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What are we doing with this hypothetical $25? Asking for a friend.

We have a lot of choices. The pressure to make certain decisions is very real. I’m just curious.

Staying in. Frying banana walnut pancakes in butter on the griddle and drowned them in maple syrup on a plate. Listening to an interesting interview on YouTube. Listening to podcasts. Scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling. Looking at art. Beanie, sweatpants, sweatshirt.

Tired eyes. Wrists and knees and knuckles swollen and sholders aching with arthritis. Coloring with cheap markers on a page decorated with fall leaves in a coloring book. Sipping coffee. Working at the café, later. Tired, tired eyes.

I bought my first pack of cigarettes from the corner store down the side street from work. It cost me $17. That’s more than I make in tips on a slow night at the café.

I remember the smell of smoke on the breeze at a music festival and the memory is pleasant. Nostalgic. Wrapped up with recollections of music and dancing and crying from partying for three days ad a child without sleeping and probably sensory issues from a bad contact high.

I don’t smoke the cigarettes. I am flirting with the idea of a nicotine addiction to cope with the painful stress of working fast shifts in food service until 10PM several nights a week. I am flirting with an excuse to step outside and take a breath when I am tired. I am flirting with the concept of dying an early death from lung cancer because I might slightly prefer this to a future of growing old and being lonely. But I do not smoke the cigarettes. I just have them in my bag.

What did you get at the corner store? Our jewish line cook with bad teeth and a beanie who inhales vape juice and has red bull energy drinks in his veins wants to know.

I tell him. He is suddenly very still. This man, who quotes bad takes from republican talk shows and constantly talks shit about his partner. This man, who is nice to me and on the worst days will hit me with the words don’t quit on me. He looks sad.

“Don’t start,” he tells me. “It isn’t worth it.”

One time my mom caught me leaning out the window of my attic bedroom smoking from a pack of camels I confiscated from a friend. I told the friend I was smoking them – he used to roll his own from a huge discount bag of cheap mystery tobacco. He had a smokers cough. He said that he could quit at any time. He nearly always had a cigarette in his hand.

“You should throw those away,” he told me. “It isn’t worth it.”

I did throw them away. But after my mom caught me smoking out the window, exactly one time, all hell broke loose between us. This was around the time of the beginning of the mutually toxic power struggle from hell.

During the worst of it, I turned to my kid sister, who has been smoking for years. I crashed on the couch at the trailer, which was so full of smoke you could hardly see through the smog. I stole a lighter from her redneck mechanic roommate.

The other day I ordered a latte with a shot of espresso and the buzz from the caffeine had me shaking and nauseous and wanting to cry, so I walked up the cemetery and sat alone under a tree by the tomb and smoked a cigarette and looked up through the burnt orange leaves at the blue of an October sky. And I felt truly peaceful calm for the first time in days. My lungs stil hurt pretty badly from the smoke. I’ve been coughing.

I have to be so careful with that sensation of quiet, of calm. The temptation is to use that on purpose, as medicine, because god knows I could use that in nearly every waking moment of my days.

And then I went back to work.

The other night I was washing dishes at closing and my arms were in hot greasy water up to my elbows, and I thought – what if in all of rest of my life, this was all there was? And I think I probably wanted to cry again, then, too.

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“Don’t quit on me.”

Time to get back out into the world – the world where it’s loud and damp and cold and sharp. Again. After so many days of hiding out here at home, where it’s warm and dry and soft and quiet.

Aw hell…

There are lovely and necessary things out in the world that I can’t get here at home.

It’s time.

Of all the ways to suffer that are difficult to romanticize, sitting up in bed with a stuffy nose might one of the worst

The Owls Are Not What They Seem

Happy national coming out day. You do not owe answers to anyone. Mmmmmwah.

Now – go forth, create mayhem, and please remain true to yourself.

What I want is a hot beverage, a bowl of soup, perhaps a Twin Peaks TV marathon, some blankets and a cozy sweater, a brief and comfortable walk through chilly weather, and a hug –

For no discernable reason, a heart overflowing with anticipatory grief, out of nowhere. Very nearly physically painful. Not sure why.

I have theories.

Driving towards the gym through rush hour traffic at 4:30PM on the highway and it’s raining and the sky is overcast and the sunlight is blazing cold and bright and shimmering through the stratifications in the clouds and you can see the faded patches of rain on the horizon and I’m listening to whatever new pop song the six different FM radio stations I can easily get in the car can give me and then the rain is really coming down and – ugh. It’s so beautiful it hurts.

Anyway.

“can’t rot all the time.”

“I have my scars, you have yours
Don’t let them take your power
Don’t leave it alone in the final hours
They’ll take your soul, they’ll take your power
Don’t close your eyes and hope for the best
The dark is out there, the light is going fast
Until the final hours, your life’s forever changed
And all the rights that you had yesterday
Are taken away
And now you’re afraid
You should be afraid
Should be afraid
Because everything I fought for
Long ago in a dream is gone
Someone said the dream is not over
The dream has just begun, or
Is it a nightmare?
Is it a lasting scar?
It is unless you save it and that’s that
Unless you stand up and take it back
And take it back
I have my scars, you have yours
Don’t let them take your power
Don’t leave it alone in the final hours
They’ll take your soul, they’ll take your power
Unless you stand up and take it back
Try to see the future and get mad
It’s slipping through your fingers, you don’t have what you had
You don’t have much time to get it back
I wanna be the lighthouse
Bring all of you together
Bring it out in a song
Bring it out in stormy weather
Tell them the story
I wanna teach ’em to fight
I wanna tell ’em this has happened before
Don’t let it happen again
I have my scars, you have yours
Don’t let them take your power
Don’t leave it alone in the final hours
They’ll take your soul, they’ll take your power
Unless you save it and that’s that
Unless you stand up and take it back
Try to see the future and get mad
It’s slippin’ through your fingers, you don’t have what you had
You don’t have much time
You gotta get in the game
You gotta learn how to play
You gotta make a change
You gotta do it today
In the midnight hour, they’ll slam the door
Make you forget what you were fighting for
Put you back in your place, they’ll shut you down
You better learn how to fight, you better say it out loud…”

Stevie Nicks. “The Lighthouse.” September 27th, 2024.

You know what? You can take your essentialist pastry discourse and shove it –

To whom it may concern,

The days are getting shorter. The sun sets much earlier, now. The breeze has gotten cooler – thank goodness, as my body was not built to thrive in the heat.

Every year for many years now, in the winter season, I have found myself growing tired.

I have such a beautiful life. At the expense of my old life (the life of a child who lived at home), I am building something new (the life of a grown up). There are a lot of things about this life that I would not trade for anything.

Winters have never been easy, and I can feel that winter is on its way. I find myself struggling, once again, against the tiredness. I am chronically a little discouraged, unsure, anxious. These are things through which I have persevered for a long time.

Nobody makes it out of childhood unscathed – even if the childhood itself wasn’t necessarily a bad one.

There are seasons where joy is easy and seasons where sometimes it is not.

I am secretly a little afraid that a bad season of struggling through these things with which I struggle is eventually going to cost me the good things about my life that I treasure very much.

What if this life I am building is too good to be true? What if a bad season ruins everything I have so carefully tried to build?

Bad weather is part of surviving.

Here is a prayer that the next season where joy isn’t easy will be kind to me and to this life that I am building.

Batten down the hatches. There is such a thing as a hurricane season.

I have sailed through bad storms before.

“When they built you, brother, they turned dust into gold
When they built you, brother, they broke the mold

They say you can’t take it with you, but I think that they’re wrong
‘Cause all I know is I woke up this morning, and something big was gone
Gone into that dark ether where you’re still young and hard and cold
Just like when they built you, brother, they broke the mold

Now your death is upon us and we’ll return your ashes to the earth
And I know you’ll take comfort in knowing you’ve been roundly blessed and cursed
But love is a power greater than death, just like the songs and stories told
And when she built you, brother, she broke the mold

That attitude’s a power stronger than death, alive and burning her stone cold
When they built you, brother…”

.

Bruce Springsteen. “Terry’s Song,” from the Magic album. September 25th 2007.

bright bold colorful angular graffiti tag scrawled across the damp walls of the underpass that probably just translates to something super cliché and melodramatic and lame and nevertheless important like ___________ but you can’t tell for sure because the handwriting is fucking incomprehensible and you are starting to think, justifiably, that this was not a mistake,

Turned up to see Tchaikovsky’s fifth symphony at the local Philharmonic Orchestra with a hot date and hair that had not been washed in three days. No time to shower after a workout, literal months of armpit hair, trying out an interesting new goth perfume scent, black dress, blazer, combat boots, pearl earrings and necklace, chipped nail polish. Had just enough time to lint roll and put on mascara. Steve Rogers looked perfectly dapper as usual in a nice pair of jeans, simple t shirt, boots, and a dress jacket he received as a gift from his father one visit home before last.

We got there in time to share a glass of cabernet before the music started, so we had fun pretending like we were pompous fancy wine snobs, like – “do I detect a note of orange peel or sour candy? sweet cherry? oh, cherry for sure. perhaps a hint of dark chocolate, leather, or tobacco…”

We are, perhaps, the worst people I have ever met.

Just this once I scored us a couple of fairly good seats in the mezzanine rather than up on the balcony, which was a shame because all I could see was the orchestra on stage as opposed to the actual hall itself, which is beautiful. Unfortunately I couldn’t spend the duration of the performance leaning back and staring up into the eyes of my wife my queen my empress (enourmas sparkly chandelier). She brings me a feeling of boundless and unparalleled joy in my chest; when I see her there is so much emotion that it hurts.

Steve thought it would be cute and funny to blast Sia’s hit song “Chandelier” through the speakers in the car on the drive home. He was right.

Prior to the Tchaikovsky, we got to witness a performance from a classically trained garage band called Time For Three, composed of two violins and a double bass. Their encore was a dazzling cover of the classic hit song “can’t take my eyes off you,” which has been stuck in my head on a loop like a broken record for several days now. Audience participation during the performance was encouraged and later described, half sincerely and half in jest, as “like a choir of heavenly angels.”

I am some kind of nostalgic for this one specific time when I was here with friends, back in the day, even though everything is different now. I can’t walk through these halls without thinking of them. It feels important to spend time being present in this space as often as I can, to soak in the beauty of it.

I have but one life to spend and I may as well spend it in places that are beautiful.

“If someone asked me at the end

Though I knew my heart would break

I’d tell them put me back in it

And I would do it again…”

Have somehow coaxed two of my absolute favorite introverted homebodies of really very gorgeous intelligence out for supper at a local Irish pub for garlic bread, pizza, beer, and conversation.

and, like

when you sit across the table from one person over coffee and you talk, it is much like singing a duet. Two voices. You’re listening to each other and responding in kind in order to share something that one person, alone, can’t make. And those are nice. Lovely, even. A lot of the time, that’s all you really need.

(please don’t make fun of my simile, I am sooo sleepy)

but when you’re sitting at a table with a group of people, and you’re all pretty dang smart and you’ve been paying attention and you are each actively cultivating an independent sense of morality and you know how to make each other laugh – now you’ve got at least a halfway decent intellectual discussion happening among folks who are probably more or less equals. It is a treat.

And the conversation is no longer similar to a duet. You now have a three part harmony situation happening in chorus. Three voices. Different perspectives, ideas, things that seem important, directions in which a tangential line of discussion is likely to go. It’s an entirely different composition and it’s gonna change the sound.

Done right, those conversations are exquisitely satisfying. I’m fond of them, anyhow.

It was a nice time.

“I think one’s feelings waste themselves in words; they ought all to be distilled into actions which bring results.”

~ Florence Nightingale

“And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate

To act her earthy and abhorred commands,

Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,

By help of her more potent ministers

And in her most unmitigable rage,

Into a cloven pine, within which rift

Imprisoned thou didst painfully remain…”

Overdue for another one of these. Used to practice all the time.

Remember mazlov’s hierarchy of needs? it’s like a triangle divided into layers – on the first layer: have you eaten today, do you have a safe place to rest. on the next level is safety – are you in any kind of danger or aren’t you. then there is healthy social connection. Et cetera. The idea is that unless the basic needs have been met, the other needs won’t be either. A person will not thrive unless they’re being properly cared for.

So with that in mind:

• I am greatful for my home. It’s a good home. It’s safe here. I am generously and lovingly looked after by a very good man. We have christmas lights and a pumpkin spice scented candle and a jigsaw puzzle work in progress and decent wifi and a cat who is thriving here and bookshelves groaning under the weight of so many books and soft blankets and access to a washing machine. We have a kitchen full of snacks and cold water from the fridge. Water pressure in the shower. It’s nice here. Sensory friendly. There’s a tree out front of which I am getting fond.
• I am greatful for my health. My acne cleared up. I am stronger now than I have ever been in my life. I have muscles now. I withstand anxiety (when it happens) with a lot more resilience than I used to have. I can cook really fast for hours at a time. Thoroughly enjoying rock climbing. I’m enjoying the corporeal form situation much more now. It helps when I have ways to decorate properly.
• I’ve got Steve Rogers for a partner, which is saying something.
• I’ve got friends. This is important. We get up to all kinds of good quality shenanigans. Family.
• I work in a place that I like.
• I have access to transportation to get to the places where I need to be when I need to be there and it helps
• Thinking about trying to write fiction again. Enrichment in my enclosure is much better now.
• And I’ve still got this journal/blog/commonplace book situation after so many years

Just glad it’s all still here.

 “So by day she’d weave at her great and growing web – by night, by the light of torches placed beside her, she would unravel all she’s done. Three whole years she deceived us, seduced us with this scheme.”

“J’veux ton amour,

et je veux ta revanche…”

–

Lady Gaga. “Bad Romance,” The Fame Monster. November 5th 2009.

“Every day, once a day, get yourself a present. Don’t plan it. Don’t wait for it. Just let it happen.”

Special Agent Dale Cooper, FBI. From Twin Peaks.

“Hope.” Edward Burne Jones. 1896. Located in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, MA. Painted in memory of Burne Jones’s friend and partner William Morris, who had recently passed away.

“The Golden Stairs,” also by Edward Burne Jones. 1880. Located in Tate Britain, London.

Yeah okay maybe sometimes I look in the mirror and I see quiet twenty-five year old man with muscles and brown hair and blue eyes and a square jawline and a nose that’s almost exactly the same shape as mine who’s exquisitely smart and who is also very stupid and who is still sulking around college campuses for no discernable reason except that he can’t move on from a world that he loves and I think – fuck. You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. And then I think – I’m not like him. We aren’t the same person. And then I think

I’m exactly like him. Oh fuck oh God I’m exactly like him. This is actually really funny

And I think about that all the time.

“Which one’s silver?”

“Ag. Number 47.”

“The only thing to fear is fear itself.”

~ FDR

1. Get curious and stay that way. Entertain a perpetual inclination towards wanting to know. Have questions. Have questions that matter to you, specifically.
2. Fuck around and find out if there are answers to those questions, or if your initial questions are just going to lead you towards More Questions. Use your local college library database catalog. I also recommend doing little experiments like what happens if I do THIS and making note of the results
3. Think too much. Way too much. A very obvious overabundance of thinking. It helps if you are cursed/blessed with a mind that doesn’t stop, ever.
4. Notice connections. Identify patterns in the way things work together. Put like with like. Catch similarities and differences. How do seemingly unrelated things have something to do with each other?
5. Find yourself laying there in bed unable to sleep with a bunch of Stuff You’re Thinking About playing on a broken record in your mind like an absurdly catchy song you aren’t even sure if you enjoy
6. Write down your observations somewhere so you remember them
7. Edit for voice, accuracy, and occationally even a semblance of charm.
8. Give credit where credit is due for ideas that weren’t initially your own
9. Share – if you want

“And now, the end is near
And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I’ll say it clear
I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain
I’ve lived a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
And more, much more than this
I did it my way

Regrets, I’ve had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course
Each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this
I did it my way

Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew
But through it all, when there was doubt
I ate it up and spit it out
I faced it all, and I stood tall
And did it my way

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried
I’ve had my fill, my share of losing
And now, as tears subside
I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say, not in a shy way
Oh, no, oh, no, not me
I did it my way

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way

Yes, it was my way…”

Frank Sinatra.

Currently resting at a picnic table in the shade of a tree, re-reading a chapter of a paperback copy of Death by philosophy professor Shelly Kagan. A light breeze keeps ruffling the pages of the book.

“What should we think of the nature of death? How should the knowledge of our mortality affect the way we live?”

It’s an eminently readable book – slightly pedantic in a way that is actually helpful instead of annoying. Accessible to an audience that hasn’t studied much philosophy. The thought experiments are silly but intellectually engaging, without being overly challenging for me to think through as I lazily skim through the paragraphs.

I do my best reading in late summer.

I imagine the shape of the beloved, whimsical scholar who wrote this book. He would be sitting cross-legged in the grass under the tree, much like the way he tends to sit cross legged on the desks in the lecture halls of Yale. His imaginary presence – skinny, a little rumpled, alert, enthusiastically curious – is comforting and helpful. What is it to read the writing of somebody else except to spend time with their thoughts? It’s almost like a conversation.

I like the guy. I think he would approve of my choice to spend time outside today.

I return, over and over again, to these questions I have about death. This is not a morbid curiosity – I have been there and done that and I have since got better, thank you. I just want to know. Even if I don’t arrive at any definitive answers, at least I’d like to spend more time pondering these questions and exploring the depths to which this curiosity can take you.

In some ways, I find it easier to look for answers to these questions outside of the weird confines of academia, with its structure and deadlines and its strict conventions and the pressure to participate in a big scholarly discussion by constantly demonstrating my reading comprehension skills and my spirit of inquiry to my elders and my peers. The pressure of that world is intense. Stressful.

I would rather just sit outside in the shade under a tree and read a book and think about life. And death. And why any of it matters.

I return, over and over again, to these questions – and somewhat doubt my ability to do anything in particular with this “research” or learning, my ability to stick to a project of inquiry in the long run.

But I keep on returning.

So this time I decide to begin with the Kagan book and see where it goes.

“…I can’t take you to church. You are definitely not to be trusted anywhere near a church. If I took you to church I would catch on fire as punishment.”

~ Steve, after a glass of whiskey

“If you call my name I’ll run to wherever
I’ll be on my way, tomorrow can wait
And I know that no, nothing lasts forever
But I’m not too far
Not too far, not too far
I’ll get there any way

If you need me I’ll be there in an hour
Say the word if you know that you need me
Tomorrow can wait
And I know that no, nothing lasts forever
But I’m not too far
Not too far, not too far
I’ll get there any way…”

–

Lyrics to “Any Way.” Song by L’Impératrice and Maggie Rogers. July 2024.

“I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.”

A line from Arwen, to Strider, in the Peter Jackson fim adaptation of The Lord of the Rings Trillogy.

–

“I’ll tell you something right now
I’d rather burn my whole life down
Than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning
I’ll tell you something about my good name
It’s mine alone to disgrace
I don’t cater to all these vipers dressed in empath’s clothing

God save the most judgmental creeps
Who say they want what’s best for me
Sanctimoniously performing soliloquies I’ll never see
Thinking it can change the beat
Of my heart when he touches me
And counteract the chemistry
And undo the destiny
You ain’t gotta pray for me
Me and my wild boy
And all this wild joy
If all you want is gray for me
Then it’s just white noise
And it’s just my choice

There’s a lot of people in town that I
Bestow upon my fakest smiles
Scandal does funny things to pride
But brings lovers closer
We came back when the heat died down
Went to my parents and they came around
All the wine moms are still holding out
But it’s over.

Now I’m dancing in my dress in the sun and
Even my daddy just loves him
I’m his lady, and oh my God
They should see their faces
Time, doesn’t it give some perspective
No, they can’t come to the wedding
I know he’s crazy but he’s the one I want

I’ll tell you something right now you ain’t gotta pray for me
Me and my wild boy and all this wild joy…”

Taylor Swift. “But Daddy I Love Him.” The Tortured Poets Department. 2023.

An older woman walks into the café and approaches the bar. She is well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and hands almost exactly like my partner’s. Dressed up nice for a night out on the town – black dress, red lipstick, high heels. I can tell her feet are killing her from the way she walks. Her hands and arms are shaking and I can’t tell if she’s nervous or tired or if it might be a symptom of parkinsons. She orders a glass of red wine. When we try to speak to each other I realize she can’t hear me very well, even though the classical guitar music in the background is quiet.

Her painted nails are pretty. I try to tell her this as she’s walking away but she doesn’t hear me.

I write it down on a napkin instead. When she sees the note, I can’t tell for sure but I think it makes her smile. She gets up from the table, walks to the next room, and doesn’t return to her seat for several minutes.

Later on, on her way out the door, she thanks me three times and tells me to have a nice weekend.

I tell her goodbye with a salute.

This evening, a very old man made his way to the counter at the café and ordered two coffees and a slice of carrot cake. He walked over alone – I couldn’t see his companion back at a table, the place was too crowded. We could barely hear each other speak over the sounds of some guy singing karaoke covers of Frank Sinatra songs in a crowded room, but we understood each other. I handed handed him a slice of cake on a plate with a fork and two coffees. He looked like he wanted to ask for something, but he also looked like he had decided not to speak up about it.

So I got him the second fork. He seemed greatful.

Later on I found them in the dishroom.

“‘Adrenaline poisoning,’ one of my doctors had called these surges of anxiety that had troubled me since childhood. The doctors explained that, for reasons they could not understand, my body seemed to think it was in a constant state of danger. One of the specialists my aunt consulted explained earnestly that it was a biochemical leftover from hunter-gatherer days. I’d be all right so long as I rid my bloodstream of the adrenaline load… Since then I’d tried medication and meditation, but nothing was better for keeping panic at bay than physical activity.”

Deborah Harkness. “A Discovery of Witches.” Published by Penguin Books in 2011.

This book was leant to me by an older woman i affectionately referred to as “the kitchen mom” at a previous place of work in the year 2020.

The more you know.

how did I manage to arrange my life in such a way that the venn diagram between the two categories of “people i am friends with” and “the coolest people in the world” is literally just a perfect circle. How did I do that

I sent a photo of my outfit to my dearest aroace platonic wife* of many years and she loved it, but her first comment was “femme Loren is always a bit of a shock, lol.”

I tell her that I know and that masc/butch Loren is quietly dying in here. Every day I think about grabbing a pair of scissors and chopping off all of my hair but I don’t. I keep booking haircut appointments for a pixie cut and then changing my mind and not showing up. I outgrew and then misplaced a binder I bought a couple of years ago and I haven’t replaced it yet and every time I put on a sweater I think to myself “this would look really cool and hot and different if I was a completely different shape than I currently am” and anyway.

“Put your hair up. Get the binder,” J tells me, gently. “Wear it some of the time when you want to. It’s okay.”

The specific combination of heat and humidity is getting to me but I’m desperately craving weather where I can justify button down shirts again.

And – equally important – on the other hand, there’s this – I was a scruffy little kid who grew up maybe a little plain looking and I basically just had access to hand me down clothes that didn’t fit right, and I thought femininity was perfect and beautiful but also completely outside the range of possibility for me. And then yesterday evening Steve got home from a visit with a colleague (work husband) and he walked in on me with a string of pearls and dangly matching earrings and mascara and a shirt with a pretty neckline and my hair tied up in a specific way because, left to my own devices, I had decided to play dress up, just for me – and his face softened and he smiled and me and he said “you look nice!!!??? what’s the occation?”

and – yeah, that made me turn briiiight pink.

There’s an image in my mind of, like – two selves from different points on my own timeline that have merged into something that denies no part of the self expression experience. I am finding that I have trouble finding the happy medium.

_____

• Wife, a word which here means, “trusted friend to whom you are devoted completely and will continue to be for a lifetime”

“Oh we know you’ve got the soul my brother
Why you trying to hide?
And the heart is a beast that’ll keep you bleeding,
Learn to let it lie
In the walls of the mausoleum
In the walls of the mausoleum
And we’re all just trying to reach the other side…”

Seryn. “Mausoleum.” 2016.

“Grew up under yellow light on the street
Putting too much faith in the make believe
Another highschool football team

The neighbor’s brother came home in a box
But he wanted to go, so maybe it was his fault
Another red heart taken by the American dream

And I feel you there
In the middle of the night
When the lights go out
And I’m all alone again

Say what you want, but say it like you mean it
With your fists for once, a long cold war
With your kids at the front
Just give it one more day then you’re done

I do what I want, crying in the bleachers
And I said it was fun
I don’t need anything from anyone
It’s just not my year, but I’m all good out here…”

Ethel Cain. Lyrics to “American Teenager.” 2021.

“I know you wanted me to stay
But I can’t ignore the crazy visions of me in LA
And I heard that there’s a special place
Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day
I’m having wicked dreams
Of leaving Tennessee
Oh, Santa Monica
I swear it’s calling me
Won’t make my mama proud
It’s gonna cause a scene
She sees her baby girl
I know she’s gonna scream
God, what have you done
You’re a pink pony girl
And you dance at the club
Oh mama, I’m just having fun
On the stage in my heels
It’s where I belong down at the
Pink Pony Club
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club
I’m gonna keep on dancing down in
West Hollywood
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club
I’m up and jaws are on the floor
Lovers in the bathroom and a line outside the door
Blacklights and a mirrored disco ball
Every night’s another reason why I left it all
I thank my wicked dreams
A year from Tennessee
Oh, Santa Monica
You’ve been too good to be
Won’t make my mama proud
It’s gonna cause a scene
She sees her baby girl
I know she’s gonna scream
God, what have you done
You’re a pink pony girl
And you dance at the club
Oh mama, I’m just having fun
On the stage in my heels
It’s where I belong down at the
Pink Pony club
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony club
I’m gonna keep on dancing down in
West Hollywood
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony club, Pink Pony club

Don’t think I’ve left you all behind
Still love you and Tennessee
You’re always on my mind
And mama, every Saturday
I can hear your southern drawl a thousand miles away, saying
God, what have you done
You’re a pink pony girl
And you dance at the club
Oh mama, I’m just having fun
On the stage in my heels
It’s where I belong down at the
Pink Pony Club
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club
I’m gonna keep on dancing down in
West Hollywood
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club

I’m gonna keep on dancing
I’m gonna keep on dancing…”

Chappell Roan. “Pink Pony Club.” From The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess. 2023.

.

This song has been stuck in my head for three days.

Have just been told that my glasses make me look like the darling of the anime convention

“if I make it to the morning

I should’ve come with a warning

If I make it to the stage, ill show you what it means

To be saved

Oh, you know I’m still afraid
I’m still crazy and I’m still scared
But if I make it to the stage
I’ll show you what it means

To be spared…“

self care hour after work:

get out of uncomfortable work clothes. scented candle. shot of whiskey, neat. blast music through bluetooth speaker (hozier, probably). shower time! wash restaurant grease out of hair. dry off with cozy towel. the hair is IN the twisty part. moisturize everything. skincare. gua sha because it feels nice. perfume. mouthwash. brush teeth. cozy pajamas – woxers and t shirt. book time (horror genre preferably). cat time!!! spoon fiancé for warmth in the wintertime and talk about boring stuff. fall asleep. if sleep fails, try some stretches. if sleep really is nowhere to be seen, read a book or write something.

this from a chronically anxious/depressed exhausted child who didn’t used to have enough spoons to brush their teeth

“Are you okay?”

The person asking me this question has slight build, almost black eyes. An apron covers black skinny jeans and an enourmas sweater so big for him that I wonder how he doesn’t get lost in it. Scruffy hair sticking out from under a beanie pulled down low so that it covers most of his face. A concave-down nose. Small hands for a man in his thirties.

He asks me this question at least once each time I see him, or else he explodes with a harsh little “relax! calm down!” Out of nowhere.

He notices that my muscles are tensed up, I am standing too perfectly still, my breathing is too shallow, my eyes are a little wider than they should be – long before I start to feel the work-stress in my body. Before I notice the anxiety begin to really kick.

“can I diagnose you with something?” I ask, a little snappishly, after the third time he asks this question in the space of an hour or so.

He raises his eyebrows. I take a deep breath.

“when you were a child, you had an emotionally volatile parent,” I tell him, carefully choosing my words. “you learned to constantly monitor the emotional states of the people in the room with you very quickly and very well. for safety. this is something you have always been very good at. it’s not really empathy at all, it’s called hypervigilance.”

as I speak, he slowly melts into laughter. this is the most genuine expression I have ever seen on his face.

“It was my mother,” he tells me.

I know.

–

Stopped to refule on the way home from a day trip this afternoon. Walked into Crosby’s. It’s raining buckets of freezing rain and dripping steadily from the ceiling onto the floor. Attendant at the counter greets us with a straight faced, monotone:

“Good Afternoon Valued Customers, How Can I Help You Today?”
Steve answers that we don’t need anything, just stopping to use a restroom on the way home.
“Don’t do any cocaine in there!” she says. Cheerfully, but also in a very specific tone of voice such that I can’t tell if she’s being serious or making a joke, she adds – “but if you do, be sure to leave us a line as a courtesy.”

10/10 customer service interaction. No notes. It’s giving David Lynch influence

Drove to the beach listening to a Wynton Marsalis album called Standard Time Vol. 3: The Resolution of Romance.

Walked down the hill from the parking lot (barefoot, carrying sandles in one hand). Sand everywhere, between toes especially.

Vast green-blue water expanded as far as we could see, from the shoreline all the way to the horizon. Little waves perpetually crashed, trailing a thin lace of bubbles on the sand in their wake. Choppy water is ever in motion. The same is true of the breeze, which doesn’t smell like salt but rather like seaweed and fish. The sky was clear and pale blue.

I waded in up to my knees. The waves crashing into my legs reminded me of an enthusiastic greeting from a puppy at the door upon arriving home.

It was a nice day.

We stooped to collect rocks of varying colors, textures, shapes. Walked parallel to the water in the sand. Eventually felt tired and stretched out on a blanket on the sand in the shade under a tree. I brought a paperback, Steve brought a moral philosophy paper on the subject of autonomy, on which he’s been invited to comment at a conference in New York early next year. He read it out loud, and we talked about it. A good discussion.

Nearby, two mothers watched over three children playing in the sand. They are beautiful. I fed a crumb of a granola bar to a seagull, who lingered afterwards, hoping for more. Two lifeguards change places in a changing of the gaurd.

Returned home safely.

Two trees in the forest, one was crooked, one was straight
Crimson bark and emerald needles growing day by day (day)
And though they looked so different
They enjoyed the rain the same side by side

A chickadee told them of a darkness on the land
Spinning blades that came to visit, carried by a man
And every other tree would see them cut down
Where they stand by and by

Oh, can’t you see a crooked tree won’t fit into the mill machine?
They’re left to grow wild and free
Oh, I’d rather be a crooked tree

Perfect trees were driven down the mountain to the mill
They turned them into toothpicks and 20 dollar bills
It seemed the more the people took
The more they needed still in the end

The crooked trees were left there after all the work was done
Now they go for weeks and never witness anyone
No one left to tell them if they’re growing right or wrong
But whispering wind

Oh, can’t you see a crooked tree won’t fit into the mill machine?
They’re left to grow wild and free
I’d rather be a crooked tree

People say I’m different and my way of life seems strange
I took the road less traveled, twists and turns along the way
But like the crooked tree
I’m growing stronger day by day as the clouds roll by

A river never wonders why it flows around the bend
A mountain doesn’t question how it rose up from the land
So who am I to wish I wasn’t just the way I am? Who am I?

Oh, can’t you see a crooked tree won’t fit into the mill machine?
They’re left to grow wild and free
Oh, I’d rather be a crooked tree

A crooked tree won’t fit into the mill machine
They’re left to grow wild and free
I’d rather be a crooked tree

.

Molly Tuttle & Golden Highway. “Crooked Tree.”

On the short walk from the parking lot to the back door of the place where I work, I put on a black apron. The door is locked. I let myself in with a copy of the keys.

I get to the café before it opens, most days. Brew some coffee. Make sure the case is full of cake etc.. Switch on the oven and the panini machine and the machine that keeps the soups warm. The hour before customers arrive is busy, but quiet. There’s an easy repetition of the same simple tasks every shift. Prepare vegetables for the cook (usually me) – red onions, lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, chickpeas, olives, roasted red peppers. Restock the fridge from the pantry in the back. Wash some dishes. Slice enough bread to make a night’s worth of sandwiches. Make sure there’s enough beer and wine. If there’s time, make up a few plates with strawberries, cherries, brie, cheddar, gouda, an assortment of crackers.

Once customers arrive, I sometimes take orders at the register, like –

How can I help you?

Cup of soup of the day and a side salad, please.

That’ll be $11. Thanks.

If I can help it, I usually work back of house. I just feed people. Soup, salads, quiche, sandwiches, occationally a veggie burger or an avocado toast, soft pretzels with salt. It’s easy. I can do this without having to think.

When I was learning how to cook the food on the menu, the men I work with tended to hover and try to offer lots of helpful advice and detailed feedback in real time. No, don’t do it that way, try this – it works better. They quickly discovered how much I dislike being told how to do things when I’m working in my own kitchen. Most of them didn’t like me very much until they began to understand this about me.

Sometimes I’ll run an order out to a table, or make a latté at the espresso machine.

When I open a beer or pour a glass of wine for a customer, I am immediately transported across time into the collective consciousness of every bartender who has ever poured drink for anyone since the first civilization figured out how to brew their own booze. It’s kind of surreal.

We host live music every night. Usually jazz standards, sometimes bluesy gospel, sometimes classical guitar, sometimes unexpected genre bending collaborations. The music is sometimes too loud, but it’s nice to have something to listen to while I’m sweeping the crumbs off the floor.

There’s art on the walls – paintings or photographs from the artists in residence. It rotates each month or so, and we host art openings. Available for purchase, fun to look at.

I stay late enough to close down the kitchen at the end of the night. Put things away, pour out the coffee, scrub each the tables with a rag and a cleaning spray that smells like oranges, sweep and mop the floor, close the register, check to make sure all the cash is accounted for, wash all the dishes, take out the trash.

When everything is done, I’ll lock up and walk out to my car and drive home.

Something I think about often is the notion that I could dye my hair black, move away from home, change my name, and do this kind of work in any bar or café in any little town anywhere in the English speaking world. With a little work on my language communication and comprehension skills, I could probably work anywhere.

And it’s not perfect, you know? It’s not really what I want to do with the rest of my life. There’s more out there, for me, I hope.

But it’ll do for now.

“I think we’d all be happier if we were eating bread by the water.”

~ TikTok user dougweaverart

_

Visited a bakery in the rain today. Picked up salty bread (icon of the local bakery scene). I will do this again and next time I will take my salty bread to the shores of Lake Ontario and I will stand at the edge of the water in my boots and I will eat my salty bread and it will be a lovely time.

Spent the day at the beach by one of the great fresh water lakes, yesterday. The sky was overcast, and it was raining – this is the best weather for visiting the beach, as nobody else is there. Waded out up to our knees in shallow water and let the waves crash up against our shins. Made footprints on wet sand. Watched the sea gulls, the mallards, and the as yet unidentifiable fish near the rocks by the pier. Noticed the sailboats and talked about learning how to sail. Appreciated the little purple flowers growing up through the cracks in the pavement.

Later on we sat out on a covered porch at a Mexican restaurant near the water and ate chips, salsa, guacamole, queso for lunch.

Stopped by a used record store on the way home and picked up some vinyl from Etta James, Ray Charles, and Muddy Waters.

For dancing.

“After all this time?”

“People say don’t live in the past
Live each day like it’s your last
But we should try it in reverse
Live each day like it’s our first
I believe this is
Precious time
I believe you are
One of a kind…”

Sim Redmond Band. Lyrics to a song called “Pink Guitar,” which is featured on their Live at Grassroots album.

We danced until sunrise, then slept until nine.

Later that day, we experienced the eminently foreseeable consequences of that choice

“Sleep deprivation is a one way ticket to temporary psychosis, and I’m working on a three day lag.”

Special Agent Dale Cooper, Federal Bureau of Investigation.

.

Twin Peaks. Episode 1, Season 2. Written and directed by Mark Frost and David Lynch.

“I want you to stay
‘Til I’m in the grave
‘Til I rot away, dead and buried
‘Til I’m in the casket you carry

If you go, I’m going too
‘Cause it was always you, alright
And if I’m turning blue, please don’t save me
Nothing left to lose without my baby

Birds of a feather, we should stick together, I know
I said I’d never think I wasn’t better alone
Can’t change the weather, might not be forever
But if it’s forever, it’s even better

And I don’t know what I’m crying for
I don’t think I could love you more
It might not be long, but baby, I

I’ll love you ’til the day that I die
‘Til the day that I die
‘Til the light leaves my eyes
‘Til the day that I die

I want you to see
How you look to me
You wouldn’t believe if I told ya
You would keep the compliments I throw ya

But you’re so full of shit
Tell me it’s a bit
Say you don’t see it, your mind’s polluted
Say you wanna quit, don’t be stupid

And I don’t know what I’m crying for
I don’t think I could love you more
Might not be long, but baby, I
Don’t wanna say goodbye

Birds of a feather, we should stick together, I know (’til the day that I die)
I said I’d never think I wasn’t better alone (’til the light leaves my eyes)
Can’t change the weather, might not be forever (’til the day that I die)
But if it’s forever, it’s even better

I knew you in another life
You had that same look in your eyes
I love you, don’t act so surprised…”

_

Lyrics to the song “BIRDS OF A FEATHER,” by Billie Eilish. From the “HIT ME HARD AND SOFT” album, released by Darkroom Records in 2024.

_

for A.L., specifically.

there are people who find it easy to blame others for their trauma and then there are people who will never be able to see themselves as victims because they are too busy protecting people who were supposed to love them

One thing you should know about me is that I did not understand the punchline of that “why did the chicken cross the road?” joke until I was over 25 years old.

And what you also have to keep in mind about me is that this person who didn’t get the punchline of that joke for so many years is the same person who traveled alone in eastern Europe for ages and did nothing but visit museums the entire time. Sang in the choir, ran the mile with a better than average time. Graduated high school with honors, earned two college degrees with a perfectly respectable GPA. Honors studies scholar, teaching assistant, research assistant, completed an independent study which was the closest I ever got to an honors thesis. Didn’t smoke, barely ever drank. Worked my way through college. Earned scholarships. Did not accumulate student loans. Did not break any of the rules, not for years – though my life got easier and less painful when I decided that there were some rules that I could allow myself to break. Stayed pretty healthy, at least physically. Spent most of my time convinced I wasn’t pretty and that therefore I was safe. Enjoyed reading constantly. Tried to be kind, even when I wasn’t.

But I didn’t get the joke. Not for years.

Lord help me.

y’all ever flirt with someone who is definitely out of your league?

(this does not seem to you like a self depracating judgement, just a fact.)

you know, for fun, because you know nothing is going to happen.

and then they start flirting back?

and some time later you are quietly reading and drinking coffee with that person in the morning,

unsure how exactly you got there, but feeling happy

having made a cautious decision not to question the way everything worked out

and then you decide to ask them this same question, as an experiment. sotto voce.

and they smile and they say “yeah, well, that’s how I felt about flirting with you.”

“You will have to go through me.”

“Yes, I understand that every life must end
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go
Oh I’m a lucky man, to count on both hands
The ones I love

Some folks just have one,
Yeah, others, they’ve got none

Stay with me,
Let’s just breathe.

Practiced are my sins,
Never gonna let me win
Under everything, just another human being
Yeah, I don’t wanna hurt her, there’s so much in this world
To make me believe.

Stay with me,
You’re all I see.

Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn’t I’m a fool you see,
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean.

I wonder everyday
As I look upon your face
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave

Did I say that I need you?
Oh, did I say that I want you?
Or if I didn’t I’m a fool you see,
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean

Nothing you would take,
Everything you gave.
Love you till I die,
Meet you on the other side.”

Willie Nelson, featuring his son Lukas Nelson. Lyrics of the song “Just Breathe,” from the Heroes album. 2012.

“Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

“No. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”

Ew, cortisol.

Hello, insomnia. Hello, panique attáques. I fucking hate this

(1) We have lots of it

(2) This is something that we know

(3) This is something we can use

(4) This is something we know that we can use. Even if we aren’t sure how

(5) We can and will use power in ways that other people will not like. Crucially, this is not a bad thing.

(6) We can use power in ways that protect ourselves and our loved ones. It is often the case that we should.

(7) We are powerful enough to hurt other people, whether or not they have done anything to “deserve” being hurt. We can hurt others, even if we didn’t mean for that to happen, even if we did mean for that to happen.

(8) The way we use our power is something that matters

(9) There are people who will try to treat us as if we are powerless

(10) Those people are wrong.

Today I asked Steve Rogers if he would still love me if I was a worm and he immediately said “no.” He realized he might have made a mistake when he saw the slightly crestfallen expression on my face so he started backpedaling, asking clarifying questions like “in this scenario were you always a worm or did you transform into a worm? Were you there all along but then you disappeared and in that instant a worm popped into existance to take your place? What are the metaphysical implications for personal identity in this instance -” and I had to kiss him on the mouth to get him to shut up

“For a while there, it was rough
But lately, I’ve been doin’ better
Than the last four cold Decembers
I recall

And I see my family every month
I found a girl my parents love
She’ll come and stay the night
And I think I might have it all

And I thank god every day
For the girl she sent my way
But I know the things she gives me
She can take away

And I hold you every night
And that’s a feeling I wanna get used to
But there’s no man as terrified
As the man who stands to lose you

Oh, I hope I don’t lose you
Mm

Please stay
I want you, I need you, oh God
Don’t take
These beautiful things that I’ve got

Please stay
I want you, I need you, oh God
Don’t take
These beautiful things that I’ve got

Oh-oh-oh-oh
Ooh
Please don’t take

I found my mind, I’m feelin’ sane
It’s been a while, but I’m finding my faith
If everything’s good and it’s great
Why do I sit and wait ’til it’s gone?

Oh, I’ll tell ya, I know I’ve got enough
I’ve got peace and I’ve got love
But I’m up at night thinkin’
I just might lose it all

Please stay
I want you, I need you, oh God
Don’t take
These beautiful things that I’ve got

Oh-oh-oh-oh
Ooh
Please stay
I want you, I need you, oh God
I need
These beautiful things that I’ve got…”

Benson Boone. Lyrics of the song “Beautiful Things.” Released as a single by Night Street Records/Warner Records on January 18th, 2024.

“I was stopped in London when I felt it coming down
Crashing all around me with a great triumphant sound
Like the dam was breaking and my mind came rushing in
I was stopped in London, oh, I was awakening
I was

I was o’er in Paris when I almost ran away
Two times round the block before I decided to stay
Puffed along a cigarette that went and made me sick
Spent another day pretending I was over it

This time, I know I’m fighting
This time, I know I’m back in my body
This time, I know I’m fighting
This time, I know I’m back in my body
I’m back in my body

And all along the highway there’s a tiny whispering sound
Saying I could find you in the dark of any town
But all that I am hearing in the poem of my mind
Are sullen, twisted words finding their way in every line

Oh, this time, oh, this time

This time, I know I’m fighting
This time, I know I’m back in my body
This time, I know I’m fighting
This time, I know I’m back in my body

Lost you in the border town of anywhere
I found myself when I was going everywhere
This time, I know I’m fighting
This time, I know I’m

Back in my body…”

Maggie Rogers. Lyrics of the song “Back In My Body” which was track 12 on the album Heard It In A Past Life. Capitol Records, 2019.