the words have been moved to a more micro + photo format on IG for the time being.
follow me there until i go longform again.
Sunday, October 23, 2022
Wednesday, September 7, 2022
the rotten pound of flesh
the most important part of getting past something is to expose it to daylight so it can be seen, acknowledged, and eventually live in the past. several abandonded drafts have come and gone, of outrage and resentment. making people see my pain doesn't actually address my pain. the pound of flesh i'm determined to have has already rotted between my teeth.
i have been binging couples content to try and dissect what i didn't have the chance to operate on. countless paint swatches held up to the mirror in hopes of finding a telling match. "I don't like to give attention to him" flatly said, from an overextended follower of the Fake It 'Til You Make It MLM stayed with me. problem statement, red flag, and takeaway rolled together so succinctly.
socially it feels like i'm the sucker punchline at the end of a three year conversation had with everyone else but me. the tragedy lies in that words were what brought us together, from thousands of miles apart. these same words are what shattered us, over and over again. the omission of words, the harshest judgement.
the struggle that's left is mourning the loss of my identity within a society. it's as if the Seattle trees i have watered for decades have borne fruit from my time, care, and attention. that fruit has been cherry-picked and stolen, its nourishment taken. the narrative being told to mutual friends isn't the reality, because the reality is woven and wounded and wishes to be forgotten about, but the reality is that people choose sides and a whole lot of people stopped talking to me.
this year has been spent replanting myself among those that see me. not a single person from my widest (most shallow?) social circle has asked me if i'm okay, and that's not okay. rows and rows of human-sized cardboard cutouts blown over by the torrential awkward silence. on the back of each is scrawled paragraphs of exclusionary legalese. it's incredibly disconnecting when you pride yourself on being there when others need an ear or a hand and you aren't given that in kind.
the end of summer has left me restless, a welcome change from seasons of numb. my primal instict is to put a down payment on another nest, to pull my things out of storage and surround myself with proof of my existence. but i know that my way forward is being open to opportunity and i just need the patience to get there. past me has gifted present me with the adventure i need when i depart Canada in 21 days.
i write about this because i want it to remain in the archives. i am back to living for myself and want this space to reflect the privilege and sanctity of the now. Montreal is not the solution to any of my problems but it has given me a forced perspective shift that allows me insights i wouldn't have by simply replaying old habits.
besides, the baked goods are to die for.
i have been binging couples content to try and dissect what i didn't have the chance to operate on. countless paint swatches held up to the mirror in hopes of finding a telling match. "I don't like to give attention to him" flatly said, from an overextended follower of the Fake It 'Til You Make It MLM stayed with me. problem statement, red flag, and takeaway rolled together so succinctly.
socially it feels like i'm the sucker punchline at the end of a three year conversation had with everyone else but me. the tragedy lies in that words were what brought us together, from thousands of miles apart. these same words are what shattered us, over and over again. the omission of words, the harshest judgement.
the struggle that's left is mourning the loss of my identity within a society. it's as if the Seattle trees i have watered for decades have borne fruit from my time, care, and attention. that fruit has been cherry-picked and stolen, its nourishment taken. the narrative being told to mutual friends isn't the reality, because the reality is woven and wounded and wishes to be forgotten about, but the reality is that people choose sides and a whole lot of people stopped talking to me.
this year has been spent replanting myself among those that see me. not a single person from my widest (most shallow?) social circle has asked me if i'm okay, and that's not okay. rows and rows of human-sized cardboard cutouts blown over by the torrential awkward silence. on the back of each is scrawled paragraphs of exclusionary legalese. it's incredibly disconnecting when you pride yourself on being there when others need an ear or a hand and you aren't given that in kind.
the end of summer has left me restless, a welcome change from seasons of numb. my primal instict is to put a down payment on another nest, to pull my things out of storage and surround myself with proof of my existence. but i know that my way forward is being open to opportunity and i just need the patience to get there. past me has gifted present me with the adventure i need when i depart Canada in 21 days.
i write about this because i want it to remain in the archives. i am back to living for myself and want this space to reflect the privilege and sanctity of the now. Montreal is not the solution to any of my problems but it has given me a forced perspective shift that allows me insights i wouldn't have by simply replaying old habits.
besides, the baked goods are to die for.
Monday, June 27, 2022
emotional purgatory
nearly two months ago i arrived, an incoherent midnight mess to Canadian immigration.
"why are you coming to Canada?"
"do you know anyone in Montreal?"
"what are you going to be doing for so long?"
"you don't know anyone in Montreal?"
"are you going to be working here?"
"how much money do you have?"
"why were you in New York City?"
endless existential exposition served by sus security.
i flubbed, i faltered, i flummoxed.
i botched, i bungled, i bumbled.
mutual torture for everyone standing between me and my apartment.
i don't know man i just need to be here right now.
i arrived to my airbnb and entered the door code.
i was instructed to wait for the green light before trying the handle, otherwise i'll fuck everything up.
no light came on, but the approval beep was audible.
i tried the door. it didn't open. ugh i fucked everything up.
i try the code again. no green light. the beep of acceptance. nothing.
i try it again.
and again.
and again.
and check the street number.
and again.
and again.
and again.
and suddenly i hear a mechanical noise, the door lock with alzheimer's realizing it's still on the clock.
thus kicked off big summer nemesis 2022: a door
this place had specific purpose - somewhere very central with a balcony to start my summer uncertainty. if COVID was to flare back up again or pivot or great introducing monkey pox then i could at least feel within the mix and not wholly isolate myself during a time i should probably definitely be around other people.
it's the what i need, warts and all. a reminder that air conditioning should be a thing you have. a reminder how important ergonomics are in being a functional human. there is a certain sensory purging in the occasional sweat-soaked sunday without a real table to sit at or a real chair to sit on. arty studio living!
the mini fridge and the countertop burner and the toaster oven. if i had an ounce of urge to be on-camera i would totally make a cooking show around airbnb kitchens. a one-skillet meal is nice and all ASSUMING YOU HAVE A SKILLET. but i make do and i take care of myself. beyond sausages on the regular. spinach wherever i can stuff it. big ups to the fresh baked ciabatta in every grocery store - canada's cheddar will make you long for the days of tilamook but the french sure know how to boulangerie.
back to basics feat. a double-headed shower and a view so prominent i'm a minor celebrity every time i step outside. my next place will have all of the luxuries i have taken for granted - for now it's a life of prone processing.
it's a lot a lot to process.
i've been asked if i'm having fun yet.
it's not that i lack levity, i'm just incapable of dreaming right now.
(which admittedly isn't very fun.)
i've been asked if i'm bored with all of this open-ended time.
the silence i hear every day is not inherently lonely.
(though i do miss human touch.)
it's currently the sound of the absence of being overwhelmed.
delightful, really.
one day it'll be the sound of opportunity.
of intent.
of time meant to spend.
but things are very simple, now.
do your dishes.
get out and about now and then.
don't get covid.
don't need a hospital.
one more month in the Saint Laurent spotlight.
two months in a less cool / more livable Mile End studio.
big ticketed events start in july.
i will get covid.
i won't need a hospital.
this is a process.
but seriously fuck that door lock it never works.
"why are you coming to Canada?"
"do you know anyone in Montreal?"
"what are you going to be doing for so long?"
"you don't know anyone in Montreal?"
"are you going to be working here?"
"how much money do you have?"
"why were you in New York City?"
endless existential exposition served by sus security.
i flubbed, i faltered, i flummoxed.
i botched, i bungled, i bumbled.
mutual torture for everyone standing between me and my apartment.
i don't know man i just need to be here right now.
i arrived to my airbnb and entered the door code.
i was instructed to wait for the green light before trying the handle, otherwise i'll fuck everything up.
no light came on, but the approval beep was audible.
i tried the door. it didn't open. ugh i fucked everything up.
i try the code again. no green light. the beep of acceptance. nothing.
i try it again.
and again.
and again.
and check the street number.
and again.
and again.
and again.
and suddenly i hear a mechanical noise, the door lock with alzheimer's realizing it's still on the clock.
thus kicked off big summer nemesis 2022: a door
this place had specific purpose - somewhere very central with a balcony to start my summer uncertainty. if COVID was to flare back up again or pivot or great introducing monkey pox then i could at least feel within the mix and not wholly isolate myself during a time i should probably definitely be around other people.
it's the what i need, warts and all. a reminder that air conditioning should be a thing you have. a reminder how important ergonomics are in being a functional human. there is a certain sensory purging in the occasional sweat-soaked sunday without a real table to sit at or a real chair to sit on. arty studio living!
the mini fridge and the countertop burner and the toaster oven. if i had an ounce of urge to be on-camera i would totally make a cooking show around airbnb kitchens. a one-skillet meal is nice and all ASSUMING YOU HAVE A SKILLET. but i make do and i take care of myself. beyond sausages on the regular. spinach wherever i can stuff it. big ups to the fresh baked ciabatta in every grocery store - canada's cheddar will make you long for the days of tilamook but the french sure know how to boulangerie.
back to basics feat. a double-headed shower and a view so prominent i'm a minor celebrity every time i step outside. my next place will have all of the luxuries i have taken for granted - for now it's a life of prone processing.
it's a lot a lot to process.
i've been asked if i'm having fun yet.
it's not that i lack levity, i'm just incapable of dreaming right now.
(which admittedly isn't very fun.)
i've been asked if i'm bored with all of this open-ended time.
the silence i hear every day is not inherently lonely.
(though i do miss human touch.)
it's currently the sound of the absence of being overwhelmed.
delightful, really.
one day it'll be the sound of opportunity.
of intent.
of time meant to spend.
but things are very simple, now.
do your dishes.
get out and about now and then.
don't get covid.
don't need a hospital.
one more month in the Saint Laurent spotlight.
two months in a less cool / more livable Mile End studio.
big ticketed events start in july.
i will get covid.
i won't need a hospital.
this is a process.
but seriously fuck that door lock it never works.
Tuesday, May 31, 2022
sweating the details
feeling like a space shuttle entering orbit. i am returning to earth for two weeks, after that everything on my person is everything i will own for the next ???.
during the dock i have exactly 4′ 6″ wide X 7′ 6″ deep x 7′ tall in which to fit everything i eventually want to be reunited with.
most of my possessions fit in 28.9" x 17.4" x 15.1" rubbermaid 20 gallon containers. sadly half of this is speculative investments of coveted collectables - not rating high on the practical or useful scales when furnishing a place. zero furniture outside of my desk chair and an inflatable built-in-cot mattress.
months of tetris
using free room decorating websites
scaled to fit
with every possible configuration
a 3 x 4 matrix of rubbermaids
stacked 3 - 4 high
cardboard boxes on top
that should do it
the narrow window of this timing is the most stressful thing in my life right now
- the portabox may not be picked up the day it gets loaded
- they could show up earlier than it's been packed
- what if there's a driver shortage and it gets delayed to past when i'm here
- everything i own could end up sitting on a high-prowl street for multiple nights
leading me to
- should i back a car up to the doors?
- should i sleep in the car?
- should i sit on the porch with a baseball bat and a scowl?
- what lock would lockpickinglawyer buy?
- should i goonies up a sound alert system if it gets opened?
- am i clearly overthinking it all and everything will probably work out just fine?
it worked out just fine. the Dolly app let me throw money at the problem, two young neighborhoods brought me boxes faster than i could stack them. it's surreal to revisit this photo.
i used to be huge
now i'm only this big
oh wait i'm not my stuff
the last four months of my life have been focused on [fear/anticipation] of this day. the day i can finally be done.
no more held hostage in newly hostile territory.
no more haunted house.
during the dock i have exactly 4′ 6″ wide X 7′ 6″ deep x 7′ tall in which to fit everything i eventually want to be reunited with.
most of my possessions fit in 28.9" x 17.4" x 15.1" rubbermaid 20 gallon containers. sadly half of this is speculative investments of coveted collectables - not rating high on the practical or useful scales when furnishing a place. zero furniture outside of my desk chair and an inflatable built-in-cot mattress.
months of tetris
using free room decorating websites
scaled to fit
with every possible configuration
a 3 x 4 matrix of rubbermaids
stacked 3 - 4 high
cardboard boxes on top
that should do it
the narrow window of this timing is the most stressful thing in my life right now
- the portabox may not be picked up the day it gets loaded
- they could show up earlier than it's been packed
- what if there's a driver shortage and it gets delayed to past when i'm here
- everything i own could end up sitting on a high-prowl street for multiple nights
leading me to
- should i back a car up to the doors?
- should i sleep in the car?
- should i sit on the porch with a baseball bat and a scowl?
- what lock would lockpickinglawyer buy?
- should i goonies up a sound alert system if it gets opened?
- am i clearly overthinking it all and everything will probably work out just fine?
it worked out just fine. the Dolly app let me throw money at the problem, two young neighborhoods brought me boxes faster than i could stack them. it's surreal to revisit this photo.
i used to be huge
now i'm only this big
oh wait i'm not my stuff
the last four months of my life have been focused on [fear/anticipation] of this day. the day i can finally be done.
no more held hostage in newly hostile territory.
no more haunted house.
Monday, March 14, 2022
going back to church
New York has been a welcome sight for three decades now. My bff bounced between SF and NYC for as long as I can remember, never quite committing to any of it. He's been a great home base in the big cities - an instant social group on-arrival and the glue that keeps me in touch with a wide variety of oldtimers from ATL.
Whether housesitting for a month, watching the NYC Marathon, or just dropping in between flights - it's always open arms and laughs for days. Manhattan proper, on the other hand, has gone from frothy milk cocktails served in an utra-violence time capsule to a world of Bed Bath & Beyond and M&M stores. I'm talking full ampersand.
Even though the fun events generally take us to Brooklyn, I am forever delighted by the dotted spots left where the suits clink glasses with the scum.
Our favorite nearby joint is called the Holland Bar.
Density demands bars and diners be a long line of barstools sans tables or kid seats, and this is no exception. The CASH ONLY sign on the wall works well to repel large groups of appletini simps.
Booze is the biggest decoration in the place, the dwarfed television leaves half of the stools squinting. Second biggest feature is the jukebox, an overly-modern internet DJ that demands tips before it even considers your song.
The bartender wore eyeliner sharp enough to cut you, her mere presence demanded respect.
"You pay in cash and you pay every time", she warned. We sagely nodded with bills between two fingers and received a Budweister and a shot of Seagrams.
She immediately followed it up with the too-late caveat "oh and the bathroom is broken". Through the open door I could see the sink completely mummy-wrapped in CAUTION tape.
We had a few rounds and I immediately hit the wall. My mind scrambled to take inventory: two bottles of wine at dinner, check. two beers and two shots, check. oh right all that weed between the two. Professionals know when they are in the "shouldn't have crossed the streams" amateur zone, so I warned my boozed up comrades and ordered a water.
The reaction from the bartender was a tidal wave of latina machisma.
"Oh, so your friends get another round and you can't even keep up with them."
i can't wait for this water it is going to be perfect
"She's a woman even you can't keep up with a woman?"
oh god the bathroom is out of order
"I guess it's just water for the lightweight."
is she going to make me arm wrestle
After what felt like an eternity I had exactly what I needed to stabilize, with a new insult hurled at my head every three minutes to keep me sharp. But I'm a professional, I know when I need a fucking water so I don't bounce my own vomit off of a mummified toilet.
At this point the cute couple I am with went over to the DJ and fed it many dollars as they plead for the next few tunes. At the end of the bar sat an older man with his Tex-Mex hat alongside his beer. Beside him stood a muscular man, slicked back hair, tattoos spotting his skin. They were talking between themselves - the younger one talking extra loud, hoping to lure others into his bravado.
I take the bait and begin the banter. Not two minutes into it and he asks about me. I stumble over some words, not prepared to talk real, and mumble that I've left everything to figure out how to start over again. He stops the schtick, walks right over and immediately embraces me. It took me by complete surprise and it was exactly what I needed. To be seen by a complete stranger, for only a minute. Seconds later he reclaimed his space at the end of the bar and goes right back into F THE POLICE.
I watched my friends sigh in unison as the song changed, but not to theirs. It was Ricky Martin, and the end of the bar blew the fuck up. The old man stood up, put on his hat, and asked the bartender to dance. She strutted down the length of the bar to join him, their hips moved in immediate unison as the strongman slithered in-place, cheering the couple on.
"Ricky Martin!" he exclaimed, every 30 seconds for the duration of the song.
The energy was infectious and I started chair wiggling, catching up in conversation with my WHEN ARE OUR SONGS GOING TO PLAY friends.
Suddenly I feel a pair of hands on my hips from behind me, and I just know it's Mr. Ricky Martin himself. I go from my seated robo-pops straight into the snake, giving it a little signature glitch on each way down.
I am quickly corrected. "It's smoooooooth" instructs the deep voice behind me. I comply, axing the me and going full salsa serpent. "Ahhhh!". Ricky Martin is pleased, and dances back to his beer.
The rest of the bar only averts their gaze once the song goes quiet. I have found my fortitude. Don't you just love it when the room stops spinning?
The "DJ" starts playing another song, and another, none of which are the songs my pals paid for. They aren't having it.
After a while the familar sounds of Destroyer fill the bar. This singer-songwriter is often grating to most people on first listen, but he is so very my New York soundtrack and always marks a certain settled comfort here. Our tunes keep on coming, I find my footing again, and order another pint of their finest swill.
As we wind down the night our final request comes on. I push myself away from the barstool, face the wall, and begin dancing.
Ricky Martin takes immediate notice and his commentary just fuels my fire. It's been an eternity since I've danced in a bar. Maybe two since I've danced in a bar, alone.
"Ah yeah!"
"Preach it!"
Church is in session and I'm hitting the eighth notes with my hips. The beat has taken hold of my body and it's a cathartic worship service to everything I couldn't be during the pandemic. Reclaiming myself wholly on a Monday night with my own tiny congregation.
"Oooooh!"
"Alright!"
"YESSSSS"
The song fades and with tears in my eyes I turn to face the audience. The tough bartender gives me a smile and a nod. I turn to Mr. Martin and say goodbye.
"Sometimes you just gotta dance it out."
He gets it. New York gets it. Millions of people, free to be themselves. No hipsters with furled eyebrows anywhere on the horizon. A bar full of the uncool, at the coolest spot in Manhattan.
My favorite part of going out here are the best friends you make, for only a night.
Whether housesitting for a month, watching the NYC Marathon, or just dropping in between flights - it's always open arms and laughs for days. Manhattan proper, on the other hand, has gone from frothy milk cocktails served in an utra-violence time capsule to a world of Bed Bath & Beyond and M&M stores. I'm talking full ampersand.
Even though the fun events generally take us to Brooklyn, I am forever delighted by the dotted spots left where the suits clink glasses with the scum.
Our favorite nearby joint is called the Holland Bar.
Density demands bars and diners be a long line of barstools sans tables or kid seats, and this is no exception. The CASH ONLY sign on the wall works well to repel large groups of appletini simps.
Booze is the biggest decoration in the place, the dwarfed television leaves half of the stools squinting. Second biggest feature is the jukebox, an overly-modern internet DJ that demands tips before it even considers your song.
The bartender wore eyeliner sharp enough to cut you, her mere presence demanded respect.
"You pay in cash and you pay every time", she warned. We sagely nodded with bills between two fingers and received a Budweister and a shot of Seagrams.
She immediately followed it up with the too-late caveat "oh and the bathroom is broken". Through the open door I could see the sink completely mummy-wrapped in CAUTION tape.
We had a few rounds and I immediately hit the wall. My mind scrambled to take inventory: two bottles of wine at dinner, check. two beers and two shots, check. oh right all that weed between the two. Professionals know when they are in the "shouldn't have crossed the streams" amateur zone, so I warned my boozed up comrades and ordered a water.
The reaction from the bartender was a tidal wave of latina machisma.
"Oh, so your friends get another round and you can't even keep up with them."
i can't wait for this water it is going to be perfect
"She's a woman even you can't keep up with a woman?"
oh god the bathroom is out of order
"I guess it's just water for the lightweight."
is she going to make me arm wrestle
After what felt like an eternity I had exactly what I needed to stabilize, with a new insult hurled at my head every three minutes to keep me sharp. But I'm a professional, I know when I need a fucking water so I don't bounce my own vomit off of a mummified toilet.
At this point the cute couple I am with went over to the DJ and fed it many dollars as they plead for the next few tunes. At the end of the bar sat an older man with his Tex-Mex hat alongside his beer. Beside him stood a muscular man, slicked back hair, tattoos spotting his skin. They were talking between themselves - the younger one talking extra loud, hoping to lure others into his bravado.
I take the bait and begin the banter. Not two minutes into it and he asks about me. I stumble over some words, not prepared to talk real, and mumble that I've left everything to figure out how to start over again. He stops the schtick, walks right over and immediately embraces me. It took me by complete surprise and it was exactly what I needed. To be seen by a complete stranger, for only a minute. Seconds later he reclaimed his space at the end of the bar and goes right back into F THE POLICE.
I watched my friends sigh in unison as the song changed, but not to theirs. It was Ricky Martin, and the end of the bar blew the fuck up. The old man stood up, put on his hat, and asked the bartender to dance. She strutted down the length of the bar to join him, their hips moved in immediate unison as the strongman slithered in-place, cheering the couple on.
"Ricky Martin!" he exclaimed, every 30 seconds for the duration of the song.
The energy was infectious and I started chair wiggling, catching up in conversation with my WHEN ARE OUR SONGS GOING TO PLAY friends.
Suddenly I feel a pair of hands on my hips from behind me, and I just know it's Mr. Ricky Martin himself. I go from my seated robo-pops straight into the snake, giving it a little signature glitch on each way down.
I am quickly corrected. "It's smoooooooth" instructs the deep voice behind me. I comply, axing the me and going full salsa serpent. "Ahhhh!". Ricky Martin is pleased, and dances back to his beer.
The rest of the bar only averts their gaze once the song goes quiet. I have found my fortitude. Don't you just love it when the room stops spinning?
The "DJ" starts playing another song, and another, none of which are the songs my pals paid for. They aren't having it.
After a while the familar sounds of Destroyer fill the bar. This singer-songwriter is often grating to most people on first listen, but he is so very my New York soundtrack and always marks a certain settled comfort here. Our tunes keep on coming, I find my footing again, and order another pint of their finest swill.
As we wind down the night our final request comes on. I push myself away from the barstool, face the wall, and begin dancing.
Ricky Martin takes immediate notice and his commentary just fuels my fire. It's been an eternity since I've danced in a bar. Maybe two since I've danced in a bar, alone.
"Ah yeah!"
"Preach it!"
Church is in session and I'm hitting the eighth notes with my hips. The beat has taken hold of my body and it's a cathartic worship service to everything I couldn't be during the pandemic. Reclaiming myself wholly on a Monday night with my own tiny congregation.
"Oooooh!"
"Alright!"
"YESSSSS"
The song fades and with tears in my eyes I turn to face the audience. The tough bartender gives me a smile and a nod. I turn to Mr. Martin and say goodbye.
"Sometimes you just gotta dance it out."
He gets it. New York gets it. Millions of people, free to be themselves. No hipsters with furled eyebrows anywhere on the horizon. A bar full of the uncool, at the coolest spot in Manhattan.
My favorite part of going out here are the best friends you make, for only a night.
Thursday, March 3, 2022
homeless and home again
There is nothing like coming home after being lost in the world for awhile. Travel has a way of making you crave deep roots - even if this means being replanted a thousand miles away. Home is a sacred place of sweat, of spirit, and iterative change until everything feels right. My shrine was my everything during the numb-wrenching pandemic and subsequent failed revolution, a meditative throne upon which I could absorb years of bad news.
While there was drift within the household as we navigated safety and sanity during uncertain times, we both poured ourselves into our work and our friends. Making sure the people that needed us felt seen. Giving in the myriad ways we secretly seek to be given to. The languish was real, but so was the intent to be kind to one another and not sweat the small stuff. This was a temporary setback to something I was committed to seeing through.
A roadtrip to Bend over the summer gave me hope that this paralysis was about to end. A taste of normalcy across a dozen outdoor patios. I felt reconnected.
A few months later she would return from an emotional week visiting family she hadn't seen in far too long. She came back with anger. Resentment. Hostility. The unspoken CONS column in any relationship matrix, added together and swung like a hammer.
She completely disappeared, seemingly overnight. Making plans with everyone but me. Jumping to conclusions without giving me the benefit of the trust we'd built over nearly a decade. Ditching me at a dinner party. The switch from love to loathe had been flipped in her brain, and I did not deserve any of it.
I suffered through several social gatherings just trying to get my bearings. Hollow smiles through gapped teeth. My compass spun wildly as I shrank from the pain of this transformation, seeking love, seeking light, seeking north. How do you fix something that doesn't want to be repaired?
I still don't understand why she married me. This might be the hardest part of it all. To realize the silent responses to my splayed ribcage and vulnerable, beating heart was actually the judgement I had feared all along. Rigid expectations without the courage to vocalize need. Engendered gender roles, doing nothing for the flesh marionettes playing their parts. How we cut ourselves off from the people we love the most. Death by a thousand disappointments.
It only took a 10 minute phone call with a lawyer to learn that this wasn't my house. This wasn't my life to live. All hope, all future, all trust - turned to dust.
The thought of paying Seattle rent without Seattle income was insane to me. Why would I fight tooth and nail for a tiny $2000+/month apartment and blow through my savings while grief-clicking through the extrovert's reimagined life via an Instagram story? This was the existence I knew I couldn't live.
So I left.
I have crashed landed in New York City for a two month stay. I have flown more in two weeks than I have in two years, thrust from years of intentional isolation to the crushing crowds of Manhattan. It's unsettling, it's unnerving, but going from zero to sixty so quickly has me back in the bloodflow and there is true comfort in that. I am staying with an oldest of friends, a shoulder I desparately need right now. New York has inspired me to write again, and I will be putting ink to the minutae soon.
This rebirth has its upsides, eventually.
Questions I seek to answer:
- Where are my people? Without having a $923,000 mortgage? (Every city eventually has a Brooklyn.)
- Do I deserve healthcare as a citizen? Is there a country that I can feel a part of but also cares about its people? (Am I too old to learn Greek?)
- How do you travel and stay connected? (This might be the hardest to figure out.)
- Do I want to settle down where I would want my vacation home to be, relocating to the dayjob and having a forever home in paradise? (Remote work, is it a trap?)
- What do I want to build with my time? (Forever ideas, finite heath meter.)
Most importantly, through all of this, I remain optimistic. This is the most important sign, that everything will turn out fine.
While there was drift within the household as we navigated safety and sanity during uncertain times, we both poured ourselves into our work and our friends. Making sure the people that needed us felt seen. Giving in the myriad ways we secretly seek to be given to. The languish was real, but so was the intent to be kind to one another and not sweat the small stuff. This was a temporary setback to something I was committed to seeing through.
A roadtrip to Bend over the summer gave me hope that this paralysis was about to end. A taste of normalcy across a dozen outdoor patios. I felt reconnected.
A few months later she would return from an emotional week visiting family she hadn't seen in far too long. She came back with anger. Resentment. Hostility. The unspoken CONS column in any relationship matrix, added together and swung like a hammer.
She completely disappeared, seemingly overnight. Making plans with everyone but me. Jumping to conclusions without giving me the benefit of the trust we'd built over nearly a decade. Ditching me at a dinner party. The switch from love to loathe had been flipped in her brain, and I did not deserve any of it.
I suffered through several social gatherings just trying to get my bearings. Hollow smiles through gapped teeth. My compass spun wildly as I shrank from the pain of this transformation, seeking love, seeking light, seeking north. How do you fix something that doesn't want to be repaired?
I still don't understand why she married me. This might be the hardest part of it all. To realize the silent responses to my splayed ribcage and vulnerable, beating heart was actually the judgement I had feared all along. Rigid expectations without the courage to vocalize need. Engendered gender roles, doing nothing for the flesh marionettes playing their parts. How we cut ourselves off from the people we love the most. Death by a thousand disappointments.
It only took a 10 minute phone call with a lawyer to learn that this wasn't my house. This wasn't my life to live. All hope, all future, all trust - turned to dust.
The thought of paying Seattle rent without Seattle income was insane to me. Why would I fight tooth and nail for a tiny $2000+/month apartment and blow through my savings while grief-clicking through the extrovert's reimagined life via an Instagram story? This was the existence I knew I couldn't live.
So I left.
I have crashed landed in New York City for a two month stay. I have flown more in two weeks than I have in two years, thrust from years of intentional isolation to the crushing crowds of Manhattan. It's unsettling, it's unnerving, but going from zero to sixty so quickly has me back in the bloodflow and there is true comfort in that. I am staying with an oldest of friends, a shoulder I desparately need right now. New York has inspired me to write again, and I will be putting ink to the minutae soon.
This rebirth has its upsides, eventually.
Questions I seek to answer:
- Where are my people? Without having a $923,000 mortgage? (Every city eventually has a Brooklyn.)
- Do I deserve healthcare as a citizen? Is there a country that I can feel a part of but also cares about its people? (Am I too old to learn Greek?)
- How do you travel and stay connected? (This might be the hardest to figure out.)
- Do I want to settle down where I would want my vacation home to be, relocating to the dayjob and having a forever home in paradise? (Remote work, is it a trap?)
- What do I want to build with my time? (Forever ideas, finite heath meter.)
Most importantly, through all of this, I remain optimistic. This is the most important sign, that everything will turn out fine.
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