Category: Metaphysical/Thoughtful

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I am in love with my planner.

Two years ago, a friend of mine mentioned how much she adored her custom daily planner. The only millennial I’d ever met who still uses a physical appointment book is Danielle, so I was surprised to find that my tech babe friend deliberately took herself offline every day to plan and record it. I was intrigued enough to try it so I ordered a semi-customizable planner for myself. Fifty-two weeks of doodles to fill in, stickers to place, half hours to schedule, habits to track, and notes to make arrived a few weeks into 2023.

As with most new projects, I was religious about filling it in at first.

Unlike most new projects, I kept filling it in. Then I filled in some more.

Before I knew it, the year was nearly over and I had filled in every day. I tracked how many glasses of water I drank, how many hours I worked, I wrote down what I had for dinner and even filled in evenings with large blocks labeled “Hyrule” or “nature shows” and even, sometimes, “dick all the way around.” At the end of the year, I went back and thumbed through it. It was revelatory.

You see, I struggle with feelings of inadequacy. I should work more, do more admin and marketing, exercise more, read more, socialize more, be… more… somehow. And without a good sense of what I was doing, all I could think about was how much I wasn’t. Learning French (faster). Learning to draw. Learning to play an instrument. Joining a choir. Volunteering. Building. Exercising.

Being able to look back and see how much I actually did, how often I worked on a project or got some middling task finished, how often I achieved the simple tasks of existence, and, crucially, how much farther along on larger goals I was than I had been months back, was a huge, freeing experience.

Every evening, I sit down and check off the tasks I completed. Then I fill in my mood and habit trackers. I look forward to the days ahead and try to plan how to use my time. Finally I add a line to my self-care journal, and if I’m feeling fancy I add stickers to celebrate or laugh at anything special or unusual. The planner came with several sheets and why not go through them? They’re fun!

I’m a few weeks into my third now, and, though I’m not quite as religious about it as I was, I still go in and fill the spaces with my daily minutia. It’s done the work of helping me feel less inadequate, so I’m not as religious about planning my days and checking things off, but I am happy to have the data, because one of my favorite things at the back is the year in review.

There is room at the end of the planner for a variety of optional pages. Daily gratitude journal, mood and habit tracker, workout tracker, doodles, sudoku, class schedule, maps, places to make lists of books, movies, or TV to watch, all kinds of things, including two pages full of prompts to review the past year and set intentions for the new one. As an acknowledgment that the future is impossible to predict, I only ever use pencil in my planner… except on these two pages.

Before I fill in the page, I write a long entry in my journal. I try to be as honest as possible, even when it’s not flattering. I roll the prompts around in my head and let the words spill onto the page. Sometimes where I land is far from where I started. I like it as an exercise, and by the time I’m done, I have good, comfortable, short answers to pen in.

Then I get to make plans. Something I want to do, things I want to learn, things I want to spend more, or less time or money on… things like that. I still journal about them, but it’s a more hopeful sort of journaling. Lots of plans and hopes, fewer mistakes. I don’t often spend as much time on it, because I’l be revisiting as the year churns by.

So far I’ve only had one opportunity to compare the coming year forecast to the past year retrospective. I didn’t opt for those pages in my first planner, so 2023 only got a reflection, not a prediction. But 2024 I got to start with Growth, Ease, and Power as my three words to describe my expectations and then end with Comfortable, Tough Talks, and Obstacle Course Racing! As my three words (generously defined) to describe the previous year. To see how my expectations were met in unexpected ways was one of many pleasures.

I think my favorite example of reassessing my strategies was my intention to bust my yarn stash. I know how to knit, and have completed some really cool projects. A huge, gorgeous fluffy blanket scarf, a variety of hats, some of which are still regularly worn, gloves (difficult, badly fitting, but lovely), half of a pillowcase for a sofa cushion… And I’ve always wanted to knit myself a cardigan. There’s a yarn store in my neighborhood and some of the fibers are irresistible. Simply stunning. Why buy a cashmere sweater when I can make one!?!

Well, because it’s hard, it takes forever, and it makes your hands hurt. Halfway through last year I realized that I simply wasn’t going to bust my stash in the traditional way. So I decided to shift tactics and bust it by gifting it to a friend who actually does fiber craft. Not often, not quickly, but consistently. I saved a few skeins back to maybe someday finish that pillowcase, but I gave up the part of my identity that said “knitter” and softened it to “knows how to knit.”

And that’s ok. Someday I’ll table the label “hiker” too, probably, in favor of “has really good boots.” It’ll make room for a different interest, which in turn will probably also make room for the next.

But that’s what the year end reflection is about! It’s to see how far I landed from where I thought I’d be, a reminder to redouble my efforts in some areas, a chance to abandon my plans in others. An opportunity to set lofty goals, knowing that sometimes close is close enough, and sometimes I’ll reach them through unconventional means.

So what did I write for 2025? Achievement, settling in, and experimentation. I’m excited. Optimistic, like I’m close enough to understanding myself to hack life. I want to hike the Wonderland Trail and do some end-of-life financial planning. I’ll be challenged to safely complete the Trail, and all the other hikes I’ve got planned before and after. I’ll also be challenged supporting my best friend as her partner struggles with a chronic, and worsening, illness.  I want to learn to draw, to use a map and compass, to hammock camp, and to play the guitar. I look forward to lingering on my hikes, drinking in the views, and to Dragon Con in September. I want to spend more time meditating, drawing, practicing doing things with my left hand more, and reading. I want to spend both less and more money saving. I want to begin surrogate partner training, and I want to stop being tied to my phone so closely.

These are the results of hours of thought, and will be the subject of more as the year goes by. It’s only been nine weeks so far and I’m already making small progress. Added a few bits to a costume. Got an ultralight stove to camp with. Helped with a big move. And had not one but three “perfect weeks” where I did at least one each of a run, a weight lifting session, yoga, a hike, and a pull-ups drill.

I had a big weekend last week and got to fill in my days with “birthday dinner” and “cat sitting” and “naps”. This week it’ll be “Pilates” and “hike” and “work (DUO!)” and “Grocery Shopping”. And in six months I’ll wonder how I stayed busy when work was so slow, and I’ll flip back to see that I spent time with my friends, my books, my colleagues, and my self, all of which move me towards my goals.

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Tomorrow is my birthday!

I turn 36 tomorrow. Valentine’s day. I rarely go out on my actual birthday. I don’t like fixed menus, people who don’t usually go out, trying to impress their girlfriends, crowds… so you can almost always find me enjoying my lovely birthday evening a day or two before or after.

Tomorrow will be much like any other day, for me. I’ll be up around seven, get myself some coffee, check my emails, maybe stare out the window a while. Be bleary-eyed and greet the morning slowly.

I’ll go for a walk, maybe a hike, talk to a friend or family member, play some puzzle games, look at too much internet, entertain a guest at work…

And yet it’s not like every other day.

I’m not young anymore. And that’s not me saying I’m old. I’m not old yet by any stretch.

But some of my wide eyed innocence and optimism has cooled. I’m still painfully optimistic in many ways, but my expectations have been tempered. Realism seeps through, the way the damp seeps through the walls of my tent. I’m still glad I’m camping, but I know it’ll be brisk once I leave my sleeping bag and I’ll have to move around a bit before I can get comfortable.

In someways it’s a bummer. I don’t get fired up the way I used to. The wonder of discovery comes to me less often now; I have to seek it out where before it fell at my feet. My standards for words and food and people are higher, so I enjoy fewer of them than I once did. I’ve seen so many iterations of my own faulty behavioral patterns that they irritate me when I don’t stop them in time.

And yet…

I’m able to discover things more obscure than before. The joy of understanding comes to me more often. The words and people and food that I do enjoy, I spend more time with. I am slowly growing closer and closer to being the kind of person I want to be.

I’m not as slender as I was in my twenties, but my strength and stamina are far greater. The looming specter of old age has made me determined to stay moving and functional as much and as long as possible.

I’m not as passionate as I was in my twenties, but I’m more composed now.

I’m not as firm and pert as I was in my twenties, but the sex I have now is so much more satisfying.

I don’t think younger me could have imagined the life I lead. A younger me had more paths available. More energy. But I do think younger me would be very happy with me now, and I’m looking forward to finding out what’s next.

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When is it enough?

I meet a lot of people in my line of work. Mostly men, mostly liberal, mostly well-off financially, mostly educated, mostly heterosexual…

And every one of them successful.

What I find baffling, and yet also deeply understand, is how many of these successful people don’t see themselves that way.

I grew up with entrepreneurial parents. They owned a small business, had a few employees, and worked pretty much every day. They were able to take major holidays off, and we went on some road trips, but I was 27 the first time I went abroad. We never suffered a lack of the basics, and we had pets, bicycles, and gas in the car whenever we needed it.

While I don’t ever remember getting a formal sitting down financial education, being frugal was built into my upbringing. My brother wanted a guitar. A fancy, expensive one. But he didn’t know how to play. So my parents bought him a small one and said that if he practiced, he could get a better one. A year later, he got an Xbox for Christmas. We went to the library once a week to borrow books and movies, despite the fact that we had oodles of space to own them if we wanted. We made two annual trips to Costco to buy items in bulk, saving money in the long run. Little things like that. We weren’t poor by any stretch, but I don’t think we ever bought a car new off the lot.

So when I started out on my own, some of these attitudes about money really stuck, even when I had more than I needed. Don’t spend more than you have. Live below your means. Work as if your employer’s business was your business. Be careful with credit. Avoid debt whenever possible. Use items until they wear out, don’t replace them just because you can.

And yet there was something more. Something unspoken about money and success that I wasn’t able to name for many years. Something that wasn’t rooted in common sense spending habits or logic.

Fear.

At first, when I started making my own money, I lived cheap and paid off debt. I was working both a square job and at the DreamGirls down by the sports stadiums, with a monthly budget based solely off my regular paycheck. I still remember the first time I had “real” money. I had paid off my student loans, paid all the bills for the month, and I had 1,000 left over. It was real money, too. A stack of hundreds and twenties on my night stand, cash in hand from generous gentlemen at the club. I could touch it and admire it. I felt giddy, foolish even. I felt an easing of tension, relief from fear I didn’t know I had.

Because money isn’t just money. Money represents safety. My conservative upbringing meant I had no idea what social safety nets were available, and even if I had known, I’d have been ashamed to apply. Without money, I would have to rely on the kindness of others. My parents, mostly, but my roommate. I had already availed myself of my Aunt’s aid, and my Uncle’s. If I had to, I could have asked again, and to this day I know I’ll have a refuge of last resort in many family homes. But I don’t like relying on other people, and I fear the shame and disapproval of my family should I fail and have to run for cover.

And there it is again. Fear.

For me, having money assuages that fear. I do like watching the numbers go up when I play a game. The rising total of some silly in-game currency always makes me happy. Not like Scrooge McDuck, with the swimming pool full of gold; it doesn’t make me happy in and of itself. What makes me happy is that it represents a truth: I am winning.

And so life imitates art: as the numbers go up in my real life bank account I don’t see money. I see safety. I see rent paid for years, if necessary. I see winter-proofing the lake house. I see a future in which I make it to old age in relative comfort.

My bank recently approved me for what feels like an absurd amount of credit. I could order a medium sized yurt kit online and pay for it entirely with one swipe. I’ll never do it (avoid debt when possible, and credit card debt especially) but it is comforting as fuck to know I *could* if I had to. Once again I get that feeling of giddiness, of having arrived, the fear of “failure” lifting.

I fear a future in which I am old, alone, and too broke to pay for the kind of medical care that allows me to stay independent. I fear not having a safe and comfortable place to live. I fear catastrophic medical expenses that make an old, lonely, broke existence more likely. I fear that my prime income generating years are behind me and I have an old, lonely, broke existence in my future.

That fear has driven a lot of my decisions over the years. After TRB went down in 2016, that fear had me at my computer signing up for every advertising location I could find. That fear drives me to do things I hate, like the never ending cleaning so my bathroom sparkles for you, and making the bed with fresh sheets every. Single. Time. That fear factors into every major life decision I make.

And it’s a fear that, except under extremely rare circumstances, can’t be assuaged by just giving me more money. Isn’t that wild? Because a one-time gift doesn’t indicate a trend, and it would have to be a catastrophic amount in order for it to chip away at that fearful vision of an old, lonely, broke future. We’re talking a quarter of a million catastrophic, because that’s enough to fix up the lake house. And I *still* wouldn’t stop working. Because enough to fix the lake house isn’t enough to live off for the rest of my life, and a winter-tight home is all well and good until you don’t have enough to pay the property taxes.

Enough. What is enough to assuage that fear? I hear a lot of numbers thrown around. A million bucks and you can retire, I’m told. Assuming you’ve got Social Security to count on, or a pension, or hot damn, both! I can count on neither. What will the number be in twenty years when I’m finally nearing retirement age? What is enough to assuage my fear?

I write all this with the benefit of self-reflection. I’ve known about this fear for a few years now and I do a pretty good job of managing it. The numbers go up every month, I try to trust that I’m doing now what needs doing to secure my future, and I am usually able to harness my fear, rather than panic at it.

And so I wonder, when I meet people who seem to me to have secure futures, why they still fear? What fear is keeping you in a job you hate? What fear prevents you from changing lanes, from stepping back, from  prioritizing yourself? By virtue of my rates, most of the people I meet aren’t in danger of losing their homes. They have nice clothes, nice toys, nice cars. And yet I am surprised at how many people who to an outside observer are successful, haven’t made peace with their fear. Don’t consider themselves successful. Don’t have enough.

This is not a judgement. Heaven knows I’ve no room to tell others what to feel or fear where futures are concerned. I don’t have children, so the only future I have to fear for is my own. My parents are well-enough set that it will be some time before their future becomes my problem. I am as guilty as the next person of making decisions out of fear of the unknown.

But I’m aware of it now. As recently as this month, that fear has shown itself. But I am ready for it now. I let it motivate me instead of cow me. I manage my anxiety rather than flailing. And I remind myself that, though I don’t have enough yet to be done, I do have enough for now.

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So that’s why they’re called Pearls.

I went hiking yesterday. No surprises there. I’ve been trying to go once a week, so the odds of going hiking yesterday are pretty high.

One thing I really love about hikes is that they force me to think. I don’t listen to music or podcasts while I’m on the trail, I can’t play games or read a book, and each hike lasts for hours. I’m stuck inside my head while my body carries me through exquisite scenery, and as I walk, I ruminate.

I chew on old scenes, moments of conflict, problems with friends and family. I chew on irritating comments, people who don’t leash their dogs, and like an oyster with a grain of sand, I wrap each irritating idea in layers and layers of thoughts.

Once, while walking down the sidewalk in front of an old office space, I saw a woman walk away from where her little dog had relieved itself. I made eye contact and asked if she wasn’t going to pick that up. “SHE PEED!” Came the indignant reply.

I can still see in my mind’s eye the woman’s curly blonde hair, her tone, and the coolness of the day under the trees. I remember the little dog’s fur that matched her owner’s hair, and the slender lead with which she tugged it away. I wonder: should I have looked harder before calling her out? Should I have apologized? Should I have saved my own indignance for someone with a bigger dog? A worse infraction? This is only one unhappy social misstep that I chew on as I walk, despite it’s insignificance, and the fact that it happened nine years ago.

So when I found myself, yesterday, turning an idea over and over in my head, looking at it from different angles, refining and imaging the scenario, I was pleasantly surprised to realize it was an idea for a photo shoot.

You see, for the past several years, between pandemic, politics, family drama, and a variety of demanding interpersonal conflicts, much of what I had been ruminating on was an upsetting past. I spent hours and hours and hours of time carefully crafting replies to questions and accusations levied months ago, outlining elegant arguments that will never be heard. As the pearl grows, memories surface, new arguments are drawn up, and another layer goes over the sand, protecting me from it’s scratch.

I can’t tell you what a pleasure it was to realize that I had spent an hour, fully inside my head, thinking about creating. Dwelling on beauty and how to frame it, capture it, share it with people who will see it and want to steal sweet moments with me. Thinking not of what I could have done back then to prevent or ameliorate pain, but of what I will do in the future to create beauty, pleasure, and joy.

It doesn’t hurt that at the peak, as I rested in the sun and took in an expansive view, five bald eagles slipped smoothly out of the sky to circle the clearing. Three adults and two juveniles took turns perching on high, bare branches, riding the thermals to scout for prey, and playing together. They would slowly swoop down, chattering and chirping at each other, and make mock dives at slow speeds just to see which would give way. The breeze kept me from lingering, even the high early afternoon sun wasn’t quite enough buffer, or I’d have stayed longer, reveling in their reveling, taking my own pleasure from watching them play.

I have read that an interaction with a bird can improve your mood for something like 20 minutes afterward. Maybe it was the eagles, maybe it was the sugar rush from my granola bar, maybe it was the relief of going back down after getting overexerted on the way up, I’m sure it didn’t hurt that I had just spent a fabulous night with a delightful new suitor, maybe it was the pleasure of a warm but not hot day with no one else to share the trail, but I had one of those rare moments where I was just happy. Not excited, not simply content, but gently, peacefully happy. It felt good to be where I was, when I was, feeling the way I was.

I’m still marveling at it 24 hours later, in case that wasn’t obvious. Taking still more pleasure in the act of examining the memory. Feeling echos of it reverberate through me. As I look out my window at a stunning sunny day and make plans for more hikes, more activities, more opportunities for simple happiness, I can see where the echos ripple into the future. I can see where new experiences will complement the old, magnifying them.

I feel so incredibly blessed. To have the time and flexibility to take myself away for hours and hours at a time in the middle of the week. To find a trail, lonely and peaceful, and the ability to make use of it. To have the freedom, education, and inspiration to write about it. To have an audience, however small, to share with and to hear how impactful it has been. Blessed to find these pearls of wisdom, of happiness, come from unexpected places. The world isn’t such a bad place sometimes.

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In All Her Glorious Moods

I’ve taken up hiking. Living in the Pacific Northwest, it’s so incredibly easy to sneak away to a mountain and walk until your feet fall off. So why had I only done it once or twice in the dozen years I’ve been a resident?

Never had a good enough reason, I suppose. So when hiking came up as part of a training plan, I took it up right away, along with the running and the weight lifting and other such exercises.

It turns out that of all the new activities recommended for training, hiking is my favorite. It’s not as uncomfortable as running or as time-limited as weight lifting, and I get to spend hours and hours off in the woods, testing myself and letting my mind wander after my feet.

Since I’ve discovered this, I’ve been out time after time after time. I speed walked Little Si in 47 minutes on my first day out. It took me two hours to summit Mount Si and four to reach Mt Teneriffe. I’ve walked back and forth, through snow and mud and rain and rock, and every time I go I live something new.

On my first try for the summit, I hit Teneriffe connector trail at the two hour mark and tried to keep going, but the snow deepened. Not just any snow but thick, wet, slushy snow. The kind that doesn’t hold you up, only slows you down. I got farther than I thought I would, but nowhere near the top.

With it being so late in the season, I assumed that would be my last chance until spring. I wasn’t prepared for snowshoeing and I figured I’d exhaust this mountain and several more before graduating to tougher stuff in a few months. A few weeks after that first attempt I had an ersatz hike planned. I figured, with the snow and the cold, I would just run up and down Little Si and see if I could improve my time. Maybe run it more than once to pad my workout.

The dawn, though, came with a surprise.

The snow hadn’t fallen in days. It had, in fact, melted. Not all of it, but enough. The freezing point, according to forecasts, was well above the peak. I could try it again, try to summit Mt Teneriffe once more before the year was out and the snow got worse.

This time, instead of rain, cold rain that leeches the warmth from your body and makes sweat feel like melting ice, there was sun. Golden sifting sun, low in the sky, slanting between the tree trunks. I half expected Gandalf to step out from behind a cedar as I turned each corner, zig zagging my way up toward the first challenge. I made the false summit with pride in only a few hours, though I didn’t have time to make it just that last half mile before the day ended.

For a decent while I didn’t try again. I stuck to Mount Si, hit Rattlesnake Ridge a few times, and found a hiking buddy to come with me on occasion. Some weeks I was too busy to go but the cravings to go harder, get better, go somewhere new, drove me back again and again.

So I tried Teneriffe again. In my pride I was sure I could make it. I gave myself what I thought was plenty of time. I had my water filter for refills, I chose a sunny day, brought plenty of snacks, had my hiking poles for stability on the snow… And I made it. The terrifying peak, covered in dense, deceptive snow, with a precipitous drop on the far side innocently hidden until almost the last minute… I defied the limitations of my body, time, and wisdom to slog through snow that can only be described as angry. I made it up, I made it down again, but I got lost twice, fell off the trail five or six times, and cursed the day I failed to heed my body.

Because I’ve been paying attention to it a lot lately. To how I feel physically in any given moment, which is how I knew I shouldn’t have gone past that false peak. But also to my moods, which is how stubbornness won out. I’ve been noticing how the way I feel changes depending on where my body is, and how what I think has little bearing on either.

Like the mountain. I marveled at how wildly different she was each time I went up. Sometimes pleasant and inviting, sometimes challenging yet indulgent, sometimes downright cranky. And other mountains have their own moods. Once, on a rare accompanied hike, we saw them all in one day. Warm sun, cold rain, drifting snowy, and driving sleet, one right after the other as we joyously trudged our way up and down.

I only experience this variety because I go often, and with few expectations. I show up, week after week, and take what I’m given. Mud and rain, snow and hail, brilliant sparkling days, solitude, companionship. Each day, each mood offering me a new experience. Every hike has been wonderful. Whether I’m learning my limits, defying them, or existing conscientiously within them I walk away, literally, with another day under my belt, another experience to treasure.

I expect that the summer months will be grueling, hot and possibly uncomfortable. But also expansive, with more and more trails becoming possible as snow retreats and roads are passable farther and farther up. I’ll only know if I keep going, keep showing up prepared to savor it all.

With some of my regular visitors I’ve started to notice the same phenomenon. When we see each other more and more, we find ourselves more open with our moods. Sometimes subdued, sometimes nervous, but sometimes downright boisterous. Each mood and moment offering a different experience, similar, but new. Like my trips to the mountains: every hike is a long walk, but how I feel and what I experience each time is a little different. The more often I go out, the better I get to know each one, and the more varied my experience. The more I notice small differences. The more comfortable I am with their twists and turns, their ups and downs.

It’s been such a privilege to get to know our local mountains. I’m looking forward to getting to know more of them, and getting to know them better by spending time with them in all their seasons.

In all their glorious moods.

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Welcome back, My Love.

When I was a new provider, I met so many new people. People full of joy and laughter, expectations, sorrow and ire, all people who touched me in some way, and many of whom I touched as well.

I have gone through several iterations of me. I have tightened up my boundaries in some ways, eased them in others. I have become both more wary, and more welcoming by turns. I have honed my skill set, tried a variety of bedroom based activities and adopted some into my regular routine. I have been a shoulder to cry on many times, and opened people’s eyes to the wonders of pleasure, and the possibilities their bodies provide.

As happens in this industry and many others, some of my beloved old friends have left me. Some with words of care and parting, a few with anger, but most simply disappearing from my inbox, leaving a lingering emptiness that makes way for new things, but never really goes away.

I have a place in my heart where they live, those who have found love, made their way to new cities, re-prioritized their finances, gone through health changes, or simply achieved what they came to do and moved on.

But I’ve been around a while, now, and old friends have begun popping up out of the woodwork! Pandemic put a pause on many things, and there’s an entire year there that doesn’t feel like a real year. For a while around 2021-2022 I found a lot of folks returning to the demimonde after brief breaks but that felt different. That felt like a collective breath held and finally let out.

When I say old friends, I mean *old* friends. Folks I met in my beginning years, who got to know me before I knew myself. People who can claim to have met me in my very first, dank, barred-window incall with dripping walls, a massive gold couch, the cuddle closet, and that occasional surprise asbestos remediation.

I tell you, it’s a trip. I feel guilty, because my memory is already porous and the years do not do much to bolster those moments that stuck. It doesn’t help that the things I remember, the specifics that stick in my mind, are never those that stick in yours. You remember the nakedness, the sensuality, the sex. I remember getting locked out with you. I remember the broken radiator, the maintenance guy that saw us walking by, I remember your face, but rarely your name, and details often slip my mind.

I will almost always be happy to reconnect with old friends. One of the freeing aspects of this being a professional relationship is that I don’t expect you to behave like a regular friend. I don’t expect to know why I don’t hear from you anymore. I’m not on your Christmas letter list and that’s ok. My emotional state, outside of our time together, is not your problem. There are enough perks associated with our relationship that, while it’s always nice to know where you are and why I haven’t seen you in a while, I won’t be mad when you un-ghost me.

However.

Those intervening years mean something. I won’t hold them against you, but I also can’t credit you for them. If it’s possible to trade on ancient rapport, I will, but even with stored goodwill, I am a different person than I was ten years ago, seven, five, or even one. I hope you are, too. I won’t presume to know you as you are today, and I hope you will do me the same courtesy.

There are so many people I used to know in this sacred, intimate way. I miss many of them, and think fondly on what they may be up to. Sometimes I wonder what they’d think of me now. I know some folks would call me rude, uppity, for saying a firm no when before I had only meek okays to offer. Others might be surprised at how much more self aware I am. Slightly more interesting, if I do say so myself. More collected, as well, though still prone to excited tangents when some topics come up. Less humble than I was, less accommodating (though still good, giving, and game for most things). But with such a greater capacity for pleasure now than ever before.

If you’re reading this, and you’re wondering if it would be ok to reach out again: yes. With extremely rare exception, I am happy to reconnect, and get to know the you of now as well or better than I ever knew the you of back then. Just be aware that if it’s been more than a year or so it’s entirely possible we are re-starting, not resuming our relationship.

And what possibilities, my love, lie there in the new beginning.

Come back, old friend. I very probably miss you.

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Good Grief, 2023!

We are moving toward the end. The year moves inexorably to a close and we find ourselves reflecting. We hope. Planning for a better year next year.

I believe 2023 was the year of grieving, for me. A year of loss and pain and endings.

In September 2022, a professional conflict that had been simmering between me and my former friend and mentor since the spring resurfaced. She did something I didn’t agree with. I did something she didn’t like. The conflict got personal, then nasty. I couldn’t relax, nor could I reconcile, and the stress of it all had my hair literally falling out. In December we parted ways permanently, and with bad blood.

In November of the same year, a friend’s boyfriend kissed me. The kiss in itself wasn’t a problem, but it brought others to light and over the next few months, I tried to establish new norms of conduct between us. It did not go well. By September, other fractures in other relationships had grown and the tension in ours was the final fissure. The entire social group, one that sustained us through pandemic and saved at least one life, had shattered by the end of the month.

In the meantime, my best friend suffered a mental breakdown. A variety of stressors (stolen car, job woes, a loved one’s failing health, among others) turned my mild-mannered, self sacrificing friend into a ball of rage that careened through her closest relationships at the slightest provocation. It was touch and go for most of the summer but I have reason to expect that this relationship, at least, will emerge stronger than ever. Of the three of my friends, people I was close to, shared secrets and time and love with, only she is committed to our future. She has apologized and she is working diligently toward a permanently stronger position and with her, so am I.

For most of my life, I’ve been a pushover. A people pleaser who would rather suffer quietly than possibly, maybe, potentially upset someone. More than that, I would solve every problem around me, not out of selflessness or love, but to avoid proximity to other people’s upset feelings.

It turns out that when you stop doing that, people who liked you when you did, don’t really like you anymore. For the first time in my life, I stuck up for myself. Like, really stuck up for myself. I pushed back on things I didn’t feel were right, and when the pressure turned up I didn’t run away.

Finally. After doing it over and over for 34 years, I didn’t run away.

I am walking away from these relationships, from this year, grateful and proud. Grateful for the learning opportunities, for the tools I’ve walked away with, and for the good times I had before things fell apart. Proud of myself for making the effort to change things I didn’t like, and for not giving in this time. I feel so much older, so much less afraid. I feel more prepared for the future, more able to handle what others might do. I’m a little more cautious, which is good but also makes me a little sad. I have more patience for other people’s feelings, but less now for their actions. I am willing to tolerate others’ discontent, and unwilling to tolerate bad behavior. I feel victorious in a battle of wills against my old self and after a year long battle, ready to be calm for a while.

Because dear god I’m so glad that’s over. At every stage of every conflict I second guessed myself. I had to constantly remind myself (when I had the presence of mind to realize it) that what I felt was real, that it was reasonable, and that what I was asking for was also reasonable. In dozens of conversations, poring over comments and asides, looking at situations from every possible angle, I checked and rechecked my assumptions. Was I being fair in my descriptions when seeking outside perspective? Did other people’s opinions confirm my conclusions? Was there any room at all for me to be wrong, apologize, and fix this by once again sacrificing my own well being to ease others’ anger?

For weeks on end I could think of nothing else, and the stress of being in the thick of the process grated on those around me. Now that it’s over, I almost feel weird being at peace. Taking a long walk and thinking about the answers to my crossword puzzle and the events of the book I’m reading instead of writing and rewriting messages in my head, jumping at every turn, afraid to say a wrong word and set off another tirade. To say “not much” when people ask what I’ve been up to and realize that’s the truth. To feel normal and sure of myself.

It feels weird.

It feels good.

That, my beloved readers, is one reason I’ve been away so long. Instead of inspiration, my waking hours had been taken up with some things I simply couldn’t share. They were too personal, they were often someone else’s private business, and they were muddled. And now they’re done.

Though my writing schedule is unlikely to return to the weekly notes I once sent, I do have a few things in the wings, fun things I hope you’ll enjoy.

Thank you, again, to my dear patrons who have supported me, listened, and yet been too wise to pry. This year has been a wild ride and I couldn’t have done it without you.

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Ants

Funny how things come in threes sometimes.

I spent an afternoon with the cuttlefish and less than a week later, was gifted a book. Science fiction, about alien worlds and megalomaniacs and regular old humanity trying to survive. It featured sentient spiders and computers made of ants, and followed a man, a language nerd upon whose shoulders rests humanity’s last chance, as destiny jerks him to and fro.

After the book ends, a few generations pass, and the next book begins. The spiders and the humans and the ant-colony-computer-based AI all troop off toward a mysterious radio signal and a distant world.

This world is full of sentient octopuses.

Ten days after staring my cuttlefish friend in the eye, I lay on my sofa, reading a scene where an octopus, a human, and a giant spider meet, stare each other in the eyes, and try to learn how to communicate.

It was surreal.

And today, less than a week after closing the back cover on what is essentially a space opera, I stopped, crouched, and stared in wonder at a colony of ants, bustling around living their little ant lives. I wondered if, perhaps, the author of Children of Time didn’t have an interesting idea. If electron based computing power operates on a series of ones and zeros, ons and offs, who’s to say that an ant colony, properly guided with pheromone signals, couldn’t become something more computational than a massive bridge or giant ball? I couldn’t see a pattern in the colony’s movement, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Out of curiosity, I puffed a hefty breath at them, enough to life some off their little bug feet and roll them a few centimeters one way and the other. Immediately, their pace increased. The clover leaf patterns and long lines moving in, out, and around the little ant hill sped up wildly, but it didn’t look like anything else changed. The patterns I didn’t see before still didn’t emerge, nor did I notice them changing.

But change they did. Before long, the clover leaf leaves grew and a few individuals found my shoe. Whether or not they recognized it as enemy, I figured it was time to go. I tried brushing them off and that’s when another instinct kicked it.

She bit me!

Not on the toe, but on my glove. I was wearing some simple knit gloves and this tiny little creature latched her tiny little jaws on to the tiny little threads of my glove. Held thusly in place, she bent her booty around to spray what must have been the tiniest, weakest spray of bum acid at me.

This is how they fight other insects and take down prey. Mindlessly, she fought on behalf of her colony, against this monstrous enemy, and she held on tight. Like, surprisingly tight. So tight I couldn’t just brush her off. I had to pinch her body between thumb and forefinger of my other hand, break her fast little grip, and be quick to shake her back onto the ground before she got hold of the other glove.

How wild, these little things! Several people passed me as I crouched entranced, on bikes and on foot. I’m sure they thought I was an absolute nutter. My favorite walking shoes don’t look as comfortable as they are, and the combination of winter gloves and sunglasses can’t have fit in, even in Seattle. Add to that me intently staring at nothing, head bent down close to the ground, a joyful, incredulous, possibly maniacal under the circumstances grin on my face, and you get a bit of an odd sight. At least, the thought occurred to me once or twice while I watched.

I do this sometimes. Watch the world go by at it’s impossibly slow, frantic pace. I once watched dragonflies hatching, moving occasionally from one bursting shell to the next, observing each one at it’s separate, communal point in development. They have to climb out of the water, get high enough on a branch they can get some sunshine but not so high they get spotted by predators, then they split their backs open and push their torsos out first. Though I’m not sure it’s the same for dragonflies, I know that butterflies have to struggle in order for their wings to function. Each wing is threaded with dozens of capillaries that must fill with fluid in order to full expand. I watched wings start crinkled like badly packed vacation clothes and slowly, millimeter by millimeter, straighten and expand into the flat, iridescent wings we’re used to. Then, they start moving their wings. Slowly at first, drying and strengthening them. And then they lift off.

There’s something meditative about watching nature. Children, insects, small creatures of the woods, just going about their lives, carrying out programming that goes back to the dawn of time and led, over generations, to the creature they are right then, right there.

The books are Children of Time and Children of Ruin, respectively. I found them a simple pleasure, if a little predictable. Your “nerd just gives peace a chance and the wildly overpowered other guy turns out to be just like you and wants peace, too” trope is heavily used here, and is spreading. Season two of Picard did the same thing. But the descriptions are vivid, an important literary tool for those of us who see the worlds we read about rendered in our head, and I enjoyed the speculation. What would society look like if we were all jumping spiders? What if we were octopuses? What if we were us, but those others existed? How would we talk to each other? What if my little cuttlefish buddy and I had, over time, been able to communicate with each other and discover, to both of our surprise, that the answer to many of my questions was “yes”?

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The Movie Doesn’t Make the Man

I am a huge fan of Michael Caine. Not necessarily his movies (though The Muppet Christmas Carol is one of my all time favorites) but him as a person. In the wake of #MeToo, it seemed like every dick in Hollywood had done something dumb and it was all finally coming out. Michael was one of the few left unaccused.

It’s possible that his infractions were so long ago, or his victims were so far from show business that they simply didn’t come forward, but it seems far more likely that he is one of those men who can, in fact, behave like a professional when they are at work. Wild, I know.

I have always loved him as Scrooge and every year the muppets make an appearance in my holiday parade of classic Christmas films. One year I googled his name during the movie and read this amazing story about how he came to be there. He was at a point in his career where he got to be choosy when it came to scripts, and he chose projects as much for work life balance and who his coworkers would be as for the brilliance of the script or size of the paycheck.* Realizing that he had so far done nothing that his eight year old daughter could watch, he chose a child friendly project so they could all enjoy the fruits of his labor as a family.

I may or may not have dived head first into Hot Toddy season by then, but I to this day have several minutes of video that I recorded and sent to a friend where I sobbed at what a wonderful, thoughtful, just over all nice person he was, and how happy I was to be singing along. “The love we found, the love we found, we carry with us, and we’re never, quite, alone.”**

So as I browsed the internet, or read someone else’s book, or some other how stumbled across his book Blow the Bloody Doors Off I immediately snagged it from the library.

It’s an autobiography, with all the ego and self centeredness necessary to assume other people want to read about your life. Except it’s not. He can’t stop falling over himself to thank other people. He lavishly complements other actors, thanks his family and mentors for their love and encouragement, rarely names names when he tells stories of other people’s bad behavior (he only name drops when it’s a fully fledged statement of someone’s bad character or attitude), and acknowledges what advantages he did have as a tall, white, handsome man coming into Hollywood in the sixties and seventies.

And within all that, he shares things he’s “learnt” over the years. Not always specific to film or theater, but life lessons that apply anywhere.

“Be Reliable” I have covered. If nothing else, I show up when I’m expected. I seem to be chronically five minutes behind, but otherwise I am there, and I am present.

“Be Yourself” is also easy for me. Sure, it’s a polished, selected version of myself, but I still crack jokes, overindulge, and enjoy the outdoors.

“Be Prepared” however, I’m still working on. Oh I’m dressed, and the lights are low and the sheets are clean and there’s water for tea, but his preparation is intense. He will have every line for the entire film memorized by day one. Not only that, but he has already thought his way through two or three different ways of delivering them, ready to do his best, or to pivot as the director asks.

I am fortunate. Since I’m “playing the same part” over and over, every performance is also a rehearsal for next time, and flubbing a line doesn’t ruin the scene. But there is still a lot I could do to be more prepared. Many of my readers are already aware that I have a truly atrocious memory. Especially for names. There are ways to solve that. And while flubbing a line may not exactly ruin a scene, having a good one handy can make it, oh SO much better.

I have some ideas, specific to me but inspired by his words, to make my experience, and yours, even better in subtle ways. I look forward to trying them, reflecting on them and maybe even sharing them.

So thank you, Sir Michael Caine. Your brief journey down memory lane, at the ripe age of 85, didn’t change much for me, but it felt good to spend an afternoon with a solidly good damn guy. It always feels good to spend an afternoon with a good damn guy.

*It goes both ways. He missed his chance to accept his first Oscar because he was on location for JAWS 2. He tells everyone who asks about it that he knows it’s awful, he’s never seen it, but he has seen the house it bought and his mother is very happy with it.

**This is the final reason I am firmly in camp love song. Belle’s refrain as she leaves Ebeneezer is “The love is gone, the love is gone. I wish you well, but I must leave you now, alone.” Without the love song, the final refrain loses half it’s meaning.

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CuttleFish

I haven’t been to the aquarium in ages so I was delighted when one of my beloved patrons suggested a trip as a way to spend some time between the bedroom and the dinner table.

I have mixed feelings about animals in captivity. On the one hand, the Seattle Aquarium works almost exclusively with rehabilitated animals or those born in captivity, particularly birds and mammals. Their salmon hatchery is small but educational, and they only keep their octopuses for a few months before returning them to the wild.

On the other, the Dolphinarium in Puerto Aventuras had a fully grown sea lion in an enclosure smaller than my apartment. And if you didn’t otherwise need to be convinced that keeping charismatic mega fauna is inherently inhumane, you must have missed the nation’s collective  binge watch of Tiger King.*

But an aquarium is populated largely by invertebrates and otherwise relatively low needs creatures. Their internal worlds, as far as we can tell, are small and so it seems so much less cruel to keep them in (well maintained) tanks. In fact, it seems quite the opposite. In a world full of predators, offering simple prey animals a sanctuary, and feeding predators relatively easy meals, is kind of like offering them an early retirement.

While I did enjoy the afternoon (it turned into a gorgeous day and the outdoor sections became a pleasure to linger in), I felt a snag or two, watching the fur seals and the river otters doing laps, bored off their cute furry asses. I know they wouldn’t survive in the wild, being either rescued or captive bred, and that helps me feel better. It also helps that the staff are dedicated not just to the physical health of the animals, but also to offering them enrichment and amusement, just like we do with our pets at home.

But no amount of sea otters feeding and harbor seals hamming for the tourists** kept me from returning to my favorite exhibit.

The Cuttlefish

Cuttle fish are not fish, they are cephalopods, related to Octopuses and squids. And they. Are. Awesome.

Seattle Aquarium has seven (that I found.) There are two near the seahorses, down low where the little uns can see them, and they are the more colorful ones. Their resting mantle colors are vivid blues and purples and yellows, but they change them at the drop of a hat. They can also change the texture of their skin, smoothing out or projecting spikes to blend in and hide or stand out and threaten.

Though the vivid ones were pretty, they’r tucked into a small corner, and the two were in neighboring tanks, unable to interact with one another.

Moving to the next room, we found a tank with five all together, and at adult eye level. This species is called Sepia bandensis and has a far less vibrant mantle. And their inter… cuttle-al? interpersonal interactions were SO COOL to watch. They mostly hang out under their little rocks, blending in so perfectly that at first I only counted three. While we watched, they came out and slowly, glacially, had a little tiff.

I think it was two males and a female, because one stayed low to the ground, her skin color and texture changing so slowly I almost didn’t notice it, while the other two jockeyed for proximity. They flashed from white to so purple they were almost black, spikes jutting from their skin and then smoothing out. The one in the middle showed his angry black top side to his rival as his underside, the side facing the female, was a reassuring white. As they moved around each other, like a sitcom rendered in silent ballet, their colors strobed, flashed, bled from one to the next, telegraphing meaning in an instant.

The subtleties of color and the speed with which they changed it, slow sometimes, when adjusting camouflage, lighting fast when telling someone else to piss off, are myriad. The color changes are controlled by a special type of cell that (called a chromatophore) they have instant and total mastery of starting at birth. Well, hatching. They come from lil eggs. They’re so cute!!

And how cute are they, anyway!?! Their eyes are at the transition point between their fat, oval little bodies and their short tentacles. Depending on which way they’re approaching you, they might look like they have an enormous fat nose and a teeny tiny little body, or they might look like they have a big round belly while their face is long and skinny. When their tentacles are all together, it looks like a long nose and a slightly disapproving face, but when they open their tentacles for whatever reason, they suddenly become a chibi Cthulhu, their small stature preventing any real scare factor from their tentacle ringed maw. Their motile fin is incredibly thin and encircles their bodies, a gossamer fluttering tutu.

And the best part? When they’re near the ocean floor, they take their bottom two tentacles and use them like little leggies! They’re buoyant, so the legs walk in a kind of astronaut slo mo effect as they wander to and fro.

At the end of our leisurely walking tour, after cruising the mammal tanks and swimming with the whales in virtual reality, we had enough time to revisit one exhibit and I chose cuttlefish.

The love triangle seemed to have cooled off for now and all five little smushy water dirigibles hid in their rocks, indistinguishable from their surroundings.

I don’t know which one it was. Maybe it was the female (I didn’t read until later that you can count their tentacles to discern male from female), maybe it was one of the observers to the delicate dance battle. No matter, one of them broke away from her stony hiding place and slowly, slowly approached the glass. She moved to the opposite side of the window, her little tenticlegs cautiously bringing her my direction. Finally, she settled across from me, mere centimeters of glass separating our noses, and we watched each other.

It’s almost impossible to know, and definitely to remember, what her mantle told me. She was in full camouflage, instinctively hiding her soft, tiny body from potential predators. He skin was mottled cream and brown and almost black, protrusions breaking up her silhouette, blending her into the gravel. And yet, she made small, subtle changes, strobing soft stripes that moved from head to toe, or from eye to forehead? It’s hard to tell what the equivalent would be. Her spikes sometimes softened at the tips, just a bit.

For a moment, nothing moved and no one else existed. I looked directly into her W shaped eye and wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking. What is this creature? This mute, bizarrely sized, caged creature. Did she know she was the one behind bars and not me? Was she wondering if I knew that I am me? Was she observing me, wondering about me, just as I was? And did she have the better life? Ostensibly free of stress, free of wondering about higher meanings or your impact on the planet, well fed and housed with stimulating neighbors, was she happier than me? Was I on the wrong side of the glass?

It’s a hard concept to accord any weight, later, over steaks and wine and gratuitous desserts. Cuttlefish don’t have orgasms, as far as we know, and their tongues are not for tasting, or for pleasure. Their lives are short and fraught, ruled by instincts and unable to know the wider world.

But it’s no harm to wonder, in both senses of the word. To wonder at my assumptions and ask questions of the world, and to wonder at this world of light and color and diversity and pain and majesty.

My thanks are often general, addressed to the many, many people who have helped me craft my life as it is, as I like it. But today I have the privilege of thanking one person. The wondrous gent who shared my joy, watching her watching me watching her, who conjured for me a day at the aquarium without knowing just how perfect it would be.

Thank you.

*To be fair, I missed it, too, but Didn’t miss the messaging.

**The river otters and the fur seals may have seemed kind of bored, but the harbor seals sure looked a lot like they were having fun interacting with visitors. They’d bump up against the glass right in front of someone, or boop face first into it at low speed. They played with each other, and took care to rest where people could see them clearly. Also they are one hundred percent adorable, and they’re a pretty sedentary species anyway.