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.

in my defense if I had known how to spell the word “carabiner” on the first try then how would you have been able to tell it was me

it’s like the opposite of the way people mispronounce certain words when they have only ever really read them in a book and never heard them spoken out loud

but worse. I have no similar excuse.

and here’s me just taking a wild swing in the general direction of pirates and swashbucklers and hoping for the best

This is the first time I’ve been somewhat openly queer at work in a restaurant. The experience has been wildly different from my experience in an academic setting.

At school, it was sometimes like – “ah! did I mess up horribly and use the wrong pronouns? God I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am so -“

At the café, it’s like – today this adorable girl who is dressed like she’s just time traveled directly from the ’80s walks in after we’ve closed and we have to tell her and she’s super polite about it and she walks out smiling and my coworker and I look at each other from across the room and he’s like “man she was so cute,” and I start giggling and agree like “I WASN’T GONNA SAY IT SO I’M GLAD YOU DID” and he’s like “hated to kick her out, like – she can stay as long as she wants, dang,” and we’re just politely objectifying this girl for like five minutes. Priceless. Meanwhile the same coworker is pulling his hair out over this girl he’s just started talking to, running to the back room to text her every five minutes during this shift, and he just bought a Prius and he hasn’t had a car in years and he thinks this is going to increase his chances with the ladies and he’s like stressing out about it and he sighs and he says “women,” and I solemnly nod in agreement. “Women.”

We’re blasting The Rise And Fall of a Midwest Princess album from Chappell Roan (picture a lesbian equivalent of Elton John) over the speakers at closing and before we open the next day because the barista who works at the counter saw them in concert weeks ago and still has not recovered from that experience and it’s so cute.

Everyone is chill, even the grumpy coworker who frequently talks shit about his girlfriend – even him. When it finally dawned on him (you could see him looking from the flannel to the carabiner to the engagement ring and back again like, hmm????) he said something along the lines of “hey man, I’m rooting for you.”

I like it here.

people/characters who are madly in love with their wives >>>

“I was walking through icy streams
That took my breath away
Moving slowly through westward water
Over glacial plains

And I walked off you
And I walked off an old me
Oh me oh my I thought it was a dream
So it seemed

And now, breathe deep
I’m inhaling
You and I, there’s air in between
Leave me be
I’m exhaling
You and I, there’s air in between
You and I, there’s air in between

Cut my hair so I could rock back and forth
Without thinking of you
Learned to talk and say
Whatever I wanted to

And I walked off you
And I walked off an old me
Oh me oh my
I thought it was a dream
So it seemed

And now, breathe deep
I’m inhaling
You and I, there’s air in between
Leave me be
I’m exhaling
You and I, there’s air in between

You and I, there’s air in between
You and I, there’s air in between.”

Maggie Rogers. Lyrics of the song “Alaska” which was track 4 on the album Heard It In A Past Life. Capitol Records, 2019.

Steve’s dad wears a baseball cap featuring the logo of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle company. The wind in the airport parking lot on the vast flat plane of Oklahoma was so strong that his hat blew away away across the pavement.

We carried our luggage through the doors into the air conditioned hallway with elevators and gift shops and escalators between us and the terminal. Like all airports, it’s a liminal space. Time and space work differently at airports, bus stops, and train stations.

At the threshold of the TSA checkpoint, Steve’s mother hugged me and said “Take care of B—-.”

I said I would.

As is customary, his family stood and watched us walk away until we were out of sight.

We live so far away.

On the airplane at night you can look down and see a web of electric lights – patches of light near towns and cities, darkness where nobody lives.

We are back safe.

Only once during this adventure did I burst into tears and sob and cry and say “I hate it here. I want to go home,” and contemplate leaving dramatically in order to run away to the woods in an angry panic. But I also sometimes do that in the car during trips to the grocery store, and I was secretly just upset because I tried shooting pool for the first time in my life in the back room of a vegetarian barbeque joint in a sketchy part of Memphis and I was not immediately good at shooting pool. I was bad at something I’d never done before, in front of his mum, and the embarrassment stung – hot and sharp and angry. It had been a long day. I felt I needed to hide what I was feeling from everyone, as aggressively as possible. It was getting difficult.

“It takes practice,” his father said, practically. (Which made it worse. So much worse. Devastating. Yuck.)

I want to learn how to shoot pool and I don’t want to be witnessed learning until I already know how.

My mental image of being of a hot butch in a flannel drinking whiskey shooting pool in a bar in the evening to impress the girls in spite of my fun sized trophy husband has been shattered and I don’t know if my ego can take any more of this.

Anyway.

We did not get to visit Graceland while we were in Memphis. This was fine.

We did drive past it and we got a chance to look, if only for a moment.

The weather was hot, and it was raining. Steve and I were both in the back seat of the car, and the rain was drumming on the roof. The guy with the catwoman tattoo had pulled the car over to the side of the road by the wall that stood between the grounds of Elvis’ mansion and everything else.

It was pouring buckets of rain, and the wind was blowing sideways.

And Steve and I wanted a look beyond the wall. We wanted to see Graceland.

So we got out of the car in the wind and the rain and within about ten seconds our clothes and hair were soaked through, and the umbrella wasn’t helping at all, and we were laughing, we were giggling. It was silly.

We walked down the length of the cobblestone wall that was heavily vandalized, covered in signatures of people who had visited, graffitied with hundreds of thousands of names of people saying I was here. We saw Graceland.

We approached the gates of Graceland, but we did not walk right through.

We got barely a peak and this big sprawling house beyond the trees over the wall, and it was raining, it was raining, and we looked at each other and laughed and said “okay! We have seen Graceland.” And we ran, stumbling in wet shoes over the pavement. We ran back to the car. Drenched. Soaking wet in the wind and the hot rain. It was terrible. We were having such a good time.

I have a perfect memory of Graceland.

“C’mon, wifey.”

Steve’s mother does not want to get out of the car. His father is trying to sweet talk her into going to see Graceland with him, in the rain, like we did. She hesitates. He is persistent, and she finally agrees.

They are very nearly frail, and they hobble slightly as they walk. But they are determined, and the rain lets up a little for them. And they stand together at the gates for a minute, just looking.

“Thought it’d be nicer,” she says.

“Put on my blue suede shoes
And I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain
W.C. Handy, won’t you look down over me?
Yeah, I got a first class ticket
But I’m as blue as a boy can be

Then I’m walking in Memphis
Was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?

Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through
Now security they did not see him
They just hovered ’round his tomb
But there’s a pretty little thing
Waiting for the King
Down in the Jungle Room

When I was walking in Memphis
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?

They’ve got catfish on the table
They’ve got gospel in the air
And Reverend Green be glad to see you
When you haven’t got a prayer
But, boy, you’ve got a prayer in Memphis

Now Muriel plays piano
Every Friday at the Hollywood
And they brought me down to see her
And they asked me if I would
Do a little number
And I sang with all my might
She said
“Tell me are you a Christian child?”
And I said “Ma’am, I am tonight”

Walking in Memphis
(Walking in Memphis)
Was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
(Walking in Memphis)
But do I really feel the way I feel?

Walking in Memphis
(Walking in Memphis)
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
(Walking in Memphis)
But do I really feel the way I feel?

Put on my blue suede shoes
And I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain.”

Marc Cohn, Marc Cohn. “Walking in Memphis.” Copywrite 1991 Atlanta Record Co.

The thing about Memphis is that it’s at least four hours away from grandma’s house. There are five of us, crammed into this tiny little car. The cousin with the catwoman tattoo is driving.

Steve’s mom stopped to get a large vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone – she does this every day, and we all think she has discovered the secret to the good life. Steve’s dad stopped at a farmstand to get a watermelon. We all stopped to get breakfast at McDonald’s.

Now we are listening to Elvis – king of rock & roll. We’re on our way to the bass pro shop pyramid, driving across the bridge over the Tennessee River. Might fuck around and drive by Graceland.

Later on we’re getting barbecue.

To sit and scroll on the phone on grandma’s porch seems sacrilegious; to sit and write out here seems less so.

Yesterday was a big family gathering at the farm. Sheep, goats, pigs, donkeys, ponies, rabbits, chickens, dogs, cats, a black and white kitten named Oreo who should have grown a little more by now.

All I have done since we got here is visit people! All of them want hugs upon arrival and departure. My introverted social battery is running low.

Today we’re driving to Memphis.

There is a specific kind of masculinity here, in the south.

“If you threaten my family that will be the last thing you ever do.”

And, “my wife just died. I am getting the electrocardiogram of her last heartbeat tattooed over my own heart. I am staying with my sister at our parents house. I may have my own house again someday, but without her I will never have a home.”

And, “I got kicked out of that club, once” and “if you put skittles in vodka it turns pretty colors.”

Men who have worked as bouncers and prison guards and served in the military. A man who will describe in detail how he shoved a catttleprod up the other guy’s nose and then went for the knees because the other guy kept bothering one of his friends.

Such a profound and deeply ingrained fear of the other which makes a man say to his wife, passing a stranger in the dairy aisle in the grocery store, “get behind me.”

It is breathtakingly sad.

This morning I woke up in the Oklahoma farmhouse where my fiancé was practically raised by his grandparents.

There’s a ceiling fan over the bed in the room with blue walls that used to be his. Hot black coffee on the counter. Wind chimes, bible verses, knickknacks everywhere. A sign that says “God & Country,” another that says “God Bless America,” and a sticker on the front door that says National Rifle Association. There was an uncle telling military stories about the time he woke up on a beach in the Mediterranean with no clothes on – “thank you for your service,” I told him. A cousin with a sleave tattoo featuring an anatomically exaggerated, leather clad catwoman a whip in one hand. Harley-Davidson branding everywhere. There was a motorcycle on the gravel road on the way up to the house. An old black and white television program was playing in the living room. We stood for a while on the porch, talking, greeting family. They comment on the fact that Steve Rogers has grown a beard. “Are you into Marvel? I’m more of a DC fan,” says one of the cousins, the one with the tattoo. I tell him that my nickname for my partner is Steve Rogers. He gets a kick out of that and immediately understands why I chose that nickname.

Upon our arrival yesterday evening, an aunt offered us watermelon with salt.

This afternoon we visited his cousin and her partner, watched the Barbie movie, played Cards Against Humanity, and baked a quiche and some molasses cookies.

Over the next couple of days we will visit the cemeteries where his grandparents are buried. I study their images in an old photograph on the wall. In the photo, they are two best friends in love.

They look a lot like him.

“We were family pulled from the flood

You tore the floorboards up

And let the river rush in…”

“I am not the only traveler
Who has not repaid his debt
I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met

And then I can tell myself
What the hell I’m supposed to do
And then I can tell myself
Not to ride along with you

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met

When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Take me back to the night we met.”

Lyrics to a Lord Huron song called “The Night We Met.” From the Strange Trails: 14 Songs from the Unknown album. Released April 7th, 2015. Songwriting by Ben Schneider.

“I took a little journey to the unknown
And I’ve come back changed, I can feel it in my bones
I fucked with forces that our eyes can’t see
Now the darkness got a hold on me
Oh, the darkness got a hold on me

How long baby have I been away?
Oh, it feels like ages, though you say it’s only days
There ain’t language for the things I’ve seen
And the truth is stranger than my own worst dreams
The truth is stranger than all my dreams
Oh, the darkness got a hold on me

I have seen what the darkness does
Say goodbye to who I was
I ain’t never been away so long
Don’t look back, them days are gone
Follow me into the endless night
I can bring your fears to life
Show me yours and I’ll show you mine
Meet me in the woods tonight

The truth is stranger than my own worst dreams
Oh, the darkness got a hold on me

I have seen what the darkness does
Say goodbye to who I was
I ain’t never been away so long
Don’t look back, them days are gone
Follow me into the endless night
I can bring your fears to life
Show me yours and I’ll show you mine
Meet me in the woods tonight.”

Lyrics to a Lord Huron song called “Meet Me In The Woods.” From the Strange Trails album released April 7th, 2015. Songwriting by Ben Schneider.

What did we say about writing things down when we are premenstrual, sad and sleep deprived and we are leaving the writing in places where other people might find it

“but this is when we make our most interesting stuff” my love this is when we take existing problems and make them worse

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever.

Amen.”

Matthew 6:9-13

King James Bible.

This is the only biblical prayer I have ever memorized.

These days, a literal interpretation of the line about trespassing tends to bring to mind the image of the “posted” signs at the edge of the woods where I frequently wandered alone at the beginning of the pandemic. I think of the woods often. It also reminds me of a quote from Aldo Leopold that C_____ told me about, once – something about a county clerks office, I can’t remember it verbatim but I’ve still got the gist of it somewhere.

I returned to the woods, recently, with a backpack and a map and compass, a flip phone and a bear canister, a tent and a bedroll, layers for hiking and sleeping and staying warm, a cheap water filtration system, and copious amounts of bug spray. This was the last hurrah for the boots I bought in the summer of 2019. They have served me well.

Time in the woods made me think of the man with blue eyes. Like being haunted by a ghost I’m a little afraid of, a ghost I haven’t let myself think about in years.

I remember – I was 19, and there was a man that summer with strikingly blue eyes who wanted to take me backpacking and also refused to take me backpacking unless I bought a good pair of boots. If I only focus on that memory, and ignore nearly all of the other memories of the way he made me feel, then I can look back on the boy who talked me into buying the boots with a numb kind of fondness.

I’m pretty sure my mother was trying to marry me off, at the time, which would have been one way to get me out of the house. I’m not sure what possessed her, of all people, my overprotective mother with her morbid imagination, to sit back and smile and allow me to ride off into the sunrise and hike for miles alone in the woods with a man that I did not know. With no complaints at all, from her.

Still, I followed him – with a blind and unassuming sort of trust. I watched him filter water from the pond, cook over a camp stove, navigate trails, I watched him make jokes about seeing bears in the woods that I didn’t understand because nobody had ever in their entire lives bothered to explain anything whatsoever to me at all and I was the worst possible combination of sheltered and not very bright.

We spent a lot of time in the woods.

I think I did something quite melodramatic, when he left – or was it me who left first, I don’t remember – like I think I swore to myself that I would never love again. Because getting attached to him, letting him get close to me, and only knowing one way of staying close to him, even when at times I didn’t want to, which was to fight like hell to keep the dying embers alive in the middle of the rain – that hurt me. I was keenly aware that it was hurting him, too.

But the fire metaphor is a good one. Whatever it was we had burned bright and fast and used up all of its fuel in the process.

Fire can also be a transformative thing, part of the life cycle of a landscape. I have never been the same after him.

I have wanted to love.

I have, until recently, kept my promise to myself – the never loving again thing.

I have let myself entertain all kinds of half-loves. Pathetically yearning at perfectly wonderful people in secret from a distance for too many years without saying a god damned thing has perhaps been the safest, the kindest, and the most psychologically devestating compromise. Kissing attractive and very obviously emotionally unavailable people has been a close second. The worst was letting people who liked me very much have my time and my affection, but not letting myself be in love because I expected to get burned.

–

then there was my fiancé, who approached me with a shy and yet charming straightforward directness at exactly the right moment and told me he found me attractive, he couldn’t stop thinking about me, and he would never speak of this again if I thought he was crazy for misreading the signs – and who shortly thereafter received a surprised but encouraging answer that I did not think he was crazy. As if he had not been one of the people I had felt safe yearning for because I thought I couldn’t have him.

–

I think what I did in response to getting burned was this: I locked my ability to fall in love away inside of something like a tomb, threw away the key, and let myself forget that anything had ever been locked away, and then wondered why everything hurt so much all the time.

Nobody else could ever really have a key to that lock, not really. It would be enchanting to think that key could ever belong to someone else, some fatefully trusted person. But it can’t belong to anyone else. It’s only ever been mine.

Sovereinty.

I swore to myself that I would never fall in love again until I was ready, knowing that I probably never would be.

It was a cruel and nonsensical thing to do, a kindness, an act of self preservation, a specific kind of violence towards the self – all at the same time. It was also fundamentally confused, because fighting like hell to keep dying embers from going out in the wind and the rain is not the same thing as being in love. For fuck’s sake. I wish I could tell them that.

There was never a lock.

There was never a key.

There was barely even a love story with a bitter ending.

There was only a sad teenager who had hurt someone she liked and been hurt quite badly in return, and did not know what to do with the grief except to try very hard never go near the source, not ever again, not ever.

And there was only ever going to be a slow and painful and confusing recovery, mostly without telling a damned soul.

“When you were mine
I gave you all of my money
Time after time
You done me wrong
It was just like a dream
You let all my friends come over and meet
And you were so strange
You didn’t have the decency to change the sheets

Oh, when you were mine
I used to let you wear all my clothes
You were so fine
Maybe that’s the reason that it hurt me so

I know
I know you’re going with another guy
I don’t care
Cuz I love u, baby, that’s no lie
I love you more than I did
When you were mine

When you were mine
You were kinda sorta my best friend
So I was blind
I let you fool around
I never cared
I never was the kind to make a fuss
When he was there
Sleeping inbetween the two of us

I know
I know you’re going with another guy
I don’t care
Cuz I love you, baby, that’s no lie
I love you more than I did
When you were mine

When you were mine
U were all I ever wanted to do
Now I spend my time
Following him whenever he’s with you

I know
I know you’re going with another guy
I don’t care
Cuz I love you, baby, that’s no lie
I love you more that I did
When you were mine

When you were mine, yeah, oh no
Love you, baby
Love you, baby
When you were mine…”

Artist formerly known as Prince. “When You Were Mine,” the second track on the Dirty Mind album. October 8th,  1980.

Three days and nights of backpacking and climbing mountains. Many bug bites from blackflies and mosquitos; at least one tick bite (caught it in time). Sweat and exhaustion and pain from steep trails with much elevation change, a few stumbles on uneven ground – rocks, mud, tree roots. Stabbing, aching pain in the knees, hips, ankles, back and shoulders. A little dizzy from the heat. Blistered feet. Discouragement when we got lost and had to backtrack, worry about getting lost when we just weren’t sure of the way. Got caught in the rain during a thunderstorm by the lake at the base of a mountain – clothes and hair soaking wet, packs stayed dry. Slept poorly in the tent and worse in the car. Burned our food trying to cook over a camp stove in the dark after a long day. We smelled terrible and felt worse.

And yet – we were lucky enough to see a beaver swimming towards its dam across a creek. Canadian geese and baby mallards with their mum on the pond. We think we heard an owl one night, at camp. Tadpoles in a puddle at the top of a mountain. Saw what we think were salamander eggs. Lost count of the salamanders and the frogs and the toads. Watched a crow fly from the top of black mountain down across the lake. Found feathers from blue jays. Saw countless flowers and moths. Watched the sunrise across the pond. Moss and lichen on boulders and fallen trees. No cell service to speak of for days. Stretches of flat trail where the ground was covered in fallen pine needles. Did a sun salutation at the summit of a mountain. Had to learn to slow down to avoid injury. Talked about philosophy and heartbreak. Used walking meditation as a way to measure distance, as well as a way to manage pain. Observed that food tastes better when you’re very tired and very hungry. Fell asleep one night to the sound of thunder as we stayed dry in a lean to and watched the lighting light up the sky. Concluded the trip with a creek walk to the base of a waterfall.

And the views from the mountains were pretty.

“One morning, one morning, one morning in May
I overheard a married man to a young girl say
“Go dress you up, Pretty Katie, and come along with me
Across the Blue Mountains to the Allegheny.

“I’ll buy you a horse, love, and a saddle to ride
I’ll buy myself another to ride by your side
We’ll stop at every tavern

We’ll drink when we’re dry
Across the Blue Mountains goes my Katie and I”

Then up spoke her mother, and angry was she then
“Bright daughter, oh dear daughter, he is a married man
Besides, there’s young men plenty more handsome than he
Let him take his own wife to the Allegheny”

“But mother, oh dear mother, he’s the man of my own heart
And wouldn’t it be a dreadful thing for me and my love to part
I’d envy every woman who ever I did see
Who Crossed the Blue Mountains to the Allegheny”

Well the last time I saw him, he was saddled to ride
With Katie, his darling, right there by his side
A laughing and a singing and thankful to be free
To cross the Blue Mountain to the Allegheny

They left before daybreak on a buckskin and a roan
Past tall shivering pine trees where mockingbirds moan
Past dark cloudy windows where eyes may never see
Across the Blue Mountains to the Allegheny

One morning, one morning, one morning in May
I overheard a married man to a young girl say
“Go dress you up, Pretty Katie, and come along with me
Across the Blue Mountains to the Allegheny.”

Traditional folk song. As recorded by an americana folk band called Rising Appalachia on their record “The Sails of Self,” April 22 2010.

“Boys workin’ on empty
Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?
I just think about my baby
I’m so full of love I could barely eat
There’s nothing sweeter than my baby
I’d never want once from the cherry tree
Cause my baby’s sweet as can be
She’d give me toothaches just from kissin’ me

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I’ll crawl home to her

Boys, when my baby found me
I was three days on a drunken sin
I woke with her walls around me
Nothin’ in her room but an empty crib
And I was burnin’ up a fever
I didn’t care much how long I lived
But I swear I thought I dreamed her
She never asked me once about the wrong I did

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I’ll crawl home to her

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I’ll crawl home to her

My babe would never fret none
About what my hands and my body done
If the Lord don’t forgive me
I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me
When I was kissin’ on my baby
And she put her love down soft and sweet
In the low lamp light I was free
Heaven and hell were words to me

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I’ll crawl home to her

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I’ll crawl home to her.”

“Happy birthday, happy birthday

We love you

Happy birthday and may all your dreams come true

When you blow out the candles, one light stays aglow

It’s the love light in your eyes wheree’re you go…”

Look, I know you don’t NEED anyone to peel your oranges for you. You and I both know you can do that on your own. I am still going to peel you an orange, once in a while. With or without being asked. Not because you need the help, but because I want to do something for you. It’s just an act of service, and for that you owe me nothing at all in return.

Orange peel theory is often presented as a test – if they won’t read your mind and peel you an orange without being asked, then that means they don’t really love you. This is stupid. They might actually be loving you in other ways.

Orange peel theory is also meant as a commentary on loving independent people. Why would acts of service make sense as a love language for people who take pride in being able to manage just everything on their own?

Just because a person who takes pride in being independent would never dream of asking anyone else to peel them an orange, that doesnt mean they don’t appreciate this specific way of being loved.

I don’t need people to open doors for me – I am a strong independent woman. You however

“You can’t take loved away.”

“He (or she) who hesitates is lost.”

“It’s nothing important, just the sound of a young girl’s voice harmonizing with the hum of an electric fan.”

No, you don’t understand.

That’s all of my best memories of childhood.

That would be like saying,

“It’s nothing important, it’s just the pattern of the ceiling tiles in the only room where my grandmother ever watched over me as I fell asleep, when I was small.”

or, “it’s nothing important, just the way the breeze feels on my face and in my hair when we sat on the porch. It’s nothing important, just sound of the waves crashing on the shore. It’s nothing important, just the smell of the lake after rain.”

Puns & synonyms. That’s all I ever think about.

“‘Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore –

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonium shore!’

Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’”

    

Edgar Allan Poe. The Raven and Other Poems, page 5. Fall River Press, an Imprint of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc. NY, New York. 2021.

Originally published and attributed to Poe in the New York Evening Mirror on January 29th, 1845.

“I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE, I WANT TO RIDE MY BIKE…”

I was always fond of trees.

“Baby’s gone and I don’t know why
She let out this mornin’
Like a rusty shot in a hollow sky
She left me without warnin’

Sooner than the dogs could bark
Faster than a sun rose
Down to the banks on an old mule car
She took a flatboat ‘cross the shallow

Left me in my tears to drown
She left a baby daughter
Now the river’s wide and deep and brown
She’s crossin’ muddy waters

Tobacco standin’ in the fields
Be rotten come November
And a bitter heart will not reveal
A spring that love remembers

When that sweet brown girl of mine
Hair black as a raven
We broke the bread and drank the wine
From a jug that she’d been savin’

Left me in my tears to drown
She left a baby daughter
Now the river’s wide and deep and brown
She’s crossin’ muddy waters

Baby’s cryin’ and the daylight’s gone
That big oak tree is groaning
In a rush of wind and a river of song
I can hear my true love moanin’

Cryin’ for her baby child
Or cryin’ for her husband
Cryin’ for that river’s wild
To take her from her loved ones

Left me in my tears to drown
She left a baby daughter
Now the river’s wide and deep and brown
She’s crossin’ muddy waters

Now the river’s wide and deep and brown
She’s crossin’ muddy waters.”

John Hiatt, “Crossing Muddy Waters.” The second track on the record with the same name. Released on September 26th, 2000.

A cover of this track was recorded by the band I’m With Her and released on the “Crossing Muddy Waters/Be My Husband” EP on May 19th, 2015.

if you were very tired and very afraid and very, very sad – who would you think of to give you the strength to try and find your way back?

“Take the high road
Over the mountain pass
Take the high road
Going slow while everybody’s going fast
It won’t be the easy way
Saying what you want to say
Take the high road, baby…”

  

Lyrics of a song called “Take The High Road,” the 7th track from Sarah Jaroz’s album Polaroid Lovers. Released everywhere on January 26th, 2024.

“You take the high road

I’ll take the low road

I’ll get there before you

We’ll make it to Scotland

Or have we forgotten

What we’re going there for?”

  

From the lyrics to the chorus of a song called “Transatlantic,” by Aoife O’Donovan with Kris Drever. This track was released as a single on March 17th, 2021.

   

Together with Sara Watkins of Nickle Creek, Aoife O’Donovan and Sarah Jaroz record music and tour together as part of the band I’m With Her.

Easter egg hunt?

“By my fourth cup of black coffee, I used to be able to see God.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.

“You know, this is – excuse me – a damn fine cup of coffee. I can’t tell you how many cups of coffee I’ve had in my life, and this – this is one of the best.”

~ Special Agent Dale Cooper, Federal Buraeu of Investigation (Kyle MacLachlan), in Episode 1 of the television series Twin Peaks. Written by Mark Frost and David Lynch. Original air date April 12th, 1990.

“Annabel, Annabel

Where did you go?
I’ve looked high and I’ve looked low
I’ve looked low and I’ve looked high
Tell me where does the spirit go when you die?
Oh where does the spirit go when you die?

I have packed your satin gloves and lace
All the pictures of your pretty face
And I kept the ones of you on skates
And a picture from your wedding day

Annabel, Annabel way up high
Are you kissing the starry birds in the sky?
Will you come and visit us down below
Oh Annabel Annabel where did you go
Annabel where did you go?

You will miss the humming of the spring
And the winter won’t mean anything
And the summer is a lonesome dale
I am lost without you Annabel
I have lost my faith in everything
Annabel, Annabel are you free?
Will you wrap me in your legacy?
In a blanket with your sweet perfume
I am always thinking thoughts of you.

Annabel, Annabel where did you go?
I’ve looked high and I’ve looked low
Oh I’ve looked low and I’ve looked high
Tell me where does the spirit go when you die?
Oh where does the spirit go when you die?”

.

Lyrics to a song called “Annabell,” written by Kat Goldman for the 4th track on the debut album of a band called The Duhks, Your Daughters & Your Sons. Released by Sugar Hill Records, a Welk Music Company, in 2006.

“Everywhere, everything

Wanna love you till we’re food for the worms to eat

Till our fingers decompose

Keep my hand in yours.”

–

Noah Kahan. Lyrics to the chorus of the song “Everywhere, Everything” originally released on the Stick Season record on October 14th, 2022.

so far my favorite answer to “a billionaire can’t be a tortured poet, those are the rules” is “it doesn’t matter if you love or hate Taylor Swift’s music… is your sense of class solidarity alive and singing?”

(credit for this take goes to Aleah Black @gendersauce on IG. They create quality memes)

“You look like Clara Bow
In this light, remarkable
All your life, did you know
You’d be picked like a rose?”

“I’m not trying to exaggerate
But I think I might die if it happened
Die if it happened to me
No one in my small town
Thought I’d see the lights of Manhattan”

“This town is fake, but you’re the real thing
Breath of fresh air through smoke rings
Take the glory, give everything
Promise to be dazzling”

“You look like Stevie Nicks
In ’75, the hair and lips
Crowd goes wild at her fingertips
Half moonshine, a full eclipse”

“I’m not trying to exaggerate
But I think I might die if I made it
Die if I made it
No one in my small town
Thought I’d meet these suits in L.A.
They all wanna say”

“This town is fake, but you’re the real thing
Breath of fresh air through smoke rings
Take the glory, give everything
Promise to be dazzling”

“The crown is stained, but you’re the real queen
Flesh and blood amongst war machines
You’re the new God we’re worshipping
Promise to be dazzling”

Beauty is a beast that roars
Down on all fours
Demanding, “More”
Only when your girlish glow
Flickers just so
Do they let you know?
It’s hell on earth to be heavenly
Them’s the breaks, they don’t come gently

“You look like Taylor Swift
In this light, we’re loving it
You’ve got edge she never did

The future’s bright, dazzling…”

.

Lyrics to “Clara Bow,” the final track from Taylor Swift’s latest album, The Tortured Poet’s Department. Released on April 19th, 2024.