The Toehold of Truth
January 25, 2021
Have you ever been stuck on something, trapped in some negative headspace you can't get out of? It feels like you've fallen in a cold, dark well. And you pass your days just staring up at the sunlight, where everyone else is going about their lives, and you wish you could be up there, too. But instead you're down in the Well of Rumination. The Hole of Non-Acceptance. The Chasm of Spiraling Negativity.
It's a horrid spot. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
Your brain works furiously to get you out, because you love yourself and recognize that it's an unhealthy place to be. You reach for any thought that can act as a foothold or a handhold, to help you climb out. Most of my footholds seem sturdy at first, but turn out to be useless. They crumble under the weight of truth, because they aren't genuine. They're spin.
An unsure toehold is a thought you can circle back to a hundred times, but in the end isn't going to make you feel any better. That's because deep down, you know it's either untrue or besides the point.
A secure toehold shines like the truth: gleaming, golden, guaranteed to hold your weight. But just like real-life climbing, you've got to the do the work to reach it. You have to stretch (your mind), be flexible (in your beliefs), and have faith in your footing.
Hook your heart on honesty and you'll be back in the sun soon.
The Y You Chose
February 21, 2021
I dreamt of wolves the night we didn't say goodbye—the night you left me with two single letters and not much more.
"Should I move on? y/n"
You answered quickly.
"It's not that easy."
I dreamt of wolves, which was a departure from the whales and the water. Five or six of them, out in the cold, caliginous night. Snow on the ground muffled their movements, but I knew they were there. And they knew about me, too.
We went back and forth. You talked about how hard it's been. How you're figuring yourself out. How you're trying and fixing. "I know," I said. "I believe it. And I'm not crowding you or rushing you. But it's been three months and I'm checking in." But you wouldn't choose y and you wouldn't choose n, so we went a few more rounds.
The wolves paced underneath my window while my mind roamed other dreamscapes, anxious and aware that some unconfronted danger was waiting for me. Finally I came back. It was an empty, echoing shell of a building, like the weird, abandoned camp we found that night in the woods.
I think wolves have always reminded me of you. You like to move in packs, with whom you trust everything. You can be solitary when you need to be. You were made for the cold, and for never being caught.
I felt compelled to open the window and climb out onto the ledge. I was dangerously close to the ground, to the animals below. I couldn't stop myself from reaching out to them. Shades of ash and smoke; lanky, hungry, menacing. The nearest snarled at me as I extended my hand. But slowly, gently, I ran my palm across his furry head. He flattened his ears and stood still for my touch.
It went on for maybe an hour. "It's been horrible and the only outlet I have is music and going outdoors." By now how pointedly you were avoiding saying anything about me, about us—only you, you, you—had me desperate to end it, finally. Just a month ago you said "I'm doing this for you," but you weren't, were you? You aren't. I've turned off all the music, I've lay alone and silent in my bed listening as hard as I could, but all I have heard is snow falling, covering and quieting every trace of us.
"I already know how you feel about music and outdoors. I'm asking how you feel about me. Should I move on? y/n."
"y"
And just as I'd willed it into existence, the y you chose lit up the otherwise dark room, a tiny point of light like a candle burning out. I didn't miss a beat before I asked one last question. "But it was awesome for a while, right? y/n"
"y"
I didn't remember the ending to my dream until late in the morning, and when I did, an avalanche of feeling knocked me breathless. In the end, the perspective shifted from first to third person, and as if filmed by drone I saw myself sitting in the snow, surrounded closely by the wolves. Two stood like sentries at my shoulders: noses up, noble. One lay across my lap, a wild thing choosing to be docile and calm. Two or three others were a blur of fur and limb and majesty. They were mine and I was theirs and there was safety and trust and an unspoken intimacy.
I won't look for you again. You can have your forest back, and I'll find one of my own. Snow will fall and erase our tracks, faster than it took us to put them down. Winter is merciful that way.
Gabriel
July 6, 2021
Deadmau5 on Sunday night. I have every intention of rolling in later, showing up just in time for his set. But then comments on social media warning attendees to arrive early spook me, so that's what I do. I walk up just past nine, and the line is already around the block.
Once inside, I move quickly through my usual routine. Trip the bathroom—huge tip for the attendant. Bottle of water from the bar—huge tip for the bartender. Then it's into the main room to see how crowded it is, and how soon I'll need to stake out a spot.
It's filling up fast; people have already planted themselves against the stage and others are pressing up close. Normally I don't want to be anywhere this densely packed. But in seven years of going to Deadmau5 shows, I haven't once yet been near enough to see his actual face. And his music means a lot to me. After the past year + of personal, professional, social and romantic hell, tonight is a celebration. Tonight I want to see the face of the person whose music always helps me through. Just for a little bit, then I'll drift back. That's the plan, anyway.
The first opener isn't really my vibe, but I stay put. If I give up my place now, before I've met anyone to anchor myself to, I'll never get it back. But it isn't long before a couple of kids, absolute babies, adopt me. Matt and Nate. Matt looks like he just wandered out of a Kinko's, circa 1998. Long blonde ponytail, light blue oxford, pale, short and slight. Nate, also smaller than me, wears a short sleeve pink button down printed all over with palm trees. Matching my anticipation, Nate makes it his job to update me every few minutes on how much longer we have to wait for the headliner. "Thirty-seven more minutes." "Sixteen more minutes." "Four more minutes." They are friendly and unthreatening, and they are simultaneously fascinated and concerned that I've come alone.
"We'll take care of you," Matt assures me with the confidence of the blissfully high.
Everyone having more or less settled into their real estate for the night, we chat up our neighbors, dancing and laughing. This is the scene I've been missing. The second opener, Morgin Madison, is spectacular, and the visuals for his set are the most beautiful I've ever seen. Psychedelic swirls of color, geometric then organic, endlessly hypnotic. I'm 100% sober, people are jostling me continuously, but I don't care. Matt and Nate drift away and back in their engagements with the crowd.
Then: a booming voice over my right shoulder: "GIVE US THE MOOOOUSE!!" Everyone turns to see the culprit, which is a tall guy in a red soccer jersey. Seems to be with the couple he's standing beside. Early thirties. Athletic build. Brown hair and bright brown eyes. He doesn't look high or drunk. He just looks like he's having a fantastic time, and I smile at his mischievous energy. He sees my smile, smiles back. My heart thumps a little, and I turn back towards the stage, now keenly aware of his presence. Very, very rarely do I pay any attention to dudes at shows or festivals. I'm there for one thing and one thing only: the music. But the reason I very, very rarely pay attention to dudes at shows?
Because very, very rarely do I not have a boyfriend.
Not half a minute later: "WE WANT THE MOUUUUUSEE! BRING OUT THE MOOOUSE!!" This time when I turn back he's waiting for my look. His grin is playful, daring. That one was for me. Our eyes lock and somewhere in some dimension of this occasionally ruthless, occasionally gorgeous universe, something clicks. I hold his gaze long enough to say, wordlessly: yes. Pretending to return my attention to the stage, I can now feel him watching me. He's moved up closer; there's just a single body between us. My movements become deliberate. I straighten my shoulders, arching my back in time to the music. I casually adjust the bottom of my cropped t-shirt to draw his attention to my stomach and lower back.
The musician onstage appears to be winding down, then doesn't. Then does it again. "How many times is he gonna dooo that??" I shoot a look over my shoulder. He's angled such that he could have been speaking to me. So close I could touch him. I decide, Fuck it. I'll go first.
"First time?" I tease.
He laughs. "What, seeing Deadmau5?" I nod. "Second." I scoff and make a face. That's nothing.
"And you?" The stranger that was positioned between us has suddenly moved off.
I hold up my right hand and splay my fingers. "Five times." My expression says I win.
"Well excuse me, Miss...Miss..." He looks down the length of my body for something to make fun of. "...water bottle."
I point my water bottle at him and say with mock seriousness, "Hydration is very important."
"No kidding. I wish I had some of that."
Wordlessly, I offer my bottle to him. A year and a half ago, this gesture would have meant nothing. Sharing water at electronic shows, even among total strangers, is very common. It's a caring community, and everyone knows the dangers of getting locked tight into a crowd without water. But tonight? Less than a month since re-opening, on the heels of a global pandemic that still isn't over? We both know the significance of swapping spit. His eyes don't leave mine as he drinks and hands the bottle back. "Thank you," he mouths.
A tap on my shoulder. Matt has been watching this interaction and is fulfilling his promise to watch over me. "You good?" He gives me a meaningful look and questioning thumbs up, which I return. "You sure?" I nod vigorously. "Okay." And with that I am left unchaperoned for the rest of my evening.
Red jersey and I barely have time to register that yes, we are definitely going to watch this show together, before the show suddenly starts. And it's loud. Really, really loud. He correctly hears my name when he asks but I can't make out his, despite how close his mouth is to my ear. I take out my phone, open the notepad app, and write NAME while watches, laughing. When I hand him the phone he spaces down a line and then types F - backspace - G - A - B.
"Gab?" He nods, then leans close again. "Gabriel," he says, pronouncing it with a short 'a'.
"Gabriel," I repeat back. The pronunciation throws me off, so I say it again, slowly. "Gaaabriel." We are both smiling way too much. Now that I'm next to him, I can see the way his clothes drape across his body. Mostly, though, I'm noticing that he has the warmest, deepest brown eyes I've ever seen.
I'm pretty sure it's going to be a great night.
- - -
He didn't touch me for what felt like forever. We watched the ridiculous Deadmau5 visuals, we danced, we talked and joked around as best one can, when one can barely hear anything above the live music. He was fascinated with the upper level VIP area, where girls in cocktail dresses and high heels leaned out over the railing. "It looks so boring up there!" He shook his head, disappointed. I saw the girls watching him. He was tall enough and good looking enough to stand out easily.
"Let's get a drink," he said, and took my hand to lead me through the crowd. He held it tight and the mere feeling of being touched, chaste as it was, absolutely sent me. At the perimeter of the dance floor he quasi-introduced me to someone he'd met earlier. I couldn't make out any names, and our proximity to the speakers made for some confusion between us and the bartenders. We ended up being helped by two, who looked annoyed when we all realized what was happening. I paid, tipping heavily.
Back on the dance floor, Gabriel was playful and sociable with everyone around us. I was still completely sober, not a drop or a dose in me, so I was self-aware and a little self-conscious. I didn't know what the rules were. I wanted him to lead, and I was fully prepared to follow. But Deadmau5 wasn't playing the music of his that you can really couple up to. He was playing the bouncy stuff. And it was great. Then he dropped into My Pet Coelacanth and I screamed and jumped, and Gabriel hugged me. That was the shift. He moved behind me, lightly touching my hip or brushing against my lower back. I wanted to make sure he was feeling it, so I looked back over my shoulder to read his face. Up to this point we'd just been endlessly smiling and laughing. But his expression now was serious, and he pulled me sharply against him. I lost my breath and when it came back, I sighed deeply and leaned my head back on his chest.
That's how it played out. We'd be apart for a few minutes, then he would pull me to him, moving my body comfortably. Possessively, even. By the time Deadmau5 played Imaginary Friends I was flirting back, hard. Plucking at his shirt, twisting it in my fingers, barely touching his stomach and then letting go and stepping back. Looking in his eyes the whole time.
It was a lot of fun to say the least.
Before we knew it, it was two am. "Clock's running out."
"Yeah, but you live four blocks from here," he replied, throwing back one of the first facts he'd learned about me, two hours earlier.
"I do live four blocks from here," I confirmed.
"So we could leave and go start a new clock."
"We could start a new clock," I agreed. Knowing, already, that I would never see him again after tonight. Visiting from San Francisco. Much younger. This would be it.
"Let's go do that."
- - -
Outside was depressing. The homeless, the mentally ill, the filthy streets. He assured me that SF isn't much better. We turned on Seventh, walking by bodies passed out on the sidewalk and boarded-up restaurants. I read his thoughts. "Bleak, huh?"
He tilted his head back to look up at the skyscrapers. "I like the buildings."
Halfway there he objected that we'd gone at least four blocks already. "Yeah, but 'twelve blocks' doesn't sound as sexy." I was nervous, and filled the walk with chatter. We had not even kissed, yet here we were on the way to my apartment. I mentioned that he might want to check in with his friends so they wouldn't worry when he didn't show up back at the hotel, then peppered him with questions. Had he and his friends just driven down for the Deadmau5 show? Partly yes, and partly to surf and camp on the coast. Was he from San Francisco originally? No, Atlanta. Had he been to Bonnaroo? Yes, plenty of times.
When I asked what other musicians he liked and he said ODESZA was his favorite, I refrained from telling him they were one of mine, too.
"There might be dishes in the sink," I warned him suddenly.
"I don't care about dishes, but do you have a foam roller?"
"I have multiple foam rollers," I answered triumphantly.
When we got to my place, I immediately dipped into the bathroom to shower. On the way I grabbed a pair of thin black lounge pants and an oversized, cropped, short sleeve sweatshirt. I hadn't eaten in hours and my stomach was as flat as it ever can be. May as well keep up the crop top theme. When I came out, Gabriel was on the floor by the door, working his back out with one of the aforementioned rollers. "Oh my god, at least come over here on the carpet."
It was then I remembered that one entire side of my platform bed's support slats were broken or missing. I'd been sleeping carefully to one side for months.
"Soooo, my bed is kind of broken," I announced. We had not yet touched one another.
"Broken how?" He looked at it.
"The slats under the mattress are fucked up."
Gabriel raised his eyebrows at me. "How did that happen?"
"Someone was trying to be funny and threw themselves on the bed."
"Is it usable?"
I made a face. "Depends on the use."
"Well, we're gonna try." A beat, then: "Do you have an extra towel? I kinda wanna shower, too."
While Gabriel showered, I did a quick once-over of my apartment. In the refrigerator was leftover salmon, some spinach, and an open pack of hot dogs. Gross, but throwing any of that away would just make my place smell bad. I realized my daily work to-do list was posted on the fridge. Embarrassing, but pulling it down after he might have already seen it would be even weirder. Then I remembered that the small dry erase board on the side of the fridge had a motivational message written on it. I grabbed a dish towel and wiped Your future self will thank you for not giving up out of existence.
Knowing there was a very real possibility that Gabriel's weight alone would finish off the bed entirely, I laid down on the shag rug that covers most of my bedroom area floor. Plenty of room for both of us. From the shower Gabriel called out updates. He had figured out which of my unmarked toiletry pumps was shampoo. He liked the drawing of my dog. His back was really tweaked from surfing today.
He emerged shirtless, in his boxers, to find me laying on my back, listening to the ODESZA playlist I had put on during his brief absence. I smiled a sheepish smile. Look! I'm on the floor! Isn't that cute and campy? Who cares that my janky-ass bed is broken!
He smiled back at me and I had a split second to realize his body was even better than I'd expected before he lowered himself down on top of me.
"What's 'Monrow'?" he asked, referencing the graphic on my sweatshirt.
Monrow is an expensive loungewear brand. I had bought the top I was wearing used, off Poshmark. "It's a city," I lied.
"A city?"
"Or a brand or something? I don't know. Would you like me to change?"
"No," he said, moving his hands under my shirt, "but I want you to take it off, because holy shit these are fantastic..."
- - -
The bed did not hold. The bed gave us about seven or eight glorious minutes and then physics got the best of it. There was some comedy in the scene, but underneath I was furious with myself for not having fixed it yet. We clambered around naked, attempting to correctly reposition the incomplete line of wooden boards. But they just kept falling. I went to use the bathroom and Gabriel tried valiantly to replace the massive king mattress without disturbing the precarious boards underneath.
"Fuck!"
I came out of the bathroom to find him standing frustratedly next to a sunken-in bed. "Can we just put the mattress on the floor?" He seemed defeated.
"We absolutely can." We slid the mattress down to the ground directly at the foot of the bed. By now it was well past three am. The vibe had changed. It was bedtime.
- - -
The next hour was my favorite of the entire night. The next hour was what I didn't know I had needed so badly. The next hour was the kind of sweet, fun, uncomplicated but intimate connection I have been missing. Talking, teasing. Silly voices. Cuddling. Gabriel was exhausted from his SoCal adventure but he couldn't sleep. He'd try for a minute then turn back to me for more attention and talking, which I happily provided. He was young and restless and beautiful, and all mine for a few more hours. I ran my fingers through his hair, stroked his back, and listened to him talk. Commercial real estate. Competitive league soccer. Surfing. Wealthy friends. Finance and economics, startups and cryptocurrency. His monologue dropped a lot of clues suggesting a definite avoidance of girlfriends, which I called out.
"You're extremely independent, aren't you? Like...it's just you, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said simply.
I was too hungry to sleep, so I got up to reexamine the fridge contents. I could feel him evaluating my half-dressed body in the half light of the room. His age had come up in conversation—29—but mine had not. The silence around our age difference was not uncomfortable though. It was just a thing, unspoken and neutral.
I microwaved us hot dogs which felt like the most unsexy food I could possibly have made, but it was really the only option. When I handed him his (on a plate; I had no buns), he got excited. "Mustard? Oh hell yes."
"That's just the juice from the hot dog. I don't have any mustard, I'm sorry."
He finished his quickly. "Honestly that was the best hot dog I've ever had in my life." I believed him.
- - -
Neither of us really slept. He blamed his hurting back and being overly exhausted from the day. But I knew the real reason was the same as mine: neither of us are used to sharing a bed with someone. We've both lost that comfort level.
We tossed and turned until ten am, when there was no denying the invasive summer light or the fact that he needed to go back to his hotel, his friends, and his life. He kissed me goodbye, and I fell asleep within minutes of him leaving.
Paul
April 20, 2021
I met Paul at the Wilshire/Western Metro station late on a Friday night. I was not out shopping for a meaningful if brief encounter with a meth addict on my way home from work, but 2021 is full of surprises so far.
Paul's first words to me were "Never seen that before, huh?" He was stepping through the sliding door that connects subway cars, something riders rarely do. I had glanced his way when I noticed, but mostly I was staring down the length of the train car, which for some reason was unlit. My expression was one of mild concern, not curiosity.
"What, moving between cars?" I said neutrally. "Yeah, I've seen that. I'm just wondering why the lights are out." At that moment, the lights went back on. Neither of us commented on it.
I sat down in one of the spots facing the aisle, one reserved for seniors and the disabled. But it was nearly midnight and save for Paul and I, empty. With no seats in front of me, I could kick my legs out and lean back.
Paul moved past me, deciding on his own seat. I took him in guardedly, unbothered but prepared to bolt if necessary. He was somewhere between 25 and 35 years old, with deeply tanned skin, close cropped light brown hair, and greenish eyes the whites of which glowed against his darkened skin. His clothes were tattered and filthy, with pants sunk half past his hips and work boots halfway unlaced. There was no question he was homeless and either an alcoholic, an addict, or both—but there was an energy about him, an alertness that gave me the impression he had plenty of fight still left in him. Paul was clearly on the losing side of life's many battles, but as of yet he remained undefeated.
In the entirely empty train car, Paul chose the seat directly facing me, putting us mere inches from one another in the otherwise wide open space. I didn't flinch or glare or get up and move. I allowed it. I waited.
He slumped in his seat for a moment's rest, then immediately yanked the gaiter that covered his mouth and nose down to speak. I jerked upright, scolding "Ep ep ep!", the universally recognized sound for No no no, don't do that. The sound mothers make to their children when they grab at something they shouldn't.
Paul understood and with both hands, pulled the dirty cloth back up over his face, this time all the way up, covering his eyes and forehead ironically, like an impudent child sarcastically making a point. He took a few sharp breaths, sucking in the fabric that bound his face tightly. It was an absurd and darkly comic moment that I nevertheless couldn't find the laughter for. Pretty much like most of the past year.
I was a week past my second vaccination and feeling somewhat invincible, so when over the course of the next few minutes the gaiter ended up down around his neck and Paul's mouth and nose stayed totally exposed, I didn't say anything. I did some quick calculations in my head, the variables being
1. How likely I was to get the virus from someone who clearly roamed the city all day
2. How likely I was to get the virus at all when case counts in LA had plummeted so sharply
3. How bad it could possibly be for me if I did get it, now that I was all vaxed up
4. How good it felt to just sit next to another person with our faces seen clearly by one another, with our expressions of hesitancy or amusement or curiosity or compassion plainly visible, like real human beings sharing a moment of normal human interaction
and I came to the scientific conclusion of: Fuck it.
Paul fidgeted while we waited for the train to leave the station. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He pulled at the sleeves of his shirt. He cocked his head left and right. The way he jerked around it was like there was another Paul inside of him, restless and captive.
"Do you live around here?" he let his head hang back on his shoulders, only turning his eyes toward me to ask this.
"I live downtown," I said.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's okay," I said. The space where normally I would return the question to anyone that wasn't obviously living on the streets widened and widened, until there was just a chasm of silence.
"Do you think I could stay at your place tonight?" At this he turned his whole body toward me, an acknowledgment of the seriousness of the plea. I held his gaze in return, smiled sadly, and shook my head. He nodded. What he'd expected. No hard feelings.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Elizabeth. Yours?"
"Paul." He thrust his hand out, but not as an invitation to shake mine. Instead he flattened his palm and held it directly in front of my chest, inches from the zipper of my jacket. He held it there, suspended, as if feeling my life force. He held his palm out to so long I started to think he wanted me to touch it, to meet it with mine.
"No touching," I admonished gently.
"I'm not," he protested, truly enough.
Suddenly, Paul sprang out of his seat and reached into his back pocket. I watched as he pulled out an assortment of objects, none of which I could identify other than as things I would immediately throw away if I found them on my floor, and place them carefully onto his subway seat. A crumpled up bit of paper. A broken glass pipe. What looked for all the world like rocks but which I knew were not.
He fumbled with these things, putting one or another to his mouth, tasting, testing. I braced myself for I wasn't sure what. I told myself that if he lit the pipe I would have to move to the other side of the train. I didn't want to inhale anything. But just as quickly as he'd started on whatever this mission was, he aborted it. He sat back down, angled towards me amiably. Still fidgeting.
"What are you on?" I heard myself asking.
"Meth," he said simply. "I drink a lot too." I could tell. I could smell it. "When was the last time you got high?" he asked me.
I didn't point out the assumption or qualify which drug I meant; I just answered honestly: "A few weeks ago."
"Molly?" Paul had me pegged. I laughed a little and nodded.
"Yeah. I had some molly once but then they gave me meth. It was at a party. They didn't tell me. They were like 'Hey, you should try this blue!' and I was like 'I don't know, I don't know what blue is'. It was at this girl's house, all these people. I didn't know. So then I was like 'Okay, sure' but it was meth and I was hooked."
This monologue went on for a minute, Paul animatedly acting out the scene, changing his body language and voice to reflect the different characters of his story. I couldn't really follow. I just watched Paul deeply inhabit a moment from his past.
Abruptly, he changed tacks, looking at me intently. "What's the longest you've ever stayed awake?"
I took a moment to genuinely consider the question. I thought of the time in college when my boyfriend and I shot out to Disneyland for a day and then drove back that same night, both of us having to work in the morning. I momentarily got lost remembering the sleep we finally had a day later, when we woke up so disoriented and dream-drunk we didn't even know what day it was. I thought, there must have been a time when I stayed up a day straight at least to write a term paper...
"Hmmm. Maybe a day? A solid day?" I offered this to Paul with a smile, as if it were a small gift I was hoping would delight him. By now we were pulling into my station, and I patted my backpack to check for my phone and keys as I started to get up.
"That's how long you've been alive," Paul said seriously, watching my face to see if I understood.
There is a phenomenon that occurs when you take enough LSD, that you learn/know/understand things during the trip that escape you once the trip ends. It's just a fact of acid. You can't bring everything back with you, and you have to accept that some of the mind-splitting bits of clarity you glimpsed when you were in the wonderland are going to have to stay back behind the curtain until you're brave enough to go find them again.
That is how Paul's proclamation struck me. Like a slice of universal truth I nevertheless would have to take his word for. He was in a place I wasn't. He could see things I couldn't.
I reached into my bag and opened my wallet, pulled out the twenty, the five, and the handful of singles inside. "When was the last time you ate?" I asked him. He dropped his head. "Here," I said. He shook his head. "Please," I said. He took the money but didn't say thank you. Just looked past my shoulder at the empty car.
All at once, I felt my heart crumpling up inside me. I was going to lose it. We walked out of the train together and I picked up my pace to let him know I was leaving the station alone. I turned back and held my arm straight out. I made a peace sign with my fingers, walking backwards, looking him in the eye, smiling fiercely.
"Don't be sad," Paul called out softly. I was smiling determinedly. I had purposefully, carefully composed this smile out of view, wanting to leave him positively charged from our conversation. But he had seen right through me. I shook my head at him, a liar through and through.
I managed to get a quarter of the way up the escalator before the tears hit, well out of Paul's sight. I wouldn't have wanted him to see me breaking in two like that. He has much better things to see, that maybe I never will.
Nocturnal Wonderland 2021 & BEYOND WONDERLAND 2021
September 29, 2021
Hi! Did you think I died of the R1 N1 NE1 Delta Plus Plus XL California Special variant of COVID? I did not. And in fact on Monday I'm getting the booster, because I work in an industry with High Occupational Exposure, which is to say I am frequently in close contact with West Hollywood woo woo anti-vax nut jobs who scoff out of their smug, entitled, unmasked faces when I politely inquire as to whether they've been vaccinated because, you know, they're endangering my entire team with their smug, entitled, unmasked mouths and noses.
I tried to get the booster yesterday, but I was turned away because I'm still a week shy of the six month mark and Cedars Sinai was not having my rule breaking (and I respect that). But Monday I have a legit appointment and will be all boosted up for another several years months of this shit. LFG.
I have an assortment of adventures and updates to report on, precisely none of which are probably very interesting to anyone but myself, but let's pretend otherwise and plow ahead, shall we? Right.
I went to two festivals. One was an absolute delight and one of my favorites ever, and one was a slightly disastrous comedy of errors I still managed to wrangle a couple of good hours from. Beyond Wonderland was beyond wonderful and had some of the best overall music, production, design, and guest experience of any Insomniac fest I've been to. Just top notch. Then a few weeks later I skipped back up to San Bern for one day of Nocturnal Wonderland and oh boy was that a time. Laugh at me for a few paragraphs, will you?
The venue for Nocturnal is substantially further from the train station than the venue for Beyond. And I knew this. I've known this. I've been half a dozen times; always just grab an Uber off the train and no problem. What I forgot is that Uber and Lyft are no longer affordable, haven't been for months. I very, very rarely use them anymore in LA for this reason. But I had no other option once I landed in SB, and boom. $50 just to get to the festival - and that's on top of my $20 train ticket up, which is on top of my $30 shuttle ride back to the city afterward.
Trying not to think about this, I hop in with Doris, a sixty-something bottle blonde with a voice like sandpaper and predilection for AC/DC (and for keeping the windows open while barreling down the freeway at 75mph). Doris patiently waits in the drop-off queue to get me nice and close to the festival, making small talk I can't really hear over Back in Black. I just smile and nod at her rearview mirror, concentrating on getting festival ready (which means shimmying out of my pants, swiping on some lip gloss, and finger combing my windblown hair).
It isn't until I've launched myself out of her backseat into the streaming masses that I realize two things simultaneously: 1. for some reason, this crowd is dressed a lot less...festively, and in fact, most people are wearing street clothes (which I absolutely am fucking not), and 2. it's a lot colder than the forecast led me to expect.
No problem, I think. Maybe I'm just feeling a little paranoid and chilly because the shrooms are kicking in. Oh did I forget to mention the shrooms I'd taken on the train? Let me now then mention the shrooms. Or shroom, rather, singular, because the thing I grabbed as an afterthought as I was leaving my apartment was the size of a cigarette butt, hardly anything big enough to seem problematical. (Narrator: it would indeed be problematical.)
Anyway, I know once inside I'll be surrounded by thousands of people similarly outfitted, so I'm not much bothered by that. But I am cold, and decide once I'm past security I'm definitely going to throw my pants back on. The fence net tights and dumb little white bikini bottoms I've got on are not gonna cut it once the sun sets.
Well, that was probably the last clearly constructed thought I had for the next four hours, because the tiny little nub of a psychedelic I had snacked on half an hour before was about to reprogram my entire itinerary, plans bedamned.
I pride myself on being someone who can handle her drugs. I can sense immediately when I've overdone it, and I know what to do in those instances: get somewhere safe and comfortable, get some water, sit down, and ride it out. But holy shit. This thing grabbed me by the wrist just as I was walking downhill into the chaos of lights and sound and yanked me through its watery wavelength into a state of melting, staggering disorientation. That's a little intense when you've got 40,000 scampering, screaming ravers bumping into you from every direction.
Dealing with a locker (which I'd paid for) was out of the question. I knew fumbling with a combination lock and trying to keep straight what I was putting in vs. what I was taking out would do me in. Chances were I'd leave my phone and bag on the ground right in front of it. So I resigned to shouldering my backpack until I found my sea legs, getting the lay of the land so I could find my sets, and taking it slow.
But first: pants!
I set my bag (a super lightweight cinch sack made of parachute fabric) down and reached in to pull out my cozy, soft, favorite Monrow sweats. Won't these feel lovely and be so comforting right now, I thought.
Oh fuck. Oh no. My pants. I left my pants in the Uber. Doris has my fucking pants in her backseat.
NO PROBLEM, I think. I got this. I am hardcore. I decide to just rock my hoodie, which totally covers the bikini bottoms, and which combined with the barely-there fence net tights makes it questionable whether I'm even dressed from the waist down at all. I am now essentially Porky Pigging it around the fucking festival, but at least it is dark, and at least, let's be real, I am tripping way too hard to care much anyway.
I find my way to the stage I know I'll be spending most of the night at only to find it faces a small hill. The entire viewing area is raked on a not terribly small slope, meaning there is really no level place to stand unless I want to be sandwiched in close up front - which I definitely do not. It's about this time a couple of negative mental loops kick in, making it impossible for me to get physically or psychologically comfortable:
a) I realized that since I didn't dare mess with a locker, I wouldn't be able to charge my phone (the lockers have hookups for cell phones). And if I couldn't charge my phone, it would be dead by the time I got back to LA and needed an Uber from USC to my apartment. I might very well be stranded and have to hoof it home. Not impossible, but a solid 45 minute walk. With. No. Pants.
b) The hill I was standing on was completely throwing me off. I had no spatial stability and I kept catching myself facing slightly away from the stage, like an insane person. Eventually the shrooms eased up enough that I found this hysterical, but for the first little while I felt trapped in a fun house with 0% fun.
All this being said, the lights and sounds were amplified in a way that was just stunning. I was almost in tears at one point, my senses were so enraptured. But it was hairy, ngl. I briefly considered bailing and eating a $200 Uber just to get back home and crawl into bed. But #adventure. I only have so many of these festivals left in me, and I'll be goddamned if a little forest fungi is gonna ruin one of them.
It leveled out. But I was still cold and overly high, and desperately needed to dance it off. Only that was impossible because of the stupid hill we were situated on. I found a little spot off to the side where I could set my bag down under a big tree-sized glowing mushroom (so meta!), and that worked okay except for the fact that people kept coming up and asking if I'd take their photo under the mushroom. I was like Yo I can barely see this dimension much less your tiny phone screen but let's do this.
After Spencer Brown's set (which was just straight glorious), I explored a little bit, but there wasn't much other music that really did it for me and I couldn't find a groove. I met a few people, but I was underwater and they were on dry land, so I couldn't really connect with them. Eventually I trusted my cognitive abilities enough to go take advantage of my prepaid locker and charge my phone. But I was terrified of missing my ride home, so I left the grounds a full hour before the city shuttle was meant to depart. The nice clipboard lady who checked me in was all "Where were you this morning?" and I had to explain that noon was much too early for me trek up, and sorry if you waited, but I had no way of letting you know I'd be taking the train up instead.
(I'm skipping over the fact that the actual walk from the venue to the shuttles was an insane 30 minute hell hike alongside a freeway and over train tracks in the cold desert night wind. If I hadn't been shuffling along in a caravan of other exhausted revelers I definitely would have gotten lost and died of exposure. Don't forget to picture my sad, huddling walk WITHOUT PANTS.)
ANYWAY, I survived. I miraculously got an Uber at USC, didn't lose any other clothes, and finally made it to a bed I'd never in my life been so happy to curl up in. And I realize now it was probably lucky to start winding down my EDM festival career on a low note, so I'll have less FOMO when I finally do hang it up.
All things happen for a reason, even for unreasonably ridiculous people like me.
photos from Nocturnal Wonderland 2021:
photos from Beyond Wonderland 2021:
Get the Red Out
January 3, 2022
The salon I have chosen for my first Chicago hair cut is four blocks from my apartment. It's on Dearborn, a street name that dings the little Midwestern memory bell in my head—the one that hasn't stopped ringing since I got here. My dad traveled to Dearborn, Michigan often for work. I grew up hearing the word without ever thinking how curious a compound it really is. Dearborn. A sobriquet for another time.
It's on Dearborn, but in a direction I haven't walked yet on that particular street. I have so barely scratched the surface here. The first thing I notice is there's no doormat. Not in the tiny anteroom, nor at the salon's entrance. It's 9am and they've just opened. I'm the first appointment of the day, rescheduled by them last minute from a later slot. "Do you mind coming in earlier? We have a huge gap, it would really help us out." Of course I say yes, but I do so quelling a tinge of annoyance that I'll have to wake up early on my day off.
However, my days off are Saturday and Sunday, every single week. That is a triumph I can lean on, if I am a little sleepy.
I step into the space and lightly stamp my boots to shake off the snow. A man enters from the salon's back room and begins readying one of the stations for the day. He smiles my way, but remains quiet. I feel the need to say something. "There's no doormat!" I exclaim, trying to excuse the puddle of water I'm creating. He smiles bigger and walks toward me. He doesn't introduce himself, but it's clear from his dress and comportment that this is his salon. When he takes my coat I take in coffee-black eyes and a deep sense of mansuetude. A calmness that matches the empty salon and the blanketed sidewalks outside.
"I'm not used to the snow," I continue, ridiculously. "I just moved here from LA." Where is this non-sequitur coming from? What am I doing?
"Ah," he says softly. "That explains it." Explains what? I suddenly feel sharply self-conscious in my hoodie and jeans. Have my clothes given me away? Is it that obvious I'm an invasive species?
Once situated in the seat furthest from the door, I announce I'm going to be his easiest client ever. While I enumerate my very short list of very basic desires, he gently plays with my hair. I want the same two things I ever want: cut what you have to so it's healthy and try to get the red out without darkening it. This second item is my long-running fantasy. I have been assured by anyone licensed to bear scissors that red is my destiny. Something about the undertones in my hair, I don't know. But I was born a redhead and I am doomed to die one, apparently. Ash-less to ash-less, dust to dust.
Mish (whose name I learn from the girl that steps in to apply my color) tells me he can get me to the cooler shade I want. "I'll use ash to tone down the red. We'll see how it comes out today, but within another visit or so you should be good." The assured way he says this gives me hope. Also: I'm on a program! A program to de-redify my hair!
My color is applied by a girl whose expertly waved, cascading locks remind me how boring a client I must be. As she paints on chemicals that make my scalp itch furiously, I stare at her light blue Converse. She definitely changes shoes at work, like me. Her perfectly worn in sneakers are nowhere near as try hard as my squeaky new boots. I feel devastatingly uncool.
Color girl and I talk about my recent move. She has a friend who just came back to Chicago from LA, and we compare notes. Her friend has told her that Los Angeles is nothing like it's portrayed in the movies. I confirm this, and many of her friend's other criticisms. Yes, it really is that dirty. Yes, it really is that crowded. Yes, it really is that hot. She wants to know if people in LA really are all narcissists. Here I tread lightly. "No..." I start without conviction. "But it's influencer central out there. And it's not a really good place to be, unless you have a lot of money. Or you're in the industry. But most people that think they're in the industry are just extras, or comedians, or, like, used up actors who eventually give up and get real jobs, but they stay because their friends are there. It's a weird place." She nods, absorbing.
When I learn she has an hour commute I turn in the chair to face her. "You must love working here," I say, amazed. She laughs. Further to my amazement (and delight): she doesn't drive. It's an hour train ride. Public transportation in Chicago really is all that. Confirmed. I sit up straighter, gloating to myself. I knew it. I remember something Costa said about cheaper rents, further out from downtown. I wonder just how cheap it would be if I was willing to take on a twenty, thirty minute commute...
By the time I am handed back to Mish I have narrowed my Pinterest haircut selections down to one favorite. The model has fine reddish hair, like me. A side part, like me. Her hair dusts the tops of her shoulders, mostly one length, in a wave so slight it looks accidental. Bed head, but a really lucky bout of bed head. "Ignore her color," I say unnecessarily, "but the cut and style. That would work, right?" I peer up at the man I have already decided I will entrust my hair to, for however long I remain in Chicago. He's perfect. Relaxed, soft-spoken, a countervail to my awkward energy. Studying the picture, he asks several questions to further clarify exactly what I want. I appreciate and respect this thoroughness very much. Measure twice, cut once indeed.
And for the next thirty minutes I am treated to the gentlest hair cut and styling of my life. No one, not even my best friend, has even been so delicate with my (delicate) strands. Hair stylists have schedules to keep like everyone else; not their problem my fine hair will beak easily under their hurried combs.
But not Mish. Mish tenderly separates the tiniest sections of my hair, using his hands more than the rough bristled brush. I sit quietly and still as can be. Mish on the other hand grows talkative as he twists soft spirals in my hair. Telling me how much I'm going to love Chicago. Telling me to just wait until Spring. And then Summer. And oh, Fall. He looks at me in the mirror and makes promises of Chicago's beauty and wonder. And I believe all of them.
It feels less like a treatment than a ceremony. He is so exquisitely gentle I never once feel the tug of his brush on my scalp. And my hair, which has been drying this whole time in a victoriously cool shade of light brown, responds with shine and bounce. I am ecstatic. The woman in the mirror smiles back at me, from under her mask. She beams at the man whose dark eyes flash in mirth at her obvious delight. He told me he could get the red out. Did I not believe him?
I did, of course. Never doubted him.
Paid up and with a pledge to return, I shimmy back into my coat. In my excitement, I forget to put my gloves on before getting outside. That's a big no no; the cold will lock into my fingers and not let go. But today I don't notice it. My squeaky new boots crunch the snow underneath and the wind whips delicious smelling hair all around my face. I'm buoyed by the successful new connection.
Life can change. One of my newest, most powerful mantras floats up, like a snowflake falling in reverse. Life can change. In with the new and out with the red—I mean old.
Your Final Fix
January 22, 2022
There is something about me that makes men want to dig up my bones long after they have buried me. It has always been this way. Sooner or later, whatever the circumstance of the breakup, they come find me. An unbroken track record, as I tell my friends. See? I told you. All of them. Every last one, without fail. My friends listen with careful neutrality. They don't want to get roped back in, either.
It's taken as little as a month and as long as three years. Eventually they come find me, for one reason or another. Rarely do they want a relationship revividus. They're just looking to fill whatever hole has opened up within them, in that moment of their lives. The guilt-laden want absolution. The players want more play. The covert narcissists want a hit of supply. The good guys want their good guy cards stamped and renewed.
Never is it to offer me anything that I might want or need. Maybe it's not really about me after all.
- - -
On a frigid bank holiday in January, because I have promised myself an adventure, I walk the hallowed grounds of Chicago's most famous cemetery. Later, I'm going to get a hot dog, at another landmark destination. I am a tourist in my own town, with a two-item itinerary. Look out, Chicago.
Graceland is gloriously empty this winter's day. No doubt in spring the verdant hills and birdsong make it parklike and lush. And fall will be sight to behold, when trees drop shimmering leaves that bedazzle the impassive grey tombstones. But it's a graveyard. Spare, cold, and bleak only enhance the effect.
There is no noise other than the regular rumbling of the train a few blocks over. No other visitors besides one solitary, puffing jogger. Headstones, obelisks, and sarcophagi stretch as far as I can see, across gently sloping land where patches of grass break up the snow. I'm looking for the bridge I saw on the cemetery's website. I'm also listening to a self-guided tour, which turns out to be less a comprehensive deep dive and more a series of quick dips. Thirty seconds about this baron. Forty seconds about that magnate. Chicago's legendary captains of industry. In case you forgot who had money and power, kindly direct your gaze to the towering pillared pavilion on your left. Potter Palmer and wife Bertha (nee Honore), at your service.
I turn off the audio tour. I'd rather hear stories about the everyday folk anyway. The ones whose graves are marked with modest slabs of quartz, some inlaid flat into the ground. In winter, they disappear under a blanket of white. I bet they like that seasonal break from public view. I bet they worked damn hard in life, and haven't much use for the likes of my curious eyes. When people ask me what dead person I'd most like to meet, I always say my great-great-great-great grandmother. Wouldn't that be a dose of eye-widening perspective.
Their names delight. Wendell. Esther. Horace. Atticus. Expectant mothers could get the jump on the next baby name trend, they're all right here for the taking. I wonder how many Mabels this Mabel went to school with. If she even did. Mabel would probably scoff at my problems. Mabel probably had to heat water up on the stove, itself a modern luxury. I tell myself that any one of the souls buried here would trade places with me in a minute, just for the treasure of another single day of life. But would they?
I pass a headstone engraved with a list of five Johns. John the Fifth sleeps forever beneath a Celtic cross close to the road. The indignity of being a fifth already stings, and here he is with this terrible real estate on top of it. A row of headstones crumbles besides. How can they be crumbling? They're just a couple hundred years old at most. What must it take to wear down a gravestone?
You can live all your life in the same house, but your bones will still spend longer in a cemetery. How long do you have to be somewhere before you can call it home? How long do bones have to rest before you shouldn't disturb them anymore?
Imagination seizes. I picture every single previously living person suddenly sitting atop their grave. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Men in black flannel waistcoats and pressed wool trousers, doffing their derby hats at women in sweeping brocade dresses, who discreetly check their hair pins after so long a sleep. They make no sound. Some look around, taking in their surroundings. Others look down at their bodies, getting oriented to their post-corporeal forms. A sea of ghosts from another era. Can you see them? Can you see the twisted ends of the men's mustaches, and the pointed toes of the women's buckled shoes? Each of them is the age they were when they died—when they left their loved ones behind.
I will remember you how I last saw you, for better or for worse. How will you remember me?
On the steps of a shed-sized mausoleum, one natty phantom leans against the stately columns of his eternal home. Chin high and proud as a peacock, he observes the scene. He holds a top hat: rich black silk signaling all that he was and all that he had. But my hand would pass through him just as easily as it would his poorer counterparts, if I dared. Not that I would dare.
I'm less afraid of MacDougal. Lanky, soigne, with a lopsided smile and posture to match. His legs are crossed in studied insouciance and a shock of blond hair needs the constant attention of his fingers to rake it back. His top coat is perfectly cut to his figure, but ripped across the chest. Something about the rip--and about him generally--suggests last minute foul play. A bar tussle. Some lady's honor on the line. Or maybe he was just drunk.
MacDougal watches me from one of the more interesting graves in this place. A bench with a semi-circle structure behind it. Four slender, grooved columns support a curved mantel that bears his name. He's watching me from the bench where he sits, suppressing a smile, clearly amused by something. His grave seems to have been designed with this exact moment in mind. A throne from which to watch passerby, forever and ever. And here he is watching me.
He can't speak—none of them can—but he nods at something behind me.
What? What is he looking—oh. I turn and see that the portable phone charger I have brought from home is being dragged through the snow, still plugged into the phone that, thankfully, is safe and dry in my pocket. Six feet of cord extend from my coat to the small black device, which trails behind me like a dog on a leash. Ruined, I assume, but when I pull it out of the snow I see the indicator light still glowing green. When I turn back to MacDougal, ready to face his mockery, he has vanished. They all have. It's just me again, in this quiet expanse of cold stone and bare trees.
Later at home, I'll find that to my amazement both the charger and cord have survived the mishap. I wonder if MacDougal had something to do with it.
- - -
Ellie, I'm sorry for everything. Are you in Michigan? I'm moving to Ohio. Please text me.
Here we go again, I think. I've woken up to yet another shovel slamming into the frozen earth above me. Trying to get at my bones. Trying to exhume what has been laying peacefully.
I stare at my phone, unmoved. There is no sense of vindication, or validation. I had to validate myself, after months of silence told me I had no choice. I waited and waited and was left to wonder for an entire year. An entire year, it took me to move on. But I did.
Setting my phone aside, I slip back into dreams.
- - -
I find the bridge. It crosses the stream that runs the grounds and connects to a tiny island where a handful of plots are marked by simple, rough-hewn boulders. The stream is frozen, and I resist the urge to drop a rock and see just how frozen. Instead I cross the bridge and walk the perimeter of the island. This is where I'd want to be buried. I bet ducks call this home in warmer months. I wouldn't mind ducks waddling over my grave. We all have to live somewhere.
My destination found, I am free to go get a hot dog. I have successfully completed Graceland Cemetery. I am happy with what I have gotten out of it. I am happy with what I am leaving in it.
- - -
Time was, I ached for one more day with him, to get my questions answered and bewildered heart calmed. What the fuck just happened? How are you gone so fast, and ignoring me? What did I do? Why won't you answer me? Is this a punishment? Did you not feel the same? Did I dream this whole thing? Are you coming back when you get better?
Now, though, enough snow has fallen on that grave. Several seasons of it, in fact. I can't really hear what's going on up there, and I don't care to know. I'm safe and warm down here where I am. Mabel just put water on to boil. She's been saving some cocoa for a special occasion, and we both have the day off.
My bones are fine, right where they are.
It Me
April 21, 2022
It occurs to me that, being off the 'gram, it would be nice if I still showed my face every once in a while.
Henlo.
Goddamn It
April 22, 2022
To quiet the buzz of you is an impossible task. Shoving you out of my mind takes a strength I haven't found. Turning my phone off only silences the external signals. The internal ones just keep banging around my head, bright and insistent and all too happy to distract me.
My imagination is not under contract here. It never needed to be. But now you come along with your big ideas and my brain is saying, Whoa whoa whoa. We have much more important things to think about than your dumb blog.
It's going to take a minute to find a quiet place to keep you, so I can keep doing the things that keep me...me.
To Every Session
April 24, 2022
There is something weird happening in this city. Some kind of...transition? I pointed it out to someone and they said Yes, Chicago has sessions. I think that's what they called it. Whatever it is, it's a trip. Just a couple weeks ago the trees were bare, and now there are little tiny flowers all over them.
The birds are going to lose their shit.
Party, Studio of One
April 26, 2022
Fun thing in the works.
My company does a $75/month wellness reimbursement, for a gym membership, fitness classes, yoga studio - anything along those lines. Super cool, but my building has a great gym and there aren't really any classes that interest me. So I haven't taken advantage of it, since I couldn't think of anything I wanted it for.
Today I was poking around online trying to find, like, a super luxe gym that has a nice spa / pool set up I could use. No dice. Super nice gyms with are way more than $75/month. But in my research I saw one place that had this beautiful studio space for classes, and that rang a bell in my mind.
If you haven't seen The Silver Linings Playbook you should. It's fantastic and one of my favorites for onscreen chemistry. If you have, you'll remember her little dance studio, and you see where this is going.
Once at a gym in LA, when I was stretching out in the class studio, a guy came in late in the evening and just used a portion of the space in front of the mirror to dance. Just dance with his earphones in. That was his workout. I was blown away. Of course I guess I always knew you could use a gym for that, but I'd never dare. This guy didn't care at all that people were around. I would care.
But you've seen my videos. The Insta is disabled, but I'm sure you remember. All those times I cleared space in my lofts to dance, or set up my speaker out by the John Ferraro Building, with the skyline in the background. I love doing shit like that, so much. But even when you have a ton of room, like I did in my last apartment, it's not the same. You have neighbors, for one thing. And you really don't have that much clear space.
Just for the hell of it, I started looking for studios to rent. The first site I found had some amazing spaces, but insanely expensive. Hundreds of dollars an hour. Almost gave up. Then I found Dance Center Chicago. Found their Rent a Room page. Saw that I can rent a private studio in Boystown for TWENTY DOLLARS AN HOUR. Shall I repeat that? Twenty bucks an hour for a gorgeous, roomy space all my own with audio already set up. Plug and play, baby.
I called them to find out what the catch was. No catch. It's just a super cool spot that holds a huge variety of classes during the week and also rents out each of their rooms to creatives. Dancers, photographers, whatever. As their website says, We welcome artists of all forms to use our space for their creative outlets.
The guy I spoke to on the phone was lovely. He answered all my dumb questions. It's really private? Like totally mine for the whole time? (yes!) Is there a deposit or huge credit card hold? (no!) Can anyone see in? (no!) Is it booked until, like next year? (no!)
Then he asked me what kind of dance I do and I was like "Uhhhh, I just like to dance? It's kind of shuffling, but not really?? Freestyle electronic? I don't know!" and he was like "Oh, awesome! Well the studio you're asking about has four feet of brick wall between it and the next one, so girl, go off."
Soooooo, you guys, next weekend, all 1400 square feet of this beauty is mine for two hours:
First Close
April 27, 2022
You guys. I just closed my first deal. As a reminder, my job changed completely in February, when our big fish enterprise member backed out of their two-year agreement and decided to just take part of the space, and on a month-to-month basis instead. Filling the rest of the space became my new responsibility. All very exciting, because it’s the job I applied for and wanted so badly. Because we are new to the Chicago market, it’s been excruciatingly slow. Every time I got to take another step in the process and learn something it was like Yessss thank you GOD. MORE PLZ.
For a minute there I didn’t think I’d ever get anything. It’s so much teasing and waiting and getting blown off. But finally today, we are signed and sealed. New member moves in the first week of May. My next check will be 23% higher than usual, which is just so rad and lights a massive fire for me. LFG.
Me being me, the best part is the kudos from my company, and the excitement from some others who knew I was working towards this moment.
Just need to do it another twenty or thirty times, and I will be in a pretty damn sweet place here in this new life o’ mine.
Boy King
May 12, 2022
He reminded me of a benevolent boy king.
Slight jutting of the chin. An almost imperceptible swagger. Wore collared sweaters in country club colors, but you could imagine him with a fur mantel and scepter. Pink cheeks with the baby fat still on them, and blonde hair he styled with a little too much care.
Always smiling, always lingering through our conversations as if assured of the next delightful thing I would say. As if assured of his own delightfulness. And you just knew he'd been hearing it all his life. The kind of kid the other mothers would gush over. Such a thoughtful boy. And he was.
Came to my desk one day looking for chocolate, strolling up with that self-assured grin. I knew I didn't have any, but I made a performance of opening my secret treat drawer, just to see his face when he learned I had a secret treat drawer. He'd never had dried mango, so I tore off a slice and handed it to him. "Just like being in the Thai jungle," I said, watching his eyes go wide with pleasure. For weeks afterward he would bring in new snacks for us both to try. Dried, spiced peas. Banana chips. We'd chew slowly, watching one another's reaction, then declare our verdicts. If I liked whatever it was, he'd insist I keep the bag.
On his last day, he personally returned his key to me--the only one so far to do that. He sat behind my desk with me and we stepped carefully through the trap of saying a professional goodbye when what you really want to say is Thank you for this small friendship or Our chats were a bright spot in my day. And though he'd left his position willingly for another job, I found myself assuring him of his very bright future, like a great, wise, dried fruit-dispensing guidance counselor.
Always that smile. Just once I would have liked to see him without it, seen a glimpse of whatever was heavy or painful underneath. Possibly nothing. I hope nothing.
So I Guess I Have My First Chicago Thing
May 13, 2022
I went to the dance studio on Saturday. I haven't mentioned it because it was exactly as I expected. No surprises and not a lot to tell. It was a blast. The room I rented is the only one down a long hallway, so it's as private as can be. I was so amped up, I just swung the barn door close, skipped over to the stereo, and went to town.
My cheapo shoes are perfect; that was the one thing I was concerned about. But they're great. I don't need anything else. Their system is decently loud, though this weekend (because I am going back every weekend that I can) I'm trying a different, smaller room just to change it up. Sound might be better there, we'll see.
I was also unsure how I was going to run my music but just hitting shuffle was great. I skipped ahead when necessary. Don't need anything more complicated than a Spotify playlist. Don't need it to progressively build. Don't need to overthink it.
Also, I learned that an hour is plenty. Not trying to marathon my workouts here. It's a gorgeous ride up on the brown line, through really pretty neighborhoods like Belmont and Addison, and I don't mind it at all. Lovely sightseeing from the train the whole way.
Their bluetooth is kinda iffy, so I hardwire in using my phone. That means unless I take another device with me I won't be able to get video. But I did take a couple selfies at the end, all sweaty and happy.
I decided not to post them.
Some Context for Recent Events
July 8, 2022
When I was in my 20s, I was a huge fan of Loveline. I even called in once, though now I can't remember why. I think it was a dare from a boyfriend, and we made something up just to get on air. What I wouldn't give to know now, what we considered scandalous enough to be radio-worthy back then.
Anyway, one night I heard a call from a girl not much older than I was at the time, and it made a huge impression on me. To this day it's stayed deep in my thoughts, like a note from a best friend I've kept stashed away all these years. A note I've read so many times I know it by heart.
The girl who called wanted to know whether it was a problem that she felt perfectly fulfilled by having a dog, and she felt no compulsion whatsoever to go out and find a mate, much less someone to procreate with. She was straight and cisgendered, and had all the standard sexual impulses of a woman her age. No trauma to speak of, and she had solid relationships with her family and friends.
She just didn't really care about getting into a human romantic relationship. She was happy just doing her thing, living alone with her dog.
Drew's reply was what I expected. Something along the lines of Oh well that's all fine and good, but to be a fully functioning adult you really need blah blah blah...
Thing is, what really struck me about this girl was how totally balanced and healthy she sounded. I didn't hear anxiety or shame in her voice at all. I really don't think she thought for a second there was anything wrong with her. I think she just wanted to verbalize and share her experience. Hear herself say out loud what she was starting to realize. Maybe some part of her was seeking validation, but this girl's self-esteem was strong.
- - -
A few months ago, I found myself in conversation with someone I barely knew, talking quite openly about the big picture of my life. Past, present, future. We'd gotten to this point on the strength of a quick, natural connection. One of those rare, instant clicks that the universe occasionally slips into your pocket. But we were truly just acquaintances. We still are.
I gave a ten minute summary of my life to date, hitting quite frankly on even those formative experiences that I tend to hide from people I don't know very well. I just opened up. And I told him about where I was now. A bit breathless from the move. A bit bewildered by a job I didn't quite understand yet. Loaded up with unresolved emotional challenges. Freshly stepping into a developing relationship the terms of which ran massively counter to anything I'd been expecting at this point in my life.
Then he asked what I wanted. I knew what he meant, but I dodged and played dumb because I didn't want to answer him. Finally he outright pinned me down. "No, what do you want for yourself? What do you want, Ellie?"
I equivocated. I said I could be happy with Plan X, if Plan X worked out, or I could be happy with Plan Y, if it didn't. "I know how to be happy no matter what," I lied.
He smiled at me, his arms crossed across his chest, and called me out even harder. "That's fear talking. You're afraid. You don't know what you want. And you need to figure that out."
Me being me, I dug in. And I dug in so hard I almost believed myself, though the conversation stayed stubbornly front of mind for months after. Because he was right. I was making decisions from a scarcity mindset, the very thing I swore to myself I'd never do.
- - -
There is a mental exercise I devised a few years ago, for when I start to get serious with a guy. It's a test of sorts. I call it the Heiress Test, and it goes like this:
If I was a rich heiress from a powerful family, resourced for the rest of my life with everything I'd ever need -- all money, time, and freedom that comes with those things -- would I choose to share my life with this man?
When I met Nick (guy from KY that I got involved with here in Chicag0), I hadn't even caught my breath from the move. I was lonely and broke and all I knew was that I was ecstatic to be out of LA. I hadn't given any thought to what was next. How I was going to put down roots. How I was going to make friends. What my life in Chicago was going to look like. I'm still a bit lost and feeling my way, but now at least I have a plan. In March I didn't know what the fuck was going on any given day, much less what I was going to do for the next fifty years. I felt identity-less.
Meanwhile, here's this young, sweet, handsome, successful guy acting like I'm the greatest thing he's found since sliced bread, potentially offering a path that would solve that whole problematical lack of an identity issue. The compliment of his affection is no small thing - Nick is utterly amazing. But if I had been in a more stable and secure mindset (emotionally, financially), right off the bat the fact that he wants kids and lives where he does -- those would have been immediate deal breakers.
Nick did not pass the heiress test, because we don't have likemindedness about what we want the rest of our lives to look like. We just had an incredible connection that I threw myself onto, like a life raft, because he has so much to offer.
But that's not an heiress move. That's not someone clear on the difference between Plan X and Plan Y. That's not someone who calls in to a radio show because she can't quite believe how simple happiness really can be.
- - -
In the scope of things, I have virtually nothing figured out. Not compared to most people my age. Most people my age have their futures on lock. They are trees, and here I am, still a tumbleweed.
But I will be goddamned if the next time someone asks me, "What do you want, Ellie?" I don't have at least a rough draft of an answer ready to go.
A Little While Longer
July 26, 2022
All I can do in this moment is curl up around the faintest flame of possibility. Wrap my whole body around it, protecting it.
the possibility of circumstances lining up
the possibility of there being enough time
the possibility of everyone I love and want to love catching up
the possibility of the pieces fitting together
I'm not sad today. I am so calm, and I see so clearly. The quiet in my mind pervades every chaotic street, every pointless conversation.
The Watchmaker
August 4, 2022
The watchmaker's shop is tucked away in a six story building on Wabash, nestled among the old and new architecture of Jeweler's Row. A worker is hosing down the sidewalk, and the water steams, streaming across patches of noonday sun that filter through the rumbling steel network of the L above. In a lobby that hasn't enjoyed the attentions of an interior designer since the seventies, I find a security guard with sartorial taste to match the decor. He asks my destination, then tips his trilby in the direction of the elevators.
"Fourth floor. Out to the left when you exit the elevator. End of the hall."
The shop is smaller than my studio apartment, but the front room manages to hold a deep burgundy leather sofa, a cluttered desk with a pair of chairs for customers, and an elevated work station covered with the spilled guts of various timepieces. As I walk up, the watchmaker is emerging from an inner room. He sees me smiling through the glass door, which I am unsure about opening without some kind of invitation. Pandemics change all the rules.
He pushes the door open, nodding toward the large white plastic doorbell mounted in plain sight. "There's a doorbell, you know."
"Yeah," I say dumbly, smiling harder. "Sorry."
We take up our positions across the desk from one another, and I hold out my wrist to show him the minimalist Danish watch I only just started wearing this year. Simple, featureless, with a plain white analog face and an embedded second hand dial. The band is a smooth black leather, thin but not daintily so.
"The thing came off. The little holder band."
He tilts his head back to peer through the lower half of his glasses, and I wonder how someone doomed to progressive lenses manages to perform such finely detailed work.
"The keeper." He nods.
"Is that what it's called? Yes. That. I lost my keeper." I glance at his face to gauge his sense of humor. Craftsmen fascinate me. Cobblers. Woodworkers. Tailors. Men who've devoted their lives, minds, and hands to the fixing, mending and rescuing of things we'd otherwise have to abandon. I find any excuse to bring them my broken, torn, overpriced material treasures. To befriend them and patronize their cozy, antiquated shops. To flirt and charm and invite their gentle mockery for overspending on cheaply made things. To be in the presence of patient, dedicated experts.
I can't see his expression, however. So instead I take in his Hawaiian print shirt, floppy blond surfer's hair, and tanned forearms. The framed certificates lining the wall above the sofa attest to an advanced education in horology, and I don't doubt him for a minute. But Chicago's foremost authority on Swiss watch repair looks for all the world like he just stepped off a Caribbean cruise ship.
"It's the floating keeper," he continues. "I'm pretty sure I have some extras around here somewhere..." While he rummages in a drawer I absorb the surround sound of gentle ticking that seems to come from every corner of the office. I scan the desk for the closest source and realize what I'm hearing aren't watches at all. Two plastic kinetic dancing toys - a hula dancer and a flying pig - wiggle underneath the green umbrella of a banker's lamp, softly clicking as they waggle and wave. The watchmaker empties a plastic freezer bag full of broken watch bands onto the desktop.
"Wow," I say. "It's like harvesting organs." This wins me a toothy, yellow grin. The assortment looks promising at first; I see plenty of black among the mix of colors. But as he picks through the lot, he rejects one after another for being the wrong size. Mine is apparently the Goldilocks of the watch world. This keeper is too big. This keeper is too small. Eventually, he finds a keeper that is just right...sort of. It's black, and the perfect width. But it's crocodile skin.
I balk. The watchmaker waits.
"What's the alternative? A totally new band?" He nods. That's exactly the alternative.
"Okay," I say slowly. "Let's do it. But if my OCD gets to be too much and I hate it, how much for a new band?"
"I have bands exactly like yours for, oh, twenty-five bucks?"
He takes my watch and the detached limb of the transplant watch and turns to his work station, switching on the lighted ring of the jeweler's lamp. Finally, I think, excited to see him in action. But a moment later, the jangling of the door opening behind me pulls my attention away. An older couple tentatively steps in, taking seats on the sofa at the watchmaker's direction. When I turn back, he hands over my repaired watch. The deed is already done. It took him less than ten seconds.
"Amazing," I say. "How much?" But he just shakes his head, signaling with a dismissive wave of his hand that he's not going to charge me.
"Oh no, please let me pay you for your time..." I look around his desk for some kind of credit card reader, but there's only a small calculator and an invoice form pad. "Then can I at least buy you a cup of coffee?" I feel uncomfortable that the couple behind me is overhearing this generosity. I'm afraid, somehow, that they'll use it against him when it comes time to settle their own bill.
But he just holds up his hands, feigning palsy, finally sending back a joke of his own. "Too much caffeine. Can't have a watchmaker with the jitters, you know." He winks.
I pull a business card from the holder on his desk and brandish it meaningfully. "Yelp review," I promise. "If that sort of thing helps you?"
"It does help," he replies. The couple who've been waiting are already moving into the chairs I've just vacated.
The security guard hails me on my way out. "Find it okay?" I triumphantly hold up my wrist in response.
Back on the muggy sidewalk, I step into the sun to examine the tiny loop of embossed leather I've just been gifted. It's terribly ugly, and though it does fit the band, it's noticeably larger than its sister half an inch away. But it's okay. In fact, it's a good lesson in embracing imperfection, in detaching from expectation and desire. I'm going to keep my orphan, mismatched, crocodile skin floating keeper until it falls off. And when it does, I know where to go for a new band.
Lions
August 5, 2025
The great tragedy of my life is that I devalue myself while lionizing others who don't remotely deserve it. I do this again and again. I take ordinary house cats, most with kitty litter stuck in between their toes, and turn them into awe inspiring kings that I worship.
Eventually, every lion reverts back to house cat. Sooner or later, I will be following someone (because I am an acolyte, and that is what I do), and suddenly I will feel something gritty under the soles of my feet. I look down and it's kitty litter. Because they were never a lion in the first place. They were always just an ordinary cat.
And still I am shocked and disappointed. Still I am let down.
October 31, 2022
I had this past Friday off, so I took the train to the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. It's an absolute wonderland, with sixteen miles of trails for long, wandering walks. Some sections are more densely wooded than others, and by far the most magical area is the maple preserve. It's like stepping into a fairy tale. Just the most enchanting place I've been in recent memory, with slender, gold-covered trees as far as you can see in every direction.
