Day CL: Missed

I've decided there are too many opportunities in the world to ever feel like you've missed out on something.

And even if that's untrue, or unhealthy, perhaps thinking it will keep it apparent, keep it salient, keep it alive.

There was this moment at work today, lost in mounds of emails, wondering when 4:30 would rear her beautiful (if not  regrettably absent) head when I realized that I've spent too much time fixated on things that are outside of my control.

It's sort of my schtick, though, to isolate, to fixate, to hover above a moment in time, like snow caught on a mid-air wind. Is it that all I am is a flurry, a bustling little cloud of thoughts and questions, roiling above the ground, unsure of where to land, and wholly indifferent?

And when I land, will I feel appreciated, and will it matter? Will I be missed? Will I be anticipated?

Who will I disappoint, who will I please, who will care?

Questions like little fogs of gnats: bustle in and and out and over and under and pull me close only to drive me away with their incessant buzzing, their prickling hum of "and then what?"

Breathing comes too unnaturally in the face of so many little unseen questions marks.

Day CXLIV: Humidity

I can't decide if the wind or the humidity is worse.

In general, I mean. Not necessarily in the moment.

There are weather conditions that are nearly impossible to tolerate, because they're never enjoyable to be out in or experiencing the day.

And wind and humidity are two of them.

Unfortunately, today has been both. Stepping outside is like walking through cake, through a sticky, damp fog of batter. It clings to your skin, get's tangled in your hair. Sits underneath your hat, seeps into your brain.

So here's to staying indoors. 

And watching so much America's Next Top Model.

And playing so much Shovel Knight.

And napping three times.

Sunday: you've never been lazier.

Day CXLII: Favorites

Do you think it's possible to avoid playing favorites?

It's something I've been wrestling with lately.

Too often I find myself in situations that require decisions to be made based on my feelings toward two (or more) separate entities. And when those things are too entirely similar, too equally rewarding-and-wonderful-and-lovely, it becomes almost impossible not to select between the two based solely on which is your personal favorite.

Today, at ALA, I fell victim to this all familiar situation.

Day CXXVIII: I'll Be Right There

I've read a lot of really astounding literature lately.

If Goodreads is any indication, it might be the best run of material I've ever read. I have given 5/5 star ratings to six of the last ten books I've finished, and three of those were the most recent novels.

Tonight, I finished I'll Be Right There which has already been featured on this space, in a previous post. But, my god, I don't know what it is about East-Asian literature. We just click. There is not ever much in the way of plot--at least in some of my favorites--but the way that feelings are explored and critiqued and articulated...it's divine.

Sarah, of Bull Run fame, put it so well when we were discussing the book she saw in my hands: "It's very affirming to discover that great writers can just put into words everything you feel but have no medium for."

And, she's completely right. 

In an episode of the new season of Orange is the New Black, the prisoners take turns speaking directly into the camera about what "love" means. Tonight, I may have found a new definition.

With a little help from Kyung-Sook Shin, the author of this most beautiful book, I think that love might just mean never having to "hesitate to say, I'll be right there."

We're halfway through June. 

For this week, and for always, cling to the present, embrace what is now, and accept the littlest moments as the biggest lessons.

Day CXXI: Season

I can already tell it's going to be difficult to maintain this blog in the summer.

(Monday) Selfie

Recently, Sibley and I were discussing the seasons of the year.

I have always maintained, and still maintain, that my favorite season of the year is Autumn. I don't foresee that changing. But as we rifled through our thoughts on the four different times of year we're gifted in Minnesota, I had the thought that I am never happier than when it's summer.

Now, I suppose that might trigger me to rethink my ranked order of seasons, but I still probably prefer the fall to the other three.

Still, there's something to be examined here.

I often find happiness to be a product of inexplicable feeling and deliberate choice. Too often, I find myself bogged with thought; what does this mean? Or how did that feel? Why? For what reasons? How could that change? When will this end? Does this matter? Who would care? How does that affect her? Or him? Or me? I am thoughtful, and it's often to my detriment. I think most introverts (I am a proud ambivert) turn inward too often, or at least have the tendency to do so more frequently than their more extendable counterparts.

Summer sort of makes a wash of that, though. It's easier to find opportunities to lose that tether to the often problematic melodrama of the mind. Of course, I am equally aware that my inability to disconnect from overthinking is more severe than it is for others. And that's just fine. I'm working on it. But summer helps. It's somehow impossibly busy and exceedingly relaxed. There's freedom to create and breathe, but no time to do either. Summer: the painting that perfectly suits a room, but, actually, is unfinished.

And I suppose the weather, the natural abundance of vitamin D, is helpful. In little ol' Minnesota, a warm and sunny day only happens one in four days out of the year. So happiness just occurs with a little more ease in the summer, and becomes a bit more reliant on mindful action in Autumn. Truthfully, I think that's why I like fall the best.

It's a season of reflection.

And that's something I am--for better or worse--rather good at.

Day CXV: Plants

It's unsurprising that Archie and Bernard devoured my last two spider plants.

Those poor little guys didn't stand a chance to that gravelly-mouthed little creature and his black and white partner in crime. And while they did leave full, enriching lives, I miss them, and they were gone too soon.

The nice thing about plants though? There are plenty more!

I decided to change things up this time around. I have always had spider plants--I just love the way the reach. But it seems, with cats as hungry and curious as those I live with, a sturdier species might be nice. So that's why I have two bulky new friends.

World, I would like you to meet Kelly Plantle and Vinevacious.

Now, you know I'll always serve you face and neck--well, not always, and you'll be privy to some debaucherous photos later--but I think I am being out shown by my new companions in my Sunday Selfie! 

Aren't they nice? 

I like plants because my world feels fresher when they're around, especially if they're inside. I keep both of them in my room and it just feels like a better, cleaner space when they're around. There is very little upkeep with them, but the rewards of caregiving, nurturing, and supporting are boundless. It's not much, I know, but keeping them alive and around somehow brings out the adult in me. He is in there somewhere, after all.

It's a gloomy Sunday night. Rain is drizzling in through my open window, and the light from the yard across the fence is flickering with the passing drops.

Flick, flick, flick.

A lighthouse, welcoming the new work week, summer hours, and a chance at seven new days to get it right. 

An additional shade of green, a extra bit of life contained within these walls. 

Tonight: I am hopeful.

Day CX: Face

I hated this winter, you guys.

It was long and difficult, truly the season of my discontent. 

Between unbearably frigid temperatures, endless gales of wind, and (more than) our fair share of snow emergencies, it's no wonder that the first nice weekend we have--and it was impossibly beautiful--every single person and their entire family was out and about enjoying it.

Myself included.

So I apologize, dear reader, I ignored my blog and my writing, my personal diary of thoughts and musings. 

I guess an interesting observation though: I missed it and I felt guilty. It was this weird mixture of feeling like abandoned my child and a sad sort of relief. 

In a strange coincidence, I am feeling the same way about my face. 

For the first time since January--6 months, you guys!--my scruff has vanished! Luckily, I am already a little bristly. I think the heat inspired me to give it a go. And while I think I prefer the scruff, it's interesting to see my face again. It looks largely the same, but I wonder what's changed in the last half-a-year. Perhaps not a thing? 

In any case, one thing is very clear:

"Shit, I look goooooooooood." -Vivienne Pinay

Day CIV: The Other Side

Someone once told me the grass is much greener on the other side.

On May 18, 2014: I sunbathed.

It was a Sunday that started like most others: Bull Run, coffee, tea, scone, book. Today happened to have one extra element that's been missing for the last seven months.

Warmth.

Sunshine.

Light.

After a bleak and miserable 200 days, we've crossed the threshold and reached the edge of summer. I'm not going to say that we've emerged unscathed, but, nonetheless, the other side has welcomed us with arms wide open.

And it's a reciprocal feeling, to say the least. 

Day XCVII: Mom

Here's something cute: I was born on Mother's Day.

And that's my mom. She's riding a skateboard in Colorado. Not bad for a sixty year-old, eh?

Kidding: she's forty five.

My mom is one of those people who doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks of her. She has butterfly tattoos and changes her hair weekly. Her regular use of the word "fuck" is a great indicator for the amount of time she thinks about what others have to say about her. I've always admired that in my mom. And sometimes find myself wishing a little more of that flippancy and self-assuredness found its way through the gene pool.

When I was younger, I dreaded growing up to be my mom. Don't we all? I was always told: "You must be Beth's son!" or "Don't you look just like your mom!" and I despised it. I hated that lack of originality and that a son, a male child, could be so similar to their female parent. Looking back, it's funny to recognize and observe that reluctance to be so frequently compared to my mother. Because now: I would be lucky to be half the person my mumsy is. She's dynamic and friendly, huge-hearted and caring. She's stubborn and driven, and doesn't settle for less than she deserves. 

At twenty four, my mom was raising a darling, charismatic, and dashing four year-old, and also my brother. Between my her and my dad, they somehow managed to raise two spectacular children, even at such a young age. If I had a toddler and another son in diapers at my age...?

Let's not even postulate. There's just no way.

So this is for my mother, my mom. 

No words will ever be able to express my gratitude and love for her, or even come close to giving back everything she instilled in me. I am one of the two most fortunate boys on this planet for having grown up with someone like her, constantly vigilant, always guiding our steps.

I love you, mom. 

And I will be forever full of admiration and respect for everything you've done, for everything you do, for everything to come.

#SundaySelfie: me and my godson, Bernard

Day XCI: Snag

It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.

Days sneak by.

And for most of us, that's acceptable. There's nothing wrong with a gray afternoon spent in blankets, or a bright morning spent between trees. Even an evening in front of bad television can be rationalized here and there (or, you know, whenever).

In the face of rain or gusty, cold Sundays, there are a myriad of ways to wrap yourself in time absently spent.

Thumbing through tea packets, praying for jasmine to pop up in the back, I think about what I've done with the day: croissants, coffee, books, lunch, lake, run, write, walk, rest, search. On paper, a productive day. In practice? Less so.

I've spent so many hours over the last few months pouring over the internet and classifieds: a job here, a job there, nothing fruitful. But lately, I'm tired. Sleepy with hustled eyes, cheated promises.

Optimism has been the best gift a mother and father could have possibly passed on with their DNA. And, while the ideal refuses to surface, I'm happy to wade through a difficult stream when the other shore, quietly eroding, lingers ever-so-slightly out of reach.

On a walk this afternoon, a football bounced with Minnehaha Creek. Lost by careless hands or a strong arm, the ball sped down the little river, urgently. Somewhere to go, I suppose. Somewhere to be. A few steps further, dirt path fanning into mud, the ball was caught, trapped in the debris of the river.

Snagged.

The ball will be there for a while; the log won't be budging anytime soon. Perhaps a friend will find it, rescue it from the current, from the cold. Or the log will roll, the river proving too strong for the old, dead, used-to-be tree.

Or the ball will be stuck. Circumstantially complacent. Not giving up, not giving in. Just waiting for a shift in the water.

Perhaps, it won't be so long after all: you never step in the same river twice.

#TenDaysLeft

Day LXXVII: Rise

Photos are not in short order around here. There are plenty. While I've been recapping the day before on each of these Colorado-based blogs, I'm taking a break to share some shots from this morning.

Maria and I took a little one-on-one time at 6:15 this morning to hike up into the hills behind their home. After a jaunty ten minute drive, we reached our destination. The base of the hills dipped into the waters of the mountain reservoir and covered the shore in shale and needles.

We looked up.

Rocks loomed heavily above, glowing red as the sun peeked from behind the opposite hill. Pine trees swayed. Birds warbled. Deer leapt. Morning broke.

Taking one last glance down at the car, we stepped foot after foot along the carved, dirty trail into the hillside. We walked quickly, pausing only to press Cheba onward or take a swig of water. Sap glistened, smiling little menaces from every branch we braced for support.

Carefully, we moved through thistle and rabbit droppings. Eventually, we reached the base of the massive rocks we'd seen below. As momentous as they looked from the car, up close: they were mystifying. Shocked by their size, we traded places as we climbed higher and higher, swapping Cheba between us as we pushed and pulled our way to the top.

And how worth it was.

Blue skies painted above, rays of sunlight blasting our cheeks and the back of our necks. We did yoga. We sighed. We ooo'd and awe'd.

Maria scooped Cheeba up in her hands one last time and presented him to the world.

For a brief moment: we had risen. We had risen indeed

And then, it was time for another adventure...

Day LXX: Dryer

Reflection is a dangerous game to play with yourself.

When you're an overthinker--like myself--it's easy to trap your mind in teeny tiny death spirals of "what?" and "why?" A moment, caught on tape, reeling through your brain on one mortifying, endless loop. So many shoulds, so many coulds, so many woulds. All of them, reaching and falling, tumbling over one another like sheets in a dryer.

Laundry was a long process today. Blankets, shirts, underwear, towels, socks, jeans, pillowcases, linens, sweats: and that was just one of the loads. Too many things left untended, too many things left in the basket. Dormancy and lethargy are killers when it comes to washing and drying clothing.

A pen of mine made it in to the washer with my first load of apparel. A pilot G2, my favorite make of pen. Washed out and ruined, leaking like a open wound, I tossed it into the trash before more damage could be done. Peering over the gingham and flannel and denim, I was lucky to escape with just one itty-bitty mark on a rarely-worn v-neck which quickly found a new role as a kitchen rag. The rest: free from harm.

To toss aside your thoughts for another day is a great disservice to your sanity. But rolling with them in endless loops of uncertainty is toxic. Factor in an already neurotic personality and you've got days of self-inflicted torture. And that's the curse of the overthinker--you're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't.

So choose to wrestle. Choose to contemplate and mediate and digress and engage your thoughts until you've exhausted them, until you've exhausted yourself. Resolution does not come without work, so working to resolve is the lesser of two evils.

With any luck, the tumbling thoughts find a resting place somewhere on the continuum of comfort.

And what's better than climbing into bed, tucked safely beneath layers and layers of clean, warm sheets?

LXIII: Walk

Dare I say it? Would it be a total jinx?

I don't...

Think...

I...

Can... hold... it... in...

IT'S SPRING! It's actually here! And I think that it could be here to stay!

Let's hope.

In anticipation of a sudden snowstorm or torrential downpour, I am gearing up for a run around Calhoun. Anastasia Scott and I took a beautiful walk around Harriet, inspecting homes and sharing ideas. Every face carried a smile, some hands held other hands, and a few sets of arms carried kids, and, in one case(!), a tuckered out puppy. I wish I'd snagged a photo of that...

Instead I took this incredibly creepy picture of a child's bicycle abandoned outside of a cemetery:

Wrapping up this quick Sunday post, I want to also share some of the lovely things I've heard from the neighbor children in the ten minutes I've been putting this blog together:

"I don't even like Iris! I have a girlfriend!" -Roughly eight years old.

"I'm the oldest, so my vote counts three times." -The oldest girl in the bunch (who stole that phrase directly from eleven-year-old Josh.)

"Whose idea was this? I am telling on all of you!" -The  funwrecker.

"We could throw sticks and use ducktape as spiderweb!" -No clue who said it, but that's a damn great idea.

Hope we can all enjoy the week as much as some stick-tossing kiddies!

Day LVI: After

We had company!

And now that the party is over, that the freezer is empty, and brunch has been had, it's time take a look at what transpired. I'm not sure if broken glass, half-drank champagne, and licked-clean pizza boxes is your thing, but it's good look for our abode.

Shall we catch up with a who's who of the evening?

Well I think it's pretty clear that Archie got everything he needed out of the night. He had such a good time he's licking the joy of last night out of his toes.

Don't let that face fool you, Ashley was mostly smiles last night. One of the most consistently demanding of lipsync performances, it's easy to see why she very easily livens up a party. She even sprinted down Bryant to get to the bars faster. Girl, that's commitment.

Looks like someone is still not ready for the day. Poor Bernard, he still can't shake his hangover, and he's taking it out on us with so much yelling.

Well this is about as attractive as I could manage before breakfast. One gross face, two tall glasses of water, a tank top, and a hunting hat later... nope, nothing was gonna fix that mess this morning.

Anyone else get to wake up to this face? Oh, just me? I'm the only lucky one? Ha! Looks like I win the Internet. Kirby and I were up till 4:30 having a pillowside chat and were back at it at 8:30. Needless to say, girl's tired.

I think it's safe to say that Kyle was NOT ready for this photo. Great tank choice though! After a night of reading the house down and a triumphant return to Stella's without a kicking-out, Kyle has spent the day in front of Pokemon, House of Cards, and watching me play Dark Souls 2. Sounds pretty ideal.

Oh, hey, big girl! A little pre-brunch snack at Pizza Luce never hurt anyone, right? While Seth would rather have hit up the Macy's deli, I think a slice of pep, a coke, and then an actual meal hit the spot. With a fierce hat and set of shades, it's going to be a knocked-out car ride home this afternoon.

Then we have this little crunchlet. A jar of water in her right and a hairbrush in her left, Sibley was not taking no for an answer this morning. Snarl free and hydrated: girl was ready for some brunch. And brunch we did.

I start work in a new office tomorrow! Here's to a beautiful week (for everyone who reads this)!

#SundaySelfie

Day XLIX: Bedmaking

I feel a lot more optimistic about this Sunday than the last. Blame the weather, I guess. We all get pretty good at that this time of year. I was promised another day above freezing tomorrow, though, so it better make good.

After returning home from dog sitting--seriously, how effing cute were those pups--I joined Kyle on a long, leisurely coffee time at Bull Run. Following, it was time to get all my wares unpacked and back in to the house. Because I got to do laundry for free this weekend, I was hauling my bed sheets, blankets, and comforters back into my room. As I fluffed the fitted sheet for the mattress, the yellow fabric falling gently to the bed, a very peaceful moment was interrupted by this little brat:

Seriously, it could not have been more than three or four nanoseconds between the sheet making contact with the mattress and Archie squatting atop it. And I couldn't even be upset! Look how G.D. cute he is! Ugh. He's such a jerk. Eventually I was able to swat him away (momentarily) and get the rest of the bed done. And instead of adorably laying down, he adopted his signature sitting posture. 

Look at that face. Look at that curled paw! For a cat that's so damn cute, he knows how to ham it up.

So, yes, Archie is delightfully icky. And that's his standard. In many ways, it's nice to know that some things don't change, that a gross cat will still be just that at the beginning of a brand new week. March is wrapping up, and April--traditionally one of my least favorite months of the year--is just around the corner. For a plethora of reasons, it's completely fitting that a time of year I once loathed could not get here soon enough.

#SundaySelfie inspired by Mathu Andersen

Get out there and enjoy the week.

XLII: Rejuvenation

I hate how the weekend ends as soon as it's Sunday afternoon.

At three o'clock today, Sibley announced that the weekend was over. And, sadly, I think that's true. Unless it's summer, I find myself so caught up in prepping for the work week that I forget that, hey, there is still plenty of time to enjoy your off-the-clock periods. Too often, I realize it's Sunday night and I haven't done a damn thing with my day because I have been fixating on how depressingly close Monday morning is.

Well, I suppose that Sunday slumps can't last forever. Summer is right around the corner, and it's nearly time for a reawakening. A reawakening of green, of spirit, of mind, of body--oh, lord, is that ever needed--of moments, of memories, of life. Spring is a filthy time of year, but it's amazing how clean it can scrub the soul.

So I will be looking forward to the freshness and new smells of April and May. I will be anticipating, eagerly, the warmer weather and sunnier days. Even the shrill warbles of birds and scratchy scurries of squirrels will be a welcome addition to the morning.

More than anything, I am ready for a chance to start anew. Rejuvenation has never felt so needed.

Tonight, you can find me in bed, clinging to a blanket, and praying that this week sprints by.

Day XXXV: Fake Summer Sunday

Oh, summer, why must you be so far away?

It's been a very nice Sunday. Usually, when it comes to DST, I wind up feeling disgruntled and slightly psychotic. Today, though, I don't feel disgruntled at all! Could have something to do with the exorbitant amount of sleep I've had in the last 24 hours, but I am guessing that the melting snow and warm weather is the more likely culprit. You won't see any tears from these eyes as we say goodbye (I hope!) to the snow.

This morning, Kyle and I performed our regular Sunday ritual: a trip to Bull Run. I like Bull Run on Sundays because Sam is usually on bar. Sam is the vaguely Greek, somewhat snappy barista who never fails to knock drinks out of the park. Never have I had a sub-par beverage when she's pulling shots. We spent the morning reading and writing, before deciding to enact our Summer Saturday routine. Last summer, we would go to Bull Run every Saturday morning before going to to get happy hour at Sushi Tango. Today, it was just warm enough to convince us we needed to make a trip.

The biggest--and best--difference between Saturday and Sunday at Sushi Tango is the presence of Mama. Now, for those of you unfamiliar, Mama is the affectionate and appropriate nickname of everyone's favorite uptown bartender, Michael Long. Easily one of the funniest, sincere, and most genuine people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, Mama is one of those rare humans that consistently improves moods and generates laughter. A pure delight.

She was recounting her escapades for Kyle and I at the bar when she asked if I'd ever seen the calendar she made. Turns out, Mama has this amazing calendar of himself that he shot while on vacay in Thailand. It's captioned and campy and fishy and fabulous. Literally: each spread was better than the last. September saw her in traditional garb; March was a ferocious pose on top of an elephant. The calendar is basically a work of art.

Slightly intoxicated, we made our way back home for some Smash Brothers before I met up with Anastasia for a walk around Lake Harriet. You guys! Everyone is so happy and excited for spring, and the walk was nothing but smiling dads, cheerful runners, and inappropriately large strollers. Other than the company and conversation, Stacy--a nickname I know she adores--and I agreed that the best part was one particularly well-dressed mom that looked appalled as two running children splashed her freezing sidewalk water. Her expression? Priceless.

Now, it's nothing but soft music and household chores. Hope you're all having a delightful start to the week!

Day XVIII: Is it Cheating If I Just Snap a #SundaySelfie Post-The-Oscars and Call it Good?

Never say in a blog what a title can say in under 20 words.

We've had a blast of a night. So I am posting a #SundaySelfie and calling it good.

Just know: I've had a very good day. And that I am going to regret this photo in the morning.

Work is going to be rough, ruff, ruuuuuuuuuuuffffffffffff tomorrow.

Oscars: Woof.

Have a great start to the work week, kittens. 

Me. Ow.

Day XXI: Brunch

I don't know if it's possible to like a meal more than I like brunch. Dinner can be too late, breakfast is a waste of time, and lunch is the middle child that you just acknowledge as part of a routine. None of them are particularly fantastic, and they each suffer from flaws.

But brunch. Brunch is a gift. Brunch is bloody marys and sweaty hash browns. Brunch is mimosas and tofu scrambles. Brunch is beer and waffles. Brunch is...brunch is perfect.

It might have an unfair advantage though. See, breakfast-lunch-and-dinner all suffer from meal loneliness. It is not often that you get to enjoy breakfast with a loved one when you're 24, especially if you're in love with your snooze button. Lunch is for you and your desk and surfing the web. And dinner is a consistent afterthought for when your bottle of pinot noir has disappeared by what I can only assume is black magic.

But brunch.

Brunch is for friends and family. Brunch is for toasting the night before. Brunch is for waking up with glitter in your hair and stamps on top of your hands. Brunch is for remembering how much better food can taste when laughter surrounds your plate.  Brunch is for asking why your clothes were off. Brunch is for glamorous hats and ebullient conversation. Brunch is...brunch is heaven.

I had the pleasure of a lengthy brunch today with some of my very favorite people on this planet, and I believe it's exactly what my soul needed to kick off the week. There's this great line from an episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon says, "I believe all anyone wants in this life is to sit in peace and eat a sandwich." I think I used to agree.

Tonight?

I think all anyone needs is brunch and a table of people you love