Day XCII: Sun

What a difference a day can make, eh?

In Minnesota, we're used to rapidly changing weather. Snow threatens every minute of our days for seven months out of the year. The humidity can make walking difficult. Rain comes and goes, a fleeting friend or a busy neighbor.

Of one thing I am sure: the sun in May brings out the best in everyone.

We've spent 2014 in the coldest, bleakest, most miserable winter on record. Anyone who's lived through the past four months can attest--with various degrees loathing--what a troublesome start to the new year we've experienced in the nation's northernmost state.

Perhaps I am alone in this, but the minute the sun peeks out, sneaks away from the clouds and frigid atmosphere, it's almost as if the winter of our discontent never happened. The grass is green. Robins are bouncing. Rabbits are hopping. Trees are budding. Foxes are slinking (NO, SERIOUSLY, MY SPIRIT ANIMAL RAN ACROSS BRYANT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME). People are smiling.

That last one is the most important: people are smiling!

It's not as if smiling never happens in the winter. In the sunshine and warmth, though, people just look...happier. Auras are changing. Energy is flowing. There's joy and light, and it is radiant.

Calhoun was packed this afternoon. Joggers, bikers, walkers, talkers, skaters, sailors, drinkers, thinkers, dancers, bathers, readers: everyone refreshed and alive. And it's heartwarming to see. Hell, it's heartwarming to write! We did it. We made it! And we're on the other side, stronger for having made it through.

In a vase, on a table nearby, flowers bloom in a circle of herbs and small plants. Life springs forward, eager for the next arc in the circle.

It's hard to be sad in the face of such resplendent noise.

From a seat in Urban Bean--Bull Run closed early and I feel such elitist loyalty to them that even writing "Urban Bean" feels maddening--the I am watching the sun quietly take his  leave behind a massive slate roof. No grand production, no forced goodbyes. A simple, silent dip, tapping the glass panes one last time before submitting to the hour of the day.

Ah, the modesty of the sun. Such humility.

And, yes, I am gushing. Wildly. Staining these keys, this page with happiness. But you'll hear no apologies.

We've waited long enough.

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 LXXXIX: Aroma

I have no patience for bad smells.

Couldn't tell you if I've always been this way. It's highly likely, though, that my nose has held a particularly high standard of aromatic elitism.

My first memories of terrible scents: I am five and riding through Ontario with my parents. With no concept of isolated smells, I immediately assumed that Canada just smelled terribly. Everywhere. A pungent, plaguing mixture of sulfurous hotdog water and rancid lunch meats roasting in a pottery kiln. Spoiler Alert: just factory smog. Not all of Canada reeks so foully. 

Just most of it.

I was sipping a green tea the other evening and paging through a copy of At Night We Walk in Circles, quietly relaxing behind a pretty blonde working on what appeared to be roughly 300 different Excel spreadsheets. I wasn't completely enamored with her work or her pretty hair--but, god, it did look damn good--but I think I briefly fell in love her. And it was all because of her scent. Every time the door to the shop peeped open, the breeze would stir stone fruit and puppy breath and warm salted chocolate in one sensational gust.

I'm not trying to gush; she simply smelled better than anyone else has in a long time. I wanted to take a bite out of her skin. And not in a freaky way. I legitimately was curious: did she taste as good as she smelled?

Reading that, I can see why someone might just stop reading, cold turkey. I think I might too. But, really, it's how I felt in the moment. Just trying to be honest. Surely you've felt like that at some point in your life?

There's something romantic about scent. It's an intimate sense, even without contact. Something so clearly alluring, hypnotizing exists in the space of our favorite aromas. Perhaps its the neck of another, a sheet in the wind, wet earth following the rain. Or smoldering logs in a fire. Or paint airing on a post. Or lemons beneath a knife. 

For me: it's the way a room can feel so particular without the scent of the person who fills the space. Perhaps that's an experience unique to me? You've been in that little box a thousand times before, rarely without the other person. And then, one day, they're absent, their scent lingering wherever they are, and the room is suddenly unfamiliar. 

I can't decide if that's tragic. 

Perhaps. 

Perhaps not.

I drew card this week, a particular person on my mind. The crisp scent of paper--quickly fading from my deck--came in small wafts as I shuffled. Then, like magic, like memory, I took a card from the top and my room was flooded with tangy metal and lilac.

Your scent. 

And then it was gone, out the window with the rustling of leaves. 

Day LXXXV: Touch

Chest to chest, nose to nose, palm to palm,

we were always just that close.

Scratching at the sky--branches, twigs, sticks clawing at space--a tree waves hello from just beyond the window. A waltz, maybe, or a foxtrot, partnered with a gray, gray cloud and moving to the sound of rain. Lots of rain. A torrent. A downpour. How the buds, the fingers manage to keep up is beyond me.

I see hands in the tops of oaks and maples. Lithe, toned waists and arms in the bodies of pines. Powerful legs in the trunk of an elm. And they are all twisting and melting memories of you. Of them. Of every moment in bed, waiting for the day to turn out, to brighten up, secretly praying that, perhaps, the clouds will linger for twenty minutes more and keep us entwined. 

a memory 

Wine. Too much for the afternoon. Whites and reds, my favorite from New Zealand. 

King's Road. Bustling. A marked taxi honks a warning, steers slightly rightward, curses with its driver. 

Rain. Quiet, but present. Always somewhere. Asking questions: where's your umbrella? Aren't you cold? Am I ruining your day? Did you leave your keys at the library? 

A library. What a funny place for a wine tasting. 

Inside: we nap. Or try to. It's tough in a twin. Stirring succumbs to hands, to locked fingers, to locked lips, to tangled sheets, to troublesome denim. And the very edge of touch, soft, finding a new landscape.  

Hands. The cartographers of the body.

The louder the wind, the more deliberately it drags the limbs of trees against the sky, the more closely it resembles an angry voice shushing the world. Bullets splash against the sidewalk. A draft shakes the room, a door closes. A bell rings. Footsteps. Creaking wood. Repeat.

a memory 

Thunder. 

Thunder. 

More thunder. Lightning. Stars? Or spaceships? Or visitors from beyond?  

You were curious, meant each question. 

Wine. Too much for the evening. 

Footsteps through a quiet, sprawling home. A single room. One bed for you, the same one for me.  

Our bones wrap. Your hand on mine, warmer than a smile. Warmer than your legs, painting the back of mine. Two feet tapping, retreating, playing beneath the sheet. Inhaling, exhaling: noses pressed together. Shift once. Shift twice. Embrace, nudge, relax, melt. Repeat.

I wonder--often--if the memories we share exist with you too. 

I worry--seldom--that they live only in me.

On rainy days, these cuddly, nuzzly, evenings and haunted afternoons, I think of touch. 

And I wonder if touch is doing the same.

Day LXXXIV: Diary

It can be an uncomfortable thing, blogging. You spend a lot of time thinking and rethinking about what you're willing to share with the world, what you're not. There's a lot of choice that goes into disclosing a particular thought to the rest of the webverse. Sometimes I find myself backing up, tapping the delete button just one more time, before hovering the mouse above "publish" and clicking my life on to the Internet. 

But, mostly, I find it rewarding. I enjoy sharing my life with the world. I find a somewhat rewarding level of vulnerability, of courage through offering these moments to any and all of the readers that wander over.

In many ways, this blog serves as a daily diary. A way to reflect and ponder. A means to end the day, to wrap up a week or a day or a thought.

And I find it empowering. There is something frenetic and vibrant about writing every day of your life, however brief. Who knows, in twenty years, I may find these ancient blogs and think, wow, look where I was. Look what I did. Look who I used to be!

I hope that I am proud. I hope that I have changed for the better, for good. 

But, truthfully, I am pretty happy right now. Of course, there are pieces missing. Days pass without reset buttons, no matter how badly I wish to press one. I'll fake a smile here, or try harder to laugh there, but, mostly, I find myself in a pretty good head space.

Today was not a day I would reset.

I started a new show. (By "started", I mean I watched 9 episodes of The Vampire Diaries with Kyle and Jessica.) And, as much as I should feel embarrassed, it was a damn gloomy day. 

And that show? Addicting. 

Like, meth levels of addicting. 

The week is starting. Who knows what it will bring? 

The only certainty? I'll be ten days away from 100 by the end of it. And that, dear reader, is a strange feeling.

Oh, look, a haircut!

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...

LXXIV: Three

The thing about Wednesday: I always end up with a story from the day that I don't get to share because of my commitment to #WigWednesday. And then, because I tend to be the most scatterbrained of all people, I forget what I actually wanted to share with you all.

But not tonight! No, tonight I am on top of things. For you, I have three stories to share from my Wednesdeay. I hope you'll enjoy them.

Wet

Wasn't it fun how it snowed and rained all Sunday long? The accumulation of snow and sleet really cemented the beauty of spring.

As you may have guessed from my post on Tuesday, I had a bit of a rocky Monday. Luckily, the blood moon kept me pretty energized throughout the evening and I was able to spring back up on my feet in time for Tuesday to roll around. And while staying up until 3 am enjoying the orange orb in the sky and writing through some weirdness was probably not a great idea, I felt surprisingly ready for the morning.

Teeth brushed, body showered, feet booted: I was ready for the day. Bustling out of the apartment, I was ready to get to work, get through the day, and move on to an exciting night. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the loud children next door--who are usually unbearable in the early hours of the day--were suspiciously silent. Ah, yes, it was going to be a good day. And then I sat down in my car.

After the rain.

After the snow in the night.

After leaving my moon roof open for 12 ungodly hours.

So with a soaked ass, and not one single ounce of dignity, I drove to work, the butt of my jeans significantly darker than the rest. 

Now, yes, this was Tuesday. And this was supposed to be a story about Wednesday! Fear not: we're getting there. 

Cut to me, standing outside of Bull Run, chatting with my grandpa. We must have talked for 50 minutes! It was a nice long discussion about all sorts of things. Mostly, it was just to catch up. So we CAUGHT UP. For a while! And it was great! But I ended up walking up and down the streets of my neighborhood the entire time we had our conversation. So when it came time to go inside after our lengthy chat, I was little...well...moist.

That's right.

Moist.

Work

Being in a new space is not without its benefits. The exploration and excitement that comes with a new environment can really contribute to the creative energies of a work space. 

One of the oft overlooked benefits of a different office: new furniture! 

I am fortunate enough to work somewhere that carries an incredibly relaxed vibe. 

So when you're a little jittery throughout the day already--namely: you can't sit still--it's helpful to have a seat that moves along with you. Whether I'm sitting, standing, or kneeling, I have a chair that rolls with the punches. Hell, I can feel my back and my core getting stronger already. If you're looking for something to keep you on your toes while doing mundane tasks, this would be my go to suggestion. 

Wardrobe

I've never shied away from talking about naked-time. You know, the time to yourself when you just get to disrobe, hangout--literally--and be yourself in the most basic possible form. I'm a fan. 

The only part of the day that I consistently get to enjoy naked-time, though, is when it's time for bed. I don't care for sleeping with clothes on. I'm a big advocate for showering before bed, so I never feel like my naked self is polluting the perfection of my bed sheets and blankets. Sleeping sans clothing just feels right to someone like me; it's something I genuinely cherish throughout the weaving hours of the week.

So, knowing that I sleep in my birthday suit, can someone please explain to me how I woke up like this on Wednesday morning?

Sweatpants? A sweater (not buttoned correctly...)? Socks?

Color me confused.

I've never been one to sleep walk--have I?!--so coming to on Wednesday morning in more clothes than I wore the entire day before was a bit puzzling. 

When I asked Kyle about it, explaining the predicament I was placed in, he helpfully offered an answer.

"Oh, is this finally when I tell you I sneak into your room and dress you every evening?"

Well, I guess that's one possibility. 

Day LXIX: Stroll

Something always brings me back to you...

Saturday.

Saturday night.

Saturday night on a cold and gloomy evening. 

Cuddle weather, I think they call it.

Saturday night once meant couches and slumber parties. 

Late nights and Golden Eye 007.

Grape Slushies and a movie with the dogs.

Sneaking a beer from the fridge or a swig of gin from the cupboard

The first time you tried weed, confused in a cabin that was more screen than wood.

Benders that started at three pm after class and all you could think about was getting caught, dashing through the woods, stumbling over feet that promised you nothing.

The library until four in the morning.

A condom wrapper and a question.

The gravity of a Saturday night: it's impossible to quantify.

...it never takes too long.

Day LXVII: Precious

When spring arrives in Minnesota, forty degrees above zero means shorts and sandals. Conditioned by the dark, cold winter, any hopeful ray of sunlight becomes a godsend. The lakes become a destination, even layered in ice. Sunroofs are cracked, windows call the breeze, and smiles become a tad more genuine--as genuine as they can be in the passive-aggressive tradition of Minnesota Nice.

Harriet is flush with luxury--designer yoga pants, exquisite hair--regardless of how far you drift from the shore. Cedar echoes with laughter and reeks of local weed. Lake of the Isles sparkles in sunglasses and bounces with puppies and well-trained rescues. And Calhoun? Calhoun is packed. Packed with smiles, packed with wheels, packed with conversations, packed. Full. Stuffed. Packed.

It's a wonder that I choose the busiest lake for exercise. For whatever reason, I just find the run around Lake Calhoun to be the most exciting. And, perhaps more telling, the most distracting.

I've never been one to run indoors. That's why I balloon in the winter. It's hibernation Josh, if you will. Pleasantly plump for the winter, and ready to get outside in the spring. So when the chance to play in the warmth--a word here which means "the temperature climbs higher than freezing"--I happily grasp at the invitation.

Today was an "everything's coming up Josh" sort of day. The kind of Thursday that affords you a smile and wink, a generous nudge into a happier direction. And the run provided a delightful cherry to top it off. I struggled to pull my camera up while jogging to snap this photo, and I was surprised (pleasantly) to discover that the following picture turned out pretty well! Nevermind that I was shaking and sweating and lipsyncing, all of them profusely.

A small child, out on a lovely walk with her companion. 

What a precious day.

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 LVII: One and Only

They think I am too old to cause trouble. Old age is a powerful disguise.

-Katherine Applegate, The One and Only Ivan

I've been making a conscious effort with this little blogging challenge to not review books. That's what Goodreads haikus are for. I think that it's too easy to fall back on reviewing. This blog is really just about piecing together the odd snippets of my life into a hardly cohesive set of posts. But, I suppose, phrased like that, tying a book into my blog only makes sense. Books tend to be a rather large part of who I am, after all.

I don't remember when I decided to start actively reading more YA. I took a course from the Gustavus English department called "Adolescent Literature," and I think that must have rekindled my love for the genre. There is so much to be mined! What's that phrase, "from the mouths of babes?" In this case, "from the words for the young."

First, I should mention that anything with animals that is even remotely sad: my heart just falls apart in my chest. I have to spend hours reshaping and reviving my emotions because I end up spent so quickly. The Fox and the Hound, for instance, is an okay movie with a few semi-sad scenes for the average human. But when Widow Tweed has to drop Tod off in the woods--in a Harry and the Henderson's sort of way--I have to pause and dam the floodgates.

(apparently I can't even think about the scene without tearing up...in public...audibly...)

So a book like The One and Only Ivan isn't exactly light material for me.

Ivan is a gorilla. A mighty silverback. Locked behind the glass of a mall storefront and paired, his only companions are an elephant, Stella, and a stray dog, Bob. When Ruby, a baby elephant is brought into the mall, Ivan's life finds new meaning: keep Ruby out of the same prison he's been trapped in for over 25 years.

Tenderhearted and exceptionally honest, Applegate's YA novel is a tragic and hopeful account of humanity, vulnerability, and unwavering dedication.

I don't know why the greatest lessons I've learned from reading have come through animals. Beatrice and Virgil taught me to be strong, The Wind and the Willows demonstrated the ferocity of civility, and Charlotte's Web promised a better world with the power of selflessness. For whatever reason these lessons stick, I am grateful.

Grateful for their genesis.
Grateful for their wisdom.
Grateful for their sacrifice.

When I was young, our German Shorthair Pointer, Beau, laid down beside me on the floor while my family watched a rerun of Who's Line is it Anyway? She had been on a much more comfortable bed in another room when she crept up behind me and let me rest my head on her stomach. In the middle of the episode, Beau released a strange whimper, shook, and passed on.

Perhaps this is odd, but I believe she made the choice to hobble beside me and share her last moments with our family in the center of the floor. I can't be certain (how could I?), but I like to think that small act of love was her parting gift to all of us.

She was the one and only pet our family lost together.

She was the one and only Beau, the mighty pointer.

And that's what clicked today in finishing Katherine Applegate's story. Each of us is a one and only to someone or other. And that's not a gift to be wasted. It's one to be treasured and be thankful for. To be proud of and find remarkable.

We owe it to others, and we owe it to ourselves.

At one time, you will be a memory for another.

And in that moment, you will be their one and only.

Memories are precious...they tell us who we are.

-Katherine Applegate, The One and Only Ivan

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 LIV: Ride

It only ever happens when I am alone, and only when I’m driving:

It’s dark. That eight pm in the dead of winter dark where you feel tired for no reason. That dark where the lights from every other oncoming car could come crashing through your windshield at any moment if you didn’t hold your eyes open and your wrists rigid at the steering wheel. That dark where the radio is on—or is it?—but there’s no sound you can make out other than the mellow drumming of your thoughts. 

That dark where even the digital clock on your dash goes tic, tic, tic.

No matter where you are, all you see for miles and miles is stretching, winding road and trees that stick out like stray hairs on a bald, black landscape. And until you reach the outskirts of a city or even the heart of a busy, bustling downtown, you only see trees and banks of blustered, abused, dirty snow.  So you wake up.  You wake up and take note of people walking the streets in their black coats and pretty hats and fake conversations with dogs on leashes and kids with bells.  You see windows and storefronts and doors with wreathes.  You see candles and flames flickering with warm invitations.    

But stay in your car. Keep driving. Keep moving onward. 

Like ice flow. Like slow, slow ice pushing through water. 

It only happens when I am alone. 

It goes like this:

A song on the radio, a CD, in my head. A song plays somewhere inside the car.

It’s “Hometown Glory” by Adele, it’s “Dancing” by Elisa, it’s “The Freshman” by the Verve Pipe. It’s “Hallelujah,” by Jeff Buckley.

Somehow, you were fine one minute. You were driving and smiling and watching for deer and trees and snowflakes. You were listening to nothing and dancing in your mind and waiting for your car to stop crawling forward and just park already. You were sore and aching, and sitting too long. 

One minute you were good, dandy.

Somehow, you’re crying.

You’re listening to The Temper Trap and can’t begin to imagine a time in your life when you were this overwhelmed with unhappiness. You’re watching lights burnout in the rearview mirror while your tears rush out to the rhythm of “How to Save a Life.” 

You don’t need to pullover. For God’s sake, it’s not that bad.

But should you? 

There’s no one else here but you.  And that makes it okay.

That makes it okay to surrender. To listen to song around you and release. To let go, to run, to bawl, to relinquish control and find the one moment when the lyrics match perfectly with the tic, tic, tic of the green digital numbers on the dash. 

One minute, you’re fine.

The next, you’re alone.

And then, you’ve grown-up.

You’ve lost more of your time, your friendships, your success, your experience, your memories.

For a moment, it’s remarkable.

For an instant, it’s unbearable.

For a lifetime, it’s existence.

Day LIII: Gloom

...a gloomy peace this morning with it brings.

-William Shakespeare

The first time I played Pokemon, I was sitting a old and comfortable reclining chair in the upstairs living room of Aaron Carlson's house. Well, his parents' house, I guess. I cannot remember for the life of me if it was his copy or if it was his brother Mat's.  But I do remember an Arbok--named Edward Mon--a Wartortle, a Dugtrio, two others, and a Gloom.

©Kawiko, DeviantArt

At six years old, I had no idea that Gloom was a separate noun first, and a pokemon second. I just thought it was some sad, depressed plant that poisoned it's opponents. Or drained them of life while feeding their own dark wishes. Or paralyzed them. Or sent them into an undesired sleep. Or spit toxic acid in their face.

Only now, nearly twenty years later, do I realize that Nintendo's frightening creation is an apt representation of what it feels like to be saturated in gloom, in partial darkness, in despondency.

The snow is heavy beyond the window. 

And I worry that as soon as I take a step beyond the building, my whole body will cave in and collapse.

The dreariness of the day is frightening and gray, tastes like musk and sand. I'm not feeling optimistic about the spring. Breathe in, breathe out: it has to end eventually.

The snow and rain and cold: perfect cuddle weather.

And that's the hardest part.

Day XLVI: Faggot II

GOD HATES FAGS

They say you shouldn't say nothin' about the dead unless it's good.

He's dead. Good!   

    -Jackie Mabley, comedienne

It's the first day of spring 2014. 

With spring comes filthiness and grit and change. And from it we are gifted rejuvenation and birth and, well, change.

On those ever blustery winds of change blew in news that Fred Phelps passed away at the age of 84. Responsible for founding and sustaining the Westboro Baptist Church, Phelps and his family and congregation have been responsible for the picketing of over 50,000 events. While some have been as inconsequential as Lady Gaga concerts, they've managed to disrupt the funerals of soldiers and LGBT advocates. The destruction and irreversible conditioning his church has engineered into hundreds of adults and children is horrifying. The suffering, embarrassment, and sadness he has created is baffling. And the bigotry, intolerance, and hatred he has vomited upon this world is impossible to quantify. 

GOD HATES FAGS

I was fourteen the first time I heard about the Westboro Baptist. I remember the blazing red, orange, and yellow signs that flared and danced in the hands of adults and kids, kids that looked younger than me. I can hear the chanting and shouting. I still feel the damning words and raging glares pouring from the mouths and eyes of people that looked just like you and me.

And their faces lit up. I can recall how happy and proud and successful they felt when any attention was sent their way. While they cast America and its people into the immolating, toxic, eternal fires of hell, sent us into the blazing pits of fire and brimstone, and condemned us to wallow in our pain and torment for the rest of time forever-and-ever-and-ever-amen: they smiled. They glowed with joy and reverence. They were radiant in their conviction, steadfast in their hatred. 

GOD HATES FAGS

The second time I was called a faggot--of three that stick with me--I was in 9th grade, watching Shirley Phelps in an interview on television. She told me I was going to hell. That I deserved it. That it was what happened to people like me. That when I spent the rest of eternity rotting and burning in the pits of the underworld, it would be exactly what god wanted.

She told me: thank god for AIDS.

She told me: thank god you'll burn.

She told me: fags are nature freaks.
She told me: thank god for dead fags.

She told me: GOD HATES FAGS

When you're fourteen and already hate the skin you're in. When you're fourteen and ask god every day why you have to be this way. When you're fourteen and you can't find a reason worth living. When you're fourteen and cannot figure out why. When you're fourteen and pray that you wake up in a different life. When you're fourteen and hate everything you see in the mirror.

When you're fourteen and every moment feels pointless, you start to agree that

GOD HATES FAGS.

When I read this morning that Fred Phelps had died, I stopped breathing. 

For so many years, perpetuators of hatred and religious elitism held me in the sweltering palms of their hands. I felt suffocated and frightened of the "truths" they spit into the world and understood that I was lesser and unworthy. When your church called me a fag and damned my soul: I believed you.

But it's been a long time since I've subscribed to that notion. It's been years of work and accomplishment and effort and strength. Now, I stand on the other side of that hatred with the knowledge that I am thousands of times the person you or anyone in your congregation will ever be.

When I read this morning that Fred Phelps had died, I smiled.

I smiled because the world is lighter without his hatred.

I smiled because that's one big glob of anger and intolerance that no longer exists.

I smiled because he hurt so many people around the world, and that he cannot hurt them ever again.

I smiled because I forgive Fred Phelps.

I forgive him for being a catalyst for pain and evil and suffering.

I forgive him for ruining lives and hurting families.

I forgive him for damning without right.

I forgive him because I am a better human than that wicked, wicked man. 

And I think that's what would make him suffer the most: knowing that this faggot, this fag that god hates, forgives him and would tell him face-to-face to rest in peace.

Fred Phelps doesn't deserve my forgiveness or sympathy, and he wouldn't  want it anyway. 

But I didn't want to hear him, either. So I hope, somehow, he can hear me now.

I forgive you.

While you damn me to hell, I hope you find some sort of stillness in your death. A stillness where no one listens to your cries or your words. A stillness where any thoughts or ideas you present are met with overwhelming silence. A stillness where your assertions and positions are meaningless.

A stillness fitting of the demon you played on Earth.

I forgive you. And I thank god for your death.

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!