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