anything, anything for you.

it's time for a

LOOK AT ME

I didn't hear about the shootings till late in the afternoon. My girlfriend's text to me started with, 'You're alive, yes?. . .' and I nearly dropped the phone. Primarily because I already had the answer, and secondly, because of the news that followed, 'more shootings in seattle today.' I texted her back saying I would answer in email form. (If my phone doubled as a camera, I would have just snapped a photo of my journal, but as it stands, I had to scan the page and email it to her. Which showed up on her phone - I'm a few years behind with technology.) That morning in my journal I drew this:

The sky right now looks about the color of the background.

This morning I read the paper about the shootings. I had met and worked with two of the victims. There were quotes from other friends about them. This is not how I want to see my friends name in print.

My deepest condolences go out to all those who knew them. to all those touched by them. to all those who are better off for knowing them. 

And for me, living in Seattle, I have to remind myself that though there might be rain, the sun still burns bright. 

just because it is true, does not mean it needs to see the light of day

Even when it is true, even when the facts are clearly stated and agreed upon, that your girlfriend was indeed working on fixing a squeak in some unnamed household appliance that required the use of some perhaps linseed based lubricant in the space and time before you arrived at her house to spend some quality time with her...
Even when, in a moment of closeness that falls somewhere between greeting and goodnight that requires your face to be close to the face of your loved one, the thought, as strange as it seems, crosses your mind as clear as the day is long...
I recommend, for the sake of mood preservation, dignity and respect, that one does not utter the oh so true words 'Your face kinda smells like my Dad's trumpet case.'

You're Welcome.

Dear Sister of Mine Who is in a More Than 2.5 Year Long Hetero Relationship,

I have a confession to make: Over the past little while, I have been secretly scheming in your favor.
I have noticed over the past little while, a particular situation you have, to no fault of anyone, found yourself in. And it is only getting worse. As of yet, I have been helpless to alleviate the discomfort you feel, to deflect any pointed digs in your future direction. And it has pained me so, to watch one so close to me suffer so.
And then there is the guilt. The guilt felt only by one who not only is helpless to help but is also completely free from such an attack. I have been inviolable.
And, after much thought and internal debate, I have come upon a solution. Where I cannot be of service directly, I must do so indirectly. Where I do not have the power to change the situation of others, I am the master of my own circumstance. Where I cannot take the cross off your shoulders completely, I can, at the very least, share the burden.
And what, you ask, is this fix? Well, and please no, hold off on the thank you's, I have enlisted the help of my personal friend, President Obama, and we have decided to make GAY MARRIAGE an ok thing! Now, Dear Sister, you will no longer be the sole recipient of Mom and Dad's (ok, mostly Mom's) pressure to get hitched! We shall walk this path together, side by side, as true equals. Fielding and deflecting the hints, that range from less than subtle to down right heavy handed, that marriage is the next rite of passage (aka the final barrier between them and grandkids) (uh, about that. yeah, I'll be taking the fork in the trail that points towards inner-tubing down the river with my gay friends and away from the whole birth thingy that's like way more a steep climb than suits me. feel free to drop them off in ankle-ville* when they are done throwing up), and damn are we taking our sweet freaking time.
Sister, breathe easy (for now), you are so, so welcome.

Love,
Your Newly Allowed to Have My Relationship Recognized by the State Gay Sister


* aunt + uncle = ankle** (or aunkle)
** way better than gay + aunt = gaunt, you think?

advice to a beleaguered artist

happy birthday 3 days ago to me

sweetness

I'M TIRED

I DON'T WANT TO MOVE

                  GO AROUND  sit with me

                               OR GO AWAY  stay with me please

i have an ant problem. they are coming in thru the cracks in the framing of my kitchen window. i've put out lines of cinnamon to deter them but i haven't found a way to make ground cinnamon stick to walls so they climb around up over under. it's sweetness they crave, sustenance. and i keep killing them on sight.

so, ants are about what, community? i'm lonely. it comes and goes, but it's not unusual. last night my girlfriend and my best friend dressed up and went to a party with a bunch of my other friends. i wanted to go but their estimated time of departure was exactly my bedtime, i worked at 7 this morning, so i sulked down to my room and turned out the lights. but part of it is choice. it feels really good to my body to get up early, go to bed early, to not drink, to not listen to loud music. it seems, these past few days especially, i'm torn between meeting physical needs and meeting newly awakened emotional needs. and by these past few days i mean these past few years.

after work today i caught the tail end of a hang out at the park with aforementioned party attendees and a handful of others. every one and their small dog was out in the park. i felt in. except. not. i kept thinking, i want something else in this conversation, something more than just casual banter about new capitol hill developments and vegan gluten free waffle recipes. there were no ants at this picnic.

and the point of this post? i'm not sure. i get lonely, yet don't reach out. i know you guys are out there, and that gives me comfort. i hope the same for you -the knowing and comfort, not the lonely and hiding. :)

as for my ants, well, they are forcing me to be clean clean clean, that's for sure. and appreciative of their communication skills, their dedication to their tribe. not to mention their sheer strength and determination.
so, tonight, with deep gratitude, i will wipe down my counters, pile more cinnamon on the sill where the wind has scattered it, and send my love to you all.

Product Review: platonic black gloves

Dear Viewers of my Blog,

Feast your eyes upon the subject of my very first product review:

!

And pardon the un-scintillating title of this post. My first stab at it had something to do with 'Getting Love From the Black Gloves,' or something equally and accidentally bawdy, but that, I realized, is fodder for a different blog all together. . . But, while I have your attention, along those same suggestive lines, some rather, uh, salacious thumbnail images crop up at around page 3 of a google image search of the very same hand adornments in question. Which has been successful in neither completely derailing me off my task of writing this blog, nor even postpone my creation of said posting for any significant amount of time longer than 4.25 minutes. That being said, I shall continue on with the matter at hand. 

But first, a confession: the black gloves are not entirely 100% platonic. I settled on that particular word to try and preemptively cold shower the effects of displaying such a racy by association image due to my detailing, in paragraph form, of black gloves potential to be improper in the best way possible. They are not platonic for the simple fact that they were loaned to me by my girlfriend. And last I checked, that relationship is not, and shall not if I have a say in it, settle into, a platonic one. In fact, as a gesture of her nonplatonic feelings towards me, she fished them out of her foyer closet (a harrowing task indeed!) to loan me so that I might not get a chill as I travel from her home to my home on my trusty bicycle. Such chivalry! Granted, she didn't know where they came from and they are half a size too small. I swooned nonetheless at such a show of prurient politeness and have worn the gloves with such diligence as to show my amorous appreciation. And it has been in this time that I have all but been forced to take note of the pros and cons of this practical article of clothing/symbol of our physical union. Proceed at will:

PROS: well, instead of listing things I'll just sum it up with a line that some other product has already claimed as their own and if they haven't they should cuz it's real catchy: 

Keeps Warm Things Warm! and Cold Things Cold!

I feel like I have my fingers stuck in tiny beer bottle cozies. When I wear the gloves. Which is not altogether a terrible feeing, just not exactly ideal. Especially when I am cold and want my gloves, which I put on specifically to keep me warm because that is what gloves do I am told, to keep me warm, not to maintain my extremital body temp at a constant, which lately has been not warm. The Warm things Warm I can deal with. It is in fact the desired attribute I was seeking. It does keep the wind out, which is an added bonus. And so far it had not acquired that particular northwest rain gear that never dries out smell. But it also has not punched me in the face so my favor isn't exactly being swayed here. On the bright side, it is late March, which means I will only be needing my little neoprene envelopes for like three more months or so. At which point I might be tempted to cut the fingers off and continue wearing them for three more months. At which point I will be needing full coverage and will once again turn to my partner in neither crime nor business and await, both hands open, to whatever treasures she disinters from the nether regions of her entrance way. And to those precious valuables I will say, thank you for your warmth and perfect fit. Tis an honor. 

Please pick pocket after your dog

*note* there are no images to go with this one, but it's probably for the best really*
The other day, whilst waiting in line at the post office, I was struck with the realization that where once was 2 gloves in my coat pocket, now were just one. that panicy wave of grief from sudden loss crashed into me as I frantically checked my other pockets. it was definitely gone. I had to find it. well, first I had to send my package off, then find it. so, I did. send the package off. and find it. eventually. and lucky for me my errands by bicycle route was pretty well confined. and it was not raining. and the feeling I got from finding it (a mitten I had sewn for myself about 5 years ago from a scarf my gramma gave me. sentimental!), tho short, was sweet relief times infinity (ok, yeah, it was just a mitten, but see previous parenthetical statement!)
but. along my search and rescue way, side-car-ed to a marginal bout of anxiety, was moderate disgust. when scanning the sidewalks and roads for a small hand sized dark blue object, I found that the eye feverishly affixes onto all things remotely resembling said lost cherished item. specifically, dog poop in plastic bags. there is this incredible invention called TRASH CANS, people! and they are pretty much ubiquitous. man, the emotional ups and downs those little baggies caused me. annoying! foul! but wait, what is that clever tho maybe inappropriate to bring up because I am talking about fecal matter maxim - when life gives you yellow citrus, make yellow citrus juice. so then it came to me. another genius idea involving dogs (see two posts ago for other mind blowing example):

coin purse wallets made to look like dog poop in a bag!

it's the ultimate anti-theft device! like those fake poops they have to hide keys in, but, uh, different. ! great for traveling, or just being out on the town. at night. in a possible sketchy neighborhood maybe. or just out to a summer time lunch in a fun chicago suburb with your dad while he's out visiting you and your purse is hanging on the back of your chair with the zipper open and a stranger walks by.

oh. . .

thinking about pick pocketing (not dog poop) made me think of my sister (tho she does live with a dog). she was protagonist in aforementioned eating experience, not I. tho I heard all about it and part of me wished I was there. the fictitious big sister part of me that is capable of running down thieves in a city unfamiliar, retrieving the wallet with all its contents still intact with one hand and with the other hand, administering justice in the form of some supernatural punch perhaps, then finishing the scene with a heroic (heroinic?) handing of it back to my little sister while other lunchers looked on with relief and admiration. it was hard enough to hold the knowledge of it from five-ish states and 2 time zones away. I can only imagine how my dad felt. maybe still feels.
maybe I'm glad I wasn't there. maybe if my ideas weren't so cockamamie, I'd have been online immediately, trying to figure out how to birth this little brain child into existence. to spare her, conceivably, from future harsh violations. to spare myself from harsh, albeit remote helplessness. but then there's the whole lighting not striking the same place more than once thingy which metaphorically translates into: odds of that happening again are so preposterously slim that there's no point in fantasizing down that road and also there's really nothing I can/could do. save for being sympathetic from a distance, feeling my feelings, and well, not stealing wallets myself.
or leaving my dog's poop in a bag out on the sidewalk for people to mistakenly, joyously identify as their lost mitt, only to be correctly, disconcertingly discerned as inhuman waste. an act that, for the record, arouses feelings of irateness that, also for the record, pale in comparison to those feelings of outrage brought about by a misdeed of such degree as pick pocketing. sigh.
so my sister is down a wallet, my dad returns home with a chink in his protector armor, and me, a silent character in this tragedy, continues walking my path with my two mittens on my two hands, a daydreaming vigilante, side stepping blue bags all the way home.


(On a side note, I have, as I discovered on my bus ride to therapy, a small plastic bag in my backpack which needs to be dealt with in a do not pass go, do not collect $200 kinda way. A tiny knot is all that separates me and the world at large from ancient picked clean but not quite pear core remnants. I was actually quite relieved to find it because I found myself enduring the same circumstances I believe I was faced with the first time I put said one into said the other: slimy pear core in hand and nary a compost bucket in sight (probably low on the list of priorities for metro bus system). So, yes, I tempted fate and unlocked the secrets of the decomposing fruit but only just enough for me to slide the fresh organic matter in before sealing it up and putting right back where I found it. We'll see how long this game lasts. . . )

Stolen Art!

I have a hard time making visual art without using words.

Snow! Dogs! Ingenuity!

I just woke up from the most amazing nap wherein I had the most mundanely surreal dreams about napping. And waking up from napping. At least the subject matter did not detract from the rich quality of sleep gotten and the subsequent out of it-ness I currently feel that is indicator of said nap quality.

Par for the course, really, the ordinary nighty-night life. Whenever I encounter a person who claims to have garnered some divine pinpoint of inspiration directly from a sleeping dream I cannot help but shroud myself in my shawl of disbelief (serape of disbelief? or wait - what are those thickly woven things that look like the softest of mobius strips that people wear around their necks these days? anyways.) and shiver with the slightest bit of envy. My dreams are so mundane (read: if they (Arch Angels of the Universe) are trying to tell (Bestow Upon) me something (Divine Inspiration), I for sure would appreciate it if it weren't so, I don't know, intricately cryptic (Symbolic))! That or dream people are trying to kill me. Either way, where for me are these revelational dreams that these well rested people speak of so highly? This elusive guiding light eludes me in my moonlit, ok slightly on the uncomfortable side organic cotton futon.

And so I turn to snowy nature. Not the Snow-pocalypse of last month, I was in Chicago-pocalypse at the time. I am referring to none other than my two weekend ago adventure to Snoqu-apocalyps-mie Pass. Specifically, an underpass at Snoqualmie Pass. To embark on a few hour snow shoe adventure. An afternoon trek that I have no photographic evidence of. Only fond memories, passing soreness, and a soon to be revealed brilliant scheme. But first, because nothing goes together with narrative writing than a swell image, a photo pulled directly off the internet:

I chose this one because it best refers back to the run-of-the-mill theme of the day. Two other images that did not make the cut but just barely were A) a grouping of old school snow shoes stuck person-less into a snow bank such that it kinda resembled DIY grave stones (ominous!), and B) a grouping of person joyfully engaging in the new to me sport of snow shoe racing. Wait - snow shoe racing? It kinda sounds maybe really appealing. And also maybe only if I was being chased by dogs.

Speaking of dogs: my irradiant idea! It came to me as I was witness to/body checked by our group's 2 canine companion's running abouts and chasing after one anothers. Here it is: 

Dogs for rent at trail heads.

Think about it. Fun loving creatures to bound along side you and provide that extra boost of energy up that steep incline! Cute domestic animal meets the great wild entertainment! An extra hyper extra safety precaution for those who trek alone! Someone to talk about/to when you tire of your chosen human companion! No dealing with wet dog travel logistics! Perfect for cat people who like the benefits of a dog sidekick but don't want to put in the work of ownership! And the operation would double as a dog sleep over place when you are away on vacation! Everyone wins!

Now to find someone to put this enterprise into orbit. . . 

Oh, before I do, though, one last image that didn't make the cut:

Let's see, yes, well, excellent advice. Unless maybe you are snow shoeing for the first time ever in your life, adult or otherwise, then, maybe not so much. Unless. . . you have Rent-A-Trail-Dog! You and your rental canine could chose the path so less taken that no one has yet to take it and shuffle your way (or run, if you are in the know of the snow shoe racing) till your heart's content, safe with the knowledge that you are not alone. And that if you did get lost, you can just follow the yellow snow all the way back to the parking lot.

Beaches 11

after a long arduous day at work, after finally making it home, after finally heating up my warm breakfast cereal for dinner dinner, I finally sat myself down at my laptop computer/the-future-is-now entertainment station with one goal in mind: to achieve maximum relaxation/minimum brainwave action via hoo-loo streaming videos. in lieu of my usual 'I'll just watch trailers of movie's I'll never see,' I went straight for the kill. and was denied twice the movies of my choice (indiana jones and the last crusade and The 10 Commandments - tho, now that I think of it, me not finding it might have less to do with the fact that the cine-web can't be bothered by a 3.65 hour epic biblical tale from 1956 and more to do with the fact that I actually searched for a non-existent movie entitled The 12 Commandments. Sisters Colleen, Christine, Beverly and Maria are all, with the help of Jesus, spiritually knuckle rapping me from a distance.) but I did luck out on my third choice, drumroll please. . . . Beaches. 

yes, Beaches. Bette Midler and Blossom as Bette Midler's character in her wiley youth, across from Barbara 'your name makes me want chocolate' Hershey and some generic brown haired youngin who's name name I don't recall/never knew because she didn't go on to star in her own TV show. (but, wait, ilvs, you can't remember the girl who played Blossom, either. -what do you mean 'played Blossom'? -the  actress who played Blossom. -again, phrasing I do not comprehend. -actress. has name. - yes. Blossom. is Blossom.). . .  it has been a while since I saw that film, probably since my best friend was a horse loving straight A catholic school girl named Molly. I was in the mood for some tear inducing, ovary warming eighties nostalgia. a, ahem, girl's night sunday night slumber party for one, if you will. and I did. 

well, that is, until the interweblord deemed my shared with 8 other people wifi connection 'too slow' and black screen froze up on me and hour and 22 minute into it. I hadn't even gotten to the part where she gets bed riddenly sick! talk about a buzz kill. but then, just as I had opened up this blog site in order to write a scathing rant, the universe interceded and there came a knock at my door. enter in my best friend/neighbor, stopping in to say hello and hey why have you been acting so weird lately I'm worried about our friendship what gives. and the scene that followed was like it was pulled from the future, right out of the brain of the screenwriter of some targeted-at-women movie maybe it will be called Beaches 11. Tho, that title makes me think it might also have like a diamond heist involved in it. regardless, feelings were shared, tears were shed, mutual understanding was come to. which is good, cuz, well, I'm still waiting for the rest of the movie to buffer. 

it should be noted, that while our little heart to heart was happening, I was dressed in half my pyjamas + half my street clothes + stripey blanket of peruvian influence = slow moving emo ninja in a blanket, and BFF was fresh from a performance so had on full drag make up and a wig and platform shoes (her american flag unitard hidden under her fur collared bright blue over coat). and while we sat on the edge of my futon, my feline BFF, BABY SEAL, was loving the crap out of the moment soooooo much she decided to say so by attempting to lick the freckles off my hand/the buttons off my calculator watch. never has so much love occurred in such a moment in time under the exact same circumstances. I feel blessed to have been such a part of such best best friend estrogen trifecta. thank you Bette, Chocolate Lady, for paving the way. my uterus is positively aglow. 

what to get your sister's mustachioed boyfriend who already has a lifetime supply of mustache wax:

Book Report: The History of Love

Eager to delve into the salty seas of literary pearls this New Year, I checked myself out a copy (upon Eagle's chit chat recommendation while waiting for the next available teller at the local credit union we both engage with) of The History of Love by Nicole 'Rhymes with Strauss' Krauss. Twas a good read, all in all. Though I will confess that, in my eager beaverness, I dove a little too deep, too fast. (wait, beaverness?) As in, I sat myself down at my local tea shop/smoothie shop and read 70 pages at a time, reader me running at full gallop. And while my eyes certainly registered all n letters, spaces, punctuation and singular typo, my brain did not. Picture if you will: a wild frontier with two horses all geared up, clopping away at full speed, thingies that connect their harnesses to their intended load dragging behind them on the ground, and left behind in the dust, me, standing in my grounded chariot, coughing and rubbing her eyes. (Horses = my eyeballs. Me = well, me, my brain. Eyes = the eyes of my brain.) So then I found myself more than halfway through the book and seriously confused.
Enter in Internetted study notes. Never in my scholastic career did the need arise for me to make use of such crutches! Yet here I am, the setting sun of school long behind me, and I'm fumbling in the dark trying to unclasp the secrets of said lovely novel. So, yeah, I had to read the summary of the book to actually understand the book. The book, for the record, is not complicated. There were just some key facts that I glossed over in my sophomoric attempt at speed reading that made it, well, confusing.
Speaking of speed reading and the history of love, of my love to be exact, I once dated a speed reader. She was not a speed reader by profession, but by hobby only. Which maybe added to the irritation I felt over how frickin smug she was at how frickin good she was at it. Ack! I can remember sitting next to her in bed, both of us nosed in our own books of choice, but me only just barely, hanging by fingernails, mine, on the the thin ledge of words lined up on the pages because I was so distracted by the affrontingly triumphant sound of her page turning! It was happening so fast! And so loud! Oh, the sound! A gold trophy scraped down the length of a chalk board in an otherwise quiet bedroom. And to top it off she had the audacity to enjoy herself via actually being able to understand the tale at such break neck speed! Ack! I'm tensing just reliving the memory!
Interestingly enough, my repressed competitive streak and equally repressed/completely underdeveloped resolve to share how I was feeling at that point, were somehow - get this - linked to how I related to her throughout the entirety of the relationship. And ultimately led its untimely demise.
I am happy to report, though, that knowing she could read what took me one hour to write in under 30 seconds is no longer filed under 'THINGIES THAT GET MY GOAT.' Nor am I as fervently chomping at the bit to plow through the next book, Everything Is Illuminated. I intend to take my time on that. Which is probably doubly in my favor as the plot lines, I'm told, are pretty much (and controversially) the same.

a recourse on remorse

things that rhyme with horse