Journaling

Personal writing from 2012 onward.
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January 12, 2017

I can't sleep, so I guess I'll plow ahead and I'll bring you up to present day, starting with what happened with Timo.

I walked away from him that day last month, didn't look back, and got on the bus home. (For locals: we'd met at The Grove. I made him meet me at the fucking Grove.) My heart was just a lump of icy lead. I didn't tell anyone, didn't even text my best friends, because doing so would have made it real. I just went home and faced it down alone.

I worked nonstop. I worked eight days in a row, took one day off to move, and then worked another six in a row. Work saved me. It kept me busy and distracted, and I was grateful for it. Every morning on my way to the train, I listened to songs that, for whatever reason, empowered me. I latched on to them, knowing that forever after they'd be ruined, but needing something to channel my feelings through.

At some point, and already the timeline of this is hazy, he messaged me. Said he wanted to see me before he left to go home for a month. I told him that if he was just looking for closure for himself, that I wasn't interested. That if he just wanted to say he was sad for how things turned out or whatever, that I didn't want to have that conversation. I explained it would just hurt me more to say goodbye to him yet again. He said he wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but that he really needed to see me, so I said ok, and asked when. He said he'd think about when he could make time, and that he'd get back to me the next day.

But then he didn't get back to me the next day, and that was almost worse than The Grove. I felt jerked around and so, so hurt. Then the next day he finally messaged and said he didn't know if he'd be able to squeeze in seeing me before he left after all - and that's when I wiped my proverbial hands. Because what the fuck.

In his defense, he had a lot going on. A huge project at work, getting ready to go to Europe for a month, and a stopover in Pennsylvania for work on the way. Also in his defense, he knew he wanted to see me, he knew he wasn't ready to let go - but he didn't know what he would say to me, anyway. And Timo doesn't do or say things he doesn't mean, or isn't ready to. Ever. It's one of his best qualities.

But from my perspective? I was donezo. I put my head down, threw myself into work, focused on settling into my new place, and tried to think about him less and less every hour.

This plan didn't last long. He texted me and said he'd sent me something on the messaging app we'd used before, the one I had dumped the day of The Grove. (He didn't know I had dumped it, I guess.) I said ok, I'll check it out, and I reinstalled the app. It was a voice message. He was about to get on a plane to Amsterdam (I could hear the call for boarding in the background), and he wanted to tell me that he'd been thinking about me every day. That he hoped I'd see him when he got back. Said he loved me, in English and German. Used his pet name for me.

I didn't know what to make of it. I felt like someone had yanked my head off my shoulders, played a round of tennis with it, then reattached it. I texted a friend for support, and that friend said, "Uh yeah, I meant to tell you. Timo messaged me asking about you. If you're doing okay. If I'd spoken to you. Also, he wanted to know if I have your new address, so he can send you something."

On the one hand I felt enormous satisfaction to know he was thinking about me, needing to talk to me. On the other I felt mistrustful. Suspicious. Not that he had impure motives, more that he was just missing me on a superficial level, and that if I wasn't careful, I'd get sucked into some kind of prolonged, protracted breakup again upon his return.

Like I say, the timeline of everything is hazy, but we messaged a few times. The gist of his communication was to say, "I want to talk when I get back. I need more time to think, but I know I want to see you. Give me a chance." The gist of mine was, "I'm here and listening. I've made my feelings clear. Figure out your own." He confessed to being scared I'd meet someone else. I told him, perhaps a bit brutally, that I meet people all the time. But that I wasn't interested in anyone else.

A few more days went by. And then it was Christmas Eve, and I was walking home from work when he texted. "Merry Christmas, Ellie," he said. I think it was raining. I'm pretty sure, in fact. Anyway, along with the text was a video.

This video was the boombox outside my window.

It was him sitting at his desk, talking into the camera, addressing me. "The other day Spotify showed me that you were listening to this song," he said. And he named the song. And it wasn't even a favorite song or anything, it was just a random track from a group I like. But apparently the name of the song jumped out at him as some kind of clue to my feelings, so he looked up the lyrics. And one of the lyrics was something like, "You say you love me, but what does that mean?"

Do you remember a few months ago, when I was talking about the things that worked so well between us, and I mentioned the whole "love languages" thing? How we speak the same ones, in the same order, and in the same intensity? Well, the premise and structure of this Christmas Eve video was Timo telling me exactly what it means when he says he loves me...as divided into the five love language categories.

"So this is what it means, when I say I love you," he started. I couldn't even watch it at first. Or even the second time. I could only listen. It was too much.

It was a series of statements all starting with "It means."

It means that you enrich my life, by challenging my way of thinking. It means thinking of you makes me think profound things. It means that the tears are worth it. It means I want to dance with you in front of a stage. It means I want you to wear my t-shirts. It means it pains me when I cannot find the right words to talk to you. It means I want to make sure you have the right pillow. It means I want to take a photo every single time we're together. It means I want to share the road with you, in seeing the world, and discovering new things. 

And on like that, for nearly five minutes.

Obviously, it opened things back up between us in a big way. We talked on the phone. We agreed that we needed to talk in person, not via satellite over the Atlantic. But we didn't really hold back. We copped to missing one another terribly. We expressed love. Timo told me that he made the video because he couldn't wait, that he didn't want any more time going by without letting me know how he felt. That so much could happen in five weeks, and he didn't want to risk losing me.

He didn't stop with the video, either. He made a playlist for me, of dozens of his favorite German songs. Pages of notes accompanied the list, a primer on the feelings associated with those songs, why he was sharing them, excerpts of lyrics translated for me. A few days later he made a sort of playful PDF report on my Lobby Ellie pictures, winnowing down his favorites by category. He sent me homemade cookies, along with a picture of us he'd printed up. He recorded a twenty minute audio message for me.

He went, in short, all the fuck out.

Then he came home, loaded with presents and things to say. The first night I saw him, we tumbled into bed and didn't really talk seriously. The second night he sat with me on his couch and I listened while he told me what he was feeling, and how his perspective on some things had changed.

And here is where I need to stop and clarify for you, the same way that he was intent on clarifying for me: this wasn't - isn't - a situation where his feelings changed. His feelings, he has emphasized repeatedly, never changed, because he did and does love me. But spending time away from me, over some of the most emotional days of the year, back in the country where he has always planned to return to - if I understand him correctly (and I am still coming to understand it all), made him realize a few things. That it feels good and right to be with me, here and now. That he isn't necessarily in as big a rush to leave. That even at the most meaningful moments with his family and friends, he felt something missing, and it was me. That every time he saw something beautiful or surprising in his travels, that it was me he wanted by his side to share in the experience. That he doesn't have all the answers about his future or my future, but that maybe we can meet in the middle and figure it out together?

Of course I am paraphrasing all of this, and probably exaggerating some of the more romantic notions he expressed. But not hugely. Not hugely, I don't think.

So. That was the second night.

The third night was last night, and we tumbled back into bed, this time with all the barriers removed and all of the emotion having landed where it is going to land, for now. And god. Just... And when I fell asleep next to him, I felt as relaxed and happy as I've felt in I don't know how long.

And this morning he woke up for work, at my place, in my new space that I love, tiny as it is. And he tickled me and made silly sounds and kissed my stomach to try and get me out of bed even though I didn't have work, so that I would have a full, productive day and feel good about myself. Because he knows I am fighting to get back to the things that are important to me, and he has enlisted himself in that battle. Because he's in.

And I'm in.

And that is where I am, with that part of my life.

February 3, 2017

I was watching an old woman knitting on the subway today, when suddenly she dropped her yarn. It rolled a good five feet, unravelling on the dirty floor of the train; everyone's eyes were drawn to the bright red ball.

Someone nearby handed the yarn back to her. She nodded a thank you, and brushed it off before taking back up her knitting needles.

She couldn't possibly have gotten all the filth of the subway car off of it. The dust and debris will be woven into whatever sweater or scarf she was making. Something no less sweet for the accident suffered during its creation.

It is impossible to always give love that is pure and untainted with mistakes or misapplied intention. Slightly dirty sweaters still keep us warm, though.

May 2, 2017

The 24-hour Korean spa that I visit a few days after my dog dies—my eyes puffy from lack of sleep, my shoulders sore from body-racking sobs—requires nudity.

I know this going in. I've read the reviews, I understand the etiquette. Still, it takes a few laps around the labyrinthian locker room to work up enough nerve to shed the uniform issued to me upon check-in: mustard yellow t-shirt, baggy khaki shorts, brown rubber flip flops so thin my ankle bones crackle on the hardwood floor. I'm pretty sure the ensemble is purposefully designed to be as ugly as possible, so patrons will want to leave sooner.

A wall of paneled glass, closed off with curtains except for double doors on which are etched the rules, leads into the main spa area. Jacuzzi. Cold-water dipping pool. Sauna and steam room. These facilities are bookended by a series of standard showers on one side, and on the other, three rows of some other kind of bathing stalls that I don't quite understand. Short, tiled booths with detachable shower hoses and plastic stools for sitting. Something ritualistic and exotic about them intimidates me, makes me feel like a prudish outsider. As I walk past these washing stations with averted eyes, I expect to catch glimpses of grey hair, loose skin. Instead they are occupied by lithe young bodies and heads full of sleek black hair.

It's 1:00 am on a Saturday morning, and there are easily three or four dozen other women here. We're all naked. We're not all Korean.

He isn't with me here. There's no reason he ever would be in a place like this, so it's easier to forget him for a few minutes. Heartbreak doesn't exactly leave, but it abates, lessens to a dull throb. I press my shoulders hard against the dry wooden beams of the sauna. Sink my fingers as deeply as I can into warmed-up muscles. Breathe in, then out. Life goes on. You've been here before. There's no holding onto anything, or anyone.

A heavily-accented woman's voice pierces my thoughts and I realize I'm being summoned. The numbers she's calling out match the ones on the plastic, waterproof bracelet around my wrist. The bracelet serves as identification, and also syncs with the locker I've been assigned.

"Seven forty-tooo? Seven forty-tooooo?"

I emerge from the sauna with my hand raised, feeling sheepish and extraordinarily exposed. "Here! I'm here." Glances shoot my way which feel disdainful, though I'm probably imagining that.

The woman who leads me to the separate area where services such as massages, facials, and other treatments are administered is not naked. She is in fact wearing lingerie, or some approximation of it. Tiny black tap pants. A lacy black triangle bra. She's sixty if she's a day.

With a few impatient gestures I am directed to lay facedown on a vinyl massage table sheathed in clear plastic. My skin, hot from the sauna, sticks awkwardly to the plastic as I try to shift into a more comfortable, more dignified position. But I'll understand soon enough the reason for this prophylactic measure: the entire treatment area is tiled, with drains underneath each low-walled cubicle. When things get messy (which they will; I've opted for an oil-based massage), guests can simply be hosed off like elephants at the zoo. After a massage the acrobatics and detached intimacy of which confirm all my presuppositions, bucketfuls of warm water are dumped over me, washing away the oil, and with it the last of my worries. Or such is the idea. Alas.

Alas.

I don't linger long after the massage. One more quick round of the sauna and steam room, then I walk to the wall where I've stashed my t-shirt and shorts in a plastic bin At this point I'm no longer fazed by my own nudity. I don't face the wall as I dress. The place seems to have cleared out anyway. It's time to go home. There is no more putting it off. I remind myself that it will hurt a tiny little bit less every day, until it becomes bearable. But already my throat is thickening and my fingertips tingling. I think of his face and the pain makes me gasp.

Outfitted once more in my own clothes, I trudge up the stairs to turn in my wristband and check out. The cold night air is bracing and black and joyless. I have a twenty minute walk ahead of me. My hair is wet and tangled, but I don't much care.

As I round the side of the building, I hear male voices and laughter issue from somewhere along the curbside, where every inch of precious Koreatown parking has been utilized. It's dark though, so I don't see the source until I'm directly next to it: two men sitting in the front seat of a beat-up mid-90s Nissan, the windows rolled down and passenger-side door swung wide open. The engine is off, as are the car's lights. I'm almost past the vehicle when one of them calls out.

"Hey, how's it going? How was the spa?"

Out of surprise more than friendliness, I stop, bending over to better see the strangers while still maintaining my distance. The faces that peer back at me are grinning and guileless. Both thirty-ish. One fair, one dark. Casually dressed. Well-groomed. Neither particularly bad-looking.

"Great," I reply. "First time. Place is a trip."

"Isn't it, though? Did you check out the rooftop?"

"No. I didn't even realize there was one."

"Oh yeah, and it's awesome. Co-ed floor is crazy, too."

"Co-ed floor? I didn't even know about the co-ed floor." Hearing this news, I feel I've failed somehow.

"Yeah, but you have to wear the uniform."

"Ah, okay," I say, as if consoled. I'm about to dismiss myself and press on when the two introduce themselves. Brian and Zack. We wave polite hellos in the moonlight.

"You seem nice. Do you want to smoke a joint with us, before we go in?"

There is no reason to say yes to this absurd invitation. Two strange men sitting in a beat-up car, in the middle of the night, on the fringes of MacArthur Park—a place I don't want to be even in daylight. But the thought of the alternative—that is, returning home and facing a fresh round of the shattering grief that awaits me there—eclipses my better judgment. And anyway, nothing about these guys reads predatory. My gut says go for it.

And so with a shrug at how fucking weird and wonderful the universe can be, I accept.

The three of us walk around to the front of the building, ambling and talking for another half block until we reach some stone benches underneath a tree. We're on Wilshire Boulevard, a busy thoroughfare. There's still a decent amount of traffic, even at this hour. I'm not concerned, though. I'm too busy trying to wrap my brain around the information I've just received: Brian and Zack are youth pastors.

At first I don't believe them. I accuse them of trolling me. But the pair is sincere. They've got stories. They've been doing it a long time. They've been friends a long time, too. They're aware of how odd a light their current behavior casts them in, and try to explain themselves more. I probe, genuinely fascinated. The more I learn, the more I suspect that neither is a true believer. It seems to be something they fell into by way of a charismatic church leader. The word "cult" floats through my brain, but I stay diplomatically silent. They've got weed, after all.

I'm not a pot smoker. It's just not my drug. It makes me dopey and slow and paranoid, and doesn't work well with my body chemistry. Leaves me feeling blah.

But blah is better than broken, so I take all three hits that are offered to me before thanking my benefactors profusely, and saying goodnight.

Okay. Well. 

The walk home is both interminable and fleeting. Once there I cast about for something to put my attention on. Can't read. Can't write. Want to talk to someone, but it's 2 am. There's always a chance my best friend awake; he keeps crazy hours. I re-read our last few exchanges. Zero in on the message I sent a few hours after night it happened. Thursday, February 9th, at 3:02 am, when I found out that the news had been shared. My boyfriend had thoughtfully told my best friend, so I wouldn't have to say the words myself.

I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to tell you.

Anyway.

It was bloat. The surgery would have been $6-8k. And he was 10. And I hadn't told you but he slipped really bad about a week ago and had been limping way worse than ever. 

I'm sorry you found out this way. 

He loved you so much.

I don't know what else to say right now.

It's never been so quiet. 

The night my dog died, the streets of Los Angeles were thick with fog.

LA is never foggy. The coast, sure. But never the city. In fact I'd never seen anything like it. I noticed it when I got off work: hazy streetlights and a slickness in the air. By the time Timo came over to hang out, you couldn't see twenty yards in front of you. Everything was shrouded, romantic and dramatic and mysterious. Sounds disappeared in the night.

Maybe Chaucer felt the strangeness. Maybe it tickled his senses, delighting him into being especially playful. Trotting more quickly down the dark alley beside my building, his passageway out for a walk. I don't know. Timo doesn't know, either. Both of us took him out that night, in pretty quick succession, because he hadn't gone potty after we fed him. Perhaps he was more keyed up, thanks to the weird weather, or because Timo was there.

He adored Timo.

There is no knowing exactly how or when it happened. If he jumped, or if he drank water too quickly. But it became clear pretty quickly that something was wrong. Retching. Heaving. He wouldn't settle. Wouldn't lay down. My increasing nervousness turning to panic, turning to dread in the backseat of the Uber we called when the 24-hour emergency vet said to bring him immediately.

I knew, of course. Not that it was bloat specifically but that something was very, very wrong. I just knew. And I held my sweet pup in the back of that car and stroked his shaking body, and just let silent tears pour down my face. And Timo reached back and squeezed my knee and I felt nothing, because the most beautiful part of me was dying, and I knew it.

It was foggy the night my best friend left the world.

Fog that wrapped itself around our car as we sped down the freeway, hiding everything from me except his perfect, sweet face. Fog that hugged the animal hospital like soft cotton, muffling cries that tore through me like fire. Fog that gently closed us in, just the two of us, him breathing heavy with sedation, strapped in a tragicomic display of last-moment silliness to a gurney, looking like some kind of spa guest in his white towel, in the room they gave us for our goodbye.

Of course it would be that way. The fog. Because how else would he get into dog heaven?

The clouds themselves had to come down to carry him up.

May 5, 2017

Our first Saturday together in seven months, the rain gets the better of us.

We drive to the forest, listening to music that satisfies both our tastes. Paul Kalkbrenner, CRO, Ben Howard. We joke nervously about all the defeated looking, soaked-to-the-bone hikers we see on the way up the mountain. Buy a day pass for the park. Layer on hoodies and jackets, gamely set out on the trail. But it's too wet and too cold, and the loop we have in mind is three hours long. We'd be asking for colds. We'd be stupid. So we pivot. Decide to hit one of the beach cities neither of us have ever really explored.

We stop back at my place first, to change into dry clothes. In a stroke of good luck, we snag a parking spot in front of my building. I slip my debit card into the meter, which automatically cues up two hours' worth of time. Timo punches the timer down to 45 minutes, then 30, and I laugh. "How quick are you going to be?" I tease. It's been a few days. Changing into dry clothes is only the cover story.

His dimple comes out at this—the one that deepens when he's trying to suppress a smile. The one that owns me, completely. "That's up to you," he shoots back, looking me square in the eye. He dials the meter back up to an hour, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and walks me this way inside to my apartment.

- - -

On the way to the coast, he calls home. An official, meet-the-parents Skype had been tentatively planned anyway, and doing it now there's less pressure. Two birds, or something. I listen to the conversation through the car's speakers, deducing enough from the occasional bit of English what they're talking about. There's a lot of laughter. Timo and his mother both laugh easily, and often. I can hear them in one another, even when I don't understand a word. She is energetic, full of plans and ideas and questions. His dad is quieter, chiming in when he wants something clarified. Something tells me he's the one I'll seek out someday, during some future visit, when the foreign, mirthful house full of siblings and cousins and babies overwhelms me.

Timo stops to explain or translate now and again, so I don't feel totally excluded. I catch some German words related to work that are identical to their English counterparts, and when I look at him pointedly he says, "Yeah that's right, I'm talking about you."

His mother asks whether we'll be coming to Germany soon, to celebrate some of the good news Timo has just shared, and I jump in. "We talked about maybe coming later this summer...?" I direct my words to them, but I'm looking at their son. He says in German then translates, smiling at me: "It's in the plan but not on the calendar."

And then we're in Long Beach.

Neither of us is crazy about the admission prices of the aquarium (which I've been to before) or the Queen Mary (which we've both been to), so we opt for aimless wandering. It's cool and windy, and downtown is more or less deserted. The streets are wide and empty, the fresh air and ample space invigorating. We walk and talk and look, admiring some of the older architecture and flat out hating on some of the new.

Massive cranes towering up from the loading docks remind Timo of the Port of Hamburg, and the nostalgia in his voice makes me jealous. Little gets closer to someone's heart than the landmarks of childhood. When we stroll past the hands-on tide pool outside the aquarium, I'm tempted to spring for the $30 ticket; I've always loved these sorts of mini aquatic petting zoos. Plunging my arms into the icy water. Carefully prying starfish from rocks. Pressing my flattened palms against the needle tips of sea urchins. 

The grassy area surrounding the lighthouse is closed off for a wedding; bridesmaids in navy blue chiffon form ranks around a bride in white satin. A photographer stations the party in front of gently bobbing boats, and it's picturesque enough, but in that casual, sunny way of California harbors. East coast harbors just feel more authentically naval to me. Saltier. Tougher.

I'm thinking about my dad today, finding excuses to bring him up. He was a sailor, having joined the Navy at sixteen. Somewhere I've got a handful of black and white snapshots of him in his crisp whites, some local doll on his arm. Cocky and grinning despite his age. April 30th marked five years ago that he died. I celebrated, in a gesture that only those who really know me would understand, by going to a Deadmau5 show. Getting high while listening to live music, and the feelings of love and gratitude that doing so always leads me to.

We sit and gaze across the water at the Queen Mary: massive, immobile, timeless. Timo reads aloud from the ship's Wikipedia page—our own DIY historical tour. We take a pic that I'll later delete, because it is awful. I do this guiltily, because more frequent documentation of our time together is a mission we have vowed to undertake. It's something I have to admit I miss about my last relationship, as annoying as it occasionally was.

Hungry, we Yelp, choosing a seafood restaurant nearby. Picking a new place for date nights, or on day trips, or even while traveling always stresses me out. It feels like such a gamble, and such a shame when it's not good. But the place we find is perfect for our mood and our appetites. On barstools at a table facing the street, we share clam chowder, ceviche, grilled yellowtail. I get buzzed and chatty on pineapple cider, flirting with my boyfriend of ten months.

Serious-faced little dogs trot past the window, leading their humans, and I laugh. "Is there any kind of dog you don't like?" Timo asks, amused, I guess, at the ease by which I am delighted.

"Sure. I can't stand Chow Chows and Shar Peis. And Cocker Spaniels. And Dalmations." This last surprises him.

"They're mean," I explain. "Inbred and blind, mostly, so they're very aggressive." Timo nods, and I go on, watching his face. "And though I really like their faces and coloring and personalities, I don't love how German Shepherds look." Surprise again. "The hunched-over legs," I say. "That skulking way they walk. And did you know that their actual name is 'German Shepherd Dog'? So dumb. Like 'PIN number.'"

"That's because in German, their name means 'the shepherd's dog'". My jaw drops, genuinely gobsmacked. I'd never realized. I make a gesture that mimes my head exploding.

Tipsy, I announce that were I to live in another century, I'd be a shepherdess. "What a gig. Just take the sheep out, chill all day reading under a tree, take them back home." Knowing pointless thought exercises like this aren't his thing, I ask anyway: "What would you want to be, if you were born in another century?"

"A rockstar in the sixties." I object, having of course meant pre-1900, but he just laughs. "That was another century."

I'm curious though. It's about the last answer I'd expect of him, and I ask: "Would you really want to be a rockstar?" I've dated a few wanna-be rockstars in my day. Timo is nothing like a wanna-be rockstar.

"No. Not really at all, actually." And I believe him.

"I read a quote from Alain de Botton the other day. 'Proof of good parenting is that your child doesn't want to be famous.'"

"What, because they'll have gotten enough attention growing up?"

"Exactly." Without saying it explicitly, I know we both agree with the theory, and that feels important for some reason.

The whole evening still open to us, we decide to catch a movie. Guardians of the Galaxy 2 (we both loved the first). On the walk over to the theatre, on the pedestrian overpass bridging an outdoor mall, Timo playfully races a toddler pushing his little sister's stroller. When the boy suddenly leaves off and stumbles in another direction, Timo sets off immediately after him, until the kid's dad calls him back. It takes me a second to understand: the little boy was headed towards some stairs. I stare hard at my boyfriend's profile as we continue on, but he just keeps his eyes straight ahead, refusing to take in my wordless praise.

On the front steps of the Performing Arts Center, we come across a man walking his Golden Retriever puppy. I gasp; the dog is utterly gorgeous. The man sees my face and before I can even get out the words May I pet your... he's whirled himself and the pup around so I can kneel down and say hello. The puppy gives me a quick kiss on the face, then seats himself calmly without even having to be asked. I stroke his neck and back, stunned nearly speechless by his sweet brown eyes.

"How old?" My heart is pounding.

"Ten months." I nod, then shake my head. "He's amazing." It's all I can say. Even Timo is impressed, chiming in, "Beautiful."

Then they're gone. Ten seconds' worth of interaction at most, but I'm destroyed. Timo sees me turn away, tears forming, and pulls me into a hug. "That was stupid," I say to his chest. "I don't know why I do that to myself."

"Why wouldn't you?" he says sharply. "The dog was beautiful." I know the impatience in his voice, and what it means. It means, No, Ellie, you're not giving up on anything you love in this world, just because it sometimes hurts. It's a sentiment I've needed to hear before. It's one he's willing to offer up again and again, until I get it.

Before the movie we get ice cream. Cold Stone Creamery. He's never been. I excitedly point out the frozen slab of marble, explain the process. "You can get as many different things as you want. They'll smash it all up and mix it in." Our eyes are already bigger than our stomachs, but the portions are enormous regardless. We sit and scoop our indulgence on a bench outside the creamery, the setting sun streaking the plaza in ribbons of cold white light.

"This is obscene," he criticizes happily. "In Germany this would be a third as big."

"That's so there's room to put the sauerkraut on top." I am leveled by my own joke, and howl with laughter.

"Think you're clever much, do you?" The dimple reappears.

On the way home, I lean across the console, turning my face into his arm. He's wearing one of my favorite sweaters. Lightweight, loose knit, wheat-colored. I breathe in the smell of him and sigh. When I pull away so he can more easily change lanes, he objects. "No no, come back." Lays his arm over my shoulders. Strokes my elbow softly. It's gotten late and we're both tired, but the drive home goes quickly.

It's just Long Beach. Just a walk around the waterfront, some lunch, a movie, and ice cream. But it’s more than enough for me.

May 6, 2017

My dad was an engineer. As a kid, I didn't really understand what that entailed. I only knew it meant lots of tools, lots of curious-looking devices, and lots of hours logged at a basement workstation tinkering with them. I learned very early on that my dad could dissect, reassemble, and explain anything with an electronic pulse, though such explanations were lost on me—less because of my young age and more due to the fact that I am not mechanically inclined, at all. That bit didn't land a spot on the DNA he passed along to me. Probably got bumped off by his dry humor and temper. Those I got in spades.

Nevertheless, I liked being down there, in our musty Michigan basement, near him while he worked away on various mysterious apparatuses. I'd color or do crafts (little known fact: clay and pipe cleaners predate Pinterest), blissfully immersed in my childhood creativity while he soldered wires, or calibrated dials.

One day I showed him a drawing I'd done. I feel like I was about seven, but of course I can't be sure. I remember having used the new "neon" set from Crayola, and for some reason, I'm pretty sure I'd drawn a family of aliens. In my mind's eye I see oversized, brightly glowing heads and gangly, striped bodies.

Anyway, he made a huge fuss over my picture. It was the greatest thing he'd ever seen, etc. etc. In fact, it was so good, he wanted to share it with others. Would I make copies for his friends and employees? 

He didn't mean on the Xerox machine. 

My dad was asking me to replicate, by hand, some random, throwaway drawing I'd done just to pass the time. And though to an outsider it might sound weird, or like he was making some inordinate demand of his child, it was actually the highest compliment he could have paid me. And, brilliantly, it would keep me busy and quiet for at least another couple of hours.

I got to work immediately, invigorated by the challenge. I don't recall if it was then that he sweetened the deal or later, but at some point he added that rather than just give my art away, he'd sell it. Ten cents apiece (or some similarly trivial price). 

To this day I remember what the stack felt like in my hand, when I turned it in: triumphantly thick, the paper waxy from crayons I'd worn down to nubs. And I remember him doling out a dime or a quarter here and there over the next week—my earnings from the sale of limited edition reprints.

For all I know he shelved the lot of them. For all I know he kept one and threw the rest away. For all I know he didn't even keep one. But it doesn't matter. What matters is how he made me feel that day, about myself and my creative efforts. What matters is what he taught me about valuing both.

I can't call my dad today. I can't wish him a happy Father's Day and catch up on our respective domestic vagaries. I can't confess to him all the secret things I don't tell you guys, or even my best friends. But I know what the conversation would sound like, anyway. I know what I'd say if I could.

May 7, 2017

When your dog dies, you will find yourself hating your home. There is nothing emptier than a house that has lost a dog. Nothing in the world as quiet, as lacking in joy. You won't want to be anywhere near it. You certainly won't want to be alone with it.

But if you can, spare a thought for that house. You think you miss your dog? How do you think the house feels? At least you get to leave each morning, be out and about in the world. Your poor house just has to sit there by itself, having lost the best friend it has ever known, wondering if it will ever have another.

Spare a thought for the walls, which kept him safe while every day he waited for you.
Spare a thought for the floor, warmed by his body and tickled by his fur.
Spare a thought for the fridge, and all the mischief the two of them caused.
Spare a thought for the bed, cold now, and entirely too clean.
Spare a thought for the bath, and all it endured for the sake of the house.
Spare a thought for the table, who taught your dog to sit as much as you did.
Spare a thought for the yard, the grass and trees and flowers who've lost a playmate.

Spare a thought for the vacuum, who probably feels really fucking shitty right about now.

May 18, 2017

Timo and I went to Manhattan Beach last month. (He took a random Tuesday off work so we could.)
And since we're going to be a lot more adventuring now that I have reclaimed Saturdays, I'd better go ahead and dump these photos here, so I can stay current.

I don't really have a narrative for them. It was a lovely day, but I was wound pretty tight in myself for various reasons, and didn't really relax and observe in a way that lends itself to blogging. I hope to get back to that sort of posting again soon.

But for now, just some pretty pics.

June 15, 2017

Both of us are a little burned out, by the time we head to the desert. Ready for a break, anxious for a change of scenery.

We agree to take half an hour to vent and catch one another up on our respective work developments/dramas, then put the subject aside for the weekend. To kill some driving time, I read aloud from the School of Life's Book of Life - the chapter on relationships I'd dipped into days earlier. There's a series of interesting prompts I stumbled across in the "Artificial Conversations" section that I want to put to my boyfriend of eleven months, who is game, because we still love stuff like this. We still love playing games of questions, swapping stories about ourselves or our experiences that otherwise we might never disclose.

His answers are unsurprising, but I'm not in it for surprises anyway. Half the pleasure of listening to him speak at length on any subject is the measured, careful way he thinks things through. No exaggeration, no hyperbole. A willingness to back step when necessary, to correct himself. An ability to admit when he just doesn't know. A readiness to acknowledge and laugh at his shortcomings as much as tease me for mine. A keen sensitivity to even the slightest shifts of my mood, as dictated by his answers. He remains the clearest, most honest communicator I have ever been with.

We've gotten a later start than we'd wanted, so it's dark when we reach the gated property. Timo's roommate's car stirs up dust down a long driveway lined with white flowering bushes I spent most of my life around but still don't know the name of. I've come equipped with more baggage than the duffel bag and backpack into which I've stuffed my essentials: I've come, unavoidably, ready to judge this house, this weekend, and this experience against my last visit to Joshua Tree.

The home we've rented is quirky and close-feeling, packed with tchotchkes, dozens of funky, mismatched lamps, and provocative, if amateurish, art. Fruit flies pressed in thick acrylic frames. Salvaged carousel horses with chipped paint and toothy grimaces. Canvases that look distinctly DIY, with sloppy lettering and random imagery. Slanted windows intensify the claustrophobic vibes, and I feel a quiver of disappointment and a needle prick of fear: this probably isn't a good house for me to drop acid in.

Still, it is delightful to be away. We unpack.

When I'd told Timo I wanted to take LSD with me to Joshua Tree, he didn't exactly jump up and down with excitement. He'd been picturing something more along the lines of a romantic getaway than a stint babysitting his psychonaut of a girlfriend. But we talked, and I explained that it was really all I wanted for my birthday. That it was important to me. That it's the closest I come to a spiritual experience, ever, and that it feels like the equivalent of a year's worth of therapy. I didn't expect him to understand. I don't expect anyone to, really. I know how absurd it sounds.

But Timo being Timo, he understands. More than that, he embraces it. He looks online for information about how to best support someone tripping on acid. What to do, what to say, how to keep them safe and feeling positive during their experience. He puts together a "Life is Beautiful" care package, with colorful, sense-enhancing stuff for me to play with while I'm high. Glow sticks and light-up balloons. An oversized bubble-blowing wand. Art supplies. A glittery HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner to hang in the trees. Sparkly, tactile-minded toys to delight the child in me, during my very grown-up adventure.

I pull these things one by one from the gift bag, while the music we've brought spills out open doors and windows, into the endless desert night. Each item makes me more giddy than the last, until finally I run outside, my favorite of the balloons in hand. Timo follows, snapping into life a pair of glow bracelets. Between us we've got an armful of light in an otherwise dark yard.

Tomorrow afternoon this place will be a veritable wonderland to me, three-dimensional and alive and more beautiful than my altered consciousness can stand. But right now it's just a sprawling expanse of typical desert landscape, flat and dry and still-hot, even though the stars have displaced the sun.

The balloon pops after one or two playful bounces, so we turn our attention to the glow toys, videotaping them in slow motion and then time lapse, just to see the effects.

Back inside, I empty the bag's remaining contents, among them five or six rainbow-hued plastic leis. I scoop them up, laughing. "They were colorful," Timo explains unnecessarily, smiling happily at how much fun I'm having.

"So awesome," I say, also unnecessarily. And because it is a hundred degrees outside, and because I am marooned with my boyfriend on two acres of private land in the middle of the desert, on my birthday, I decide there is nothing for it but to take off my shirt and wear only these leis until we finally go to bed, whenever that may be. And once I've done that, we don't notice much other than the music filling the house, and the fact of our aloneness. And the smiles on our face change, then, from joy to something else. And for the next little while, I try in my way to give something back to the man I love, for all that he has given me tonight.

- - -

Later in the hammock, all the house lights shut off, we are still and quiet in one another's arms. The wind is delicious, and relentless. Rushing around the yard; scraping the house. Making eaves creak and tree limbs sway and wind chimes sing. Chills run the length of my body, not because I am cold, but because I am anticipating tomorrow. In fact I've not been able to think of much else since we arrived. I've been constantly calculating my environment, wondering what and when and how and how much. Is this crazy, crowded house going to freak me out? Where do I want to be, when it hits? Where will I go, if I get frightened? Should I even do it? What if it's bad again, but this time for longer? What if it's worse? 

And at the end of these fears, like a wishing well becoming still once more, is the calming truth: It will be worth it. The bad is bad, yes, but the good is a heaven like nothing you know, the other 364 days a year. And anyway, who wants to stay in the shallow end, all the time? Life is for living.

I snuggle deeper against Timo's chest and let the wind whisper its promises, its invitations. Come play with us, it says. Come see.

Melancholy settles over me, and I fantasize about the hammock freeing itself from where it hangs, carrying the two of us off into the black sky. A magic carpet with its own mind. What then? Timo would fight it, would want to come home to all that he has and all that he is here on earth - but me? Why not me? What would I miss? What and who would miss me? Not much and not many, I decide, but not bitterly. The freeness of my simple, small-scoped existence is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. I could disappear forever and only a few people's lives would be disrupted, and briefly at that.

But a few is better than none. And that's a warm thought to anchor oneself to, on a windy night like this.

II

Saturday morning, and the heat is a blanket smothering the house. One hundred and three degrees. I never got used to temperatures like this, not in twenty years of living with them. Heat this intense flattens me, deadens my senses. I kick off the duvet, feeling dried out and puffy, cringe when the bedroom's floor mirror confirms my self-assessment, and wander barefoot around the property until I find Timo working at a table in the front yard. The archival-quality drawing pad he'd given me last night is flipped open, covered with a carefully squared grid and neat handwriting in various colors. The pencil set has apparently inspired him; he's been brainstorming for his next project. He holds the page up to show me, proud of the artwork but sheepish about working while on vacation. I've never seen this visually creative side to him, and comment that he must get it from his architect father.

Though we'd planned on hiking, we quickly dismiss that idea. Why exhaust and probably sunburn ourselves? Fuck it. Instead we spend the first part of our day lounging, cooking, snacking, talking, and exploring the grounds around the house.

In the kitchen we eat thick slabs of watermelon and drink melon punch Italian soda. We move to the living room, sitting across from one another in my favorite of the house's chairs: tufted electric blue leather armchairs, low-backed, with just enough seat depth to curl up in. We sip coffee and look over the bookshelves beside us. I'm chatty from the caffeine, telling personal anecdotes that the bookshelf's contents have triggered in me. Timo leaves to shower, and my phone lights up. Mason.

How's Joshua Tree?

Content rich. T-minus five hours until launch...

Is Timo excited for the journey?

He's just babysitting. He got me all this colorful bright stuff to play with. Though I'll probably end up drooling on the hammock for 12 hours...

I send him a pic of my current view, and he says it looks like Alexander Shulgin's house.

I shower after Timo, trying to make peace with the cramped and ugly bathroom, knowing there's a decent chance I'll spend some miserable minutes in here later if I don't. I've been trying to make peace with the house all day, to be honest. Not let it psych me out, on a day when my psychic mindset is more important than anything. I'm feeling more optimistic than last night, but I'm still not 100% sure I even want to take the acid after all. The heat and the house are warning me not to, as insistently as they can. We'll see.

We spend some time apart, him emptying his brain onto crisp white paper, me poking around the outskirts of the property in search of photo ops. The heat is menacing, like an animal threatening to hurt me. It doesn't surprise me when a pair of hawks track me from above, the cries they exchange sounding contemptuous, and aimed at me. Just die, already, won't you? Just drop dead and let us pick at your bones. From the ground they don't even look large enough to be predatory. But then what do I know about birds of prey? The intensity of their squawking and the closeness with which they follow start to scare me, and I hurry back to the house. It takes all my willpower not to call out for Timo, like a child.

In the cool of the bedroom, I look over my camera roll. None of the selfies I've taken are any good. The landscape is dull, uninspiring; I look pink and mottled and try hard. Defeated, I sprawl on the blissfully white and cloud-like bed. I roll this way and then that, letting the cotton draw the warmth from my skin.

Timo joins me, lazily stretching out on his side. Again we go over what he should expect tonight, in terms of my behavior. What he should say if I fall into a loop, or forget that I've even taken a drug. My stomach is in knots, though I don't confess to him that I'm close to backing out. All this preparation and planning, how can I?

I check the time. Five o'clock. I'd been shooting for five thirty. Better text Pinkman, check in with him about dosage one more time. I retrieve the black plastic film canister I've been storing the acid in from my backpack. Slide out the tiny baggie containing the white, unmarked blotting paper. Take a photo of it, send a text, and wait. All this Timo watches with interest, murmuring "Oh, wow" when he sees the LSD for the first time.

Remind me. Each square is two hits?

Yes

How much do you usually take?

Couple squares.

Four hits. What I'd been planning myself.

Ok, cool. Thank you!

Have fun!

Timo and I look at one another. I feel like I'm at the gate in an international airline terminal, about to say goodbye for a very, very long time. About to get a rather special passport stamp, too.

"There's a decent chance it's expired, anyway," I announce, unsure if this outcome would disappoint or relieve me. "You're supposed to keep it at a constant temperature but it's just sat in my desk through the heat and the cold. Who knows."

Pressing my body against my boyfriend once more before lift-off, a sudden surge of reckless confidence finds me. Life is not for shallow-enders. I may not have the means to travel the world right now, but there are wondrous places of unimaginable beauty I can go, anyway.

I don't even need to pack.

September 3, 2017

Greetings from Hell, aka Los Angeles, a climate-forsaken oven of a city, solidly in the grip of a brain-boiling, mood-ruining, sex-thwarting, creativity-curbing heatwave.

I am sweaty and cranky, and have been for weeks now. Though that only partially explains my absence here. Mostly it has had to do with my health, which right about the time of my last post took a sudden and bewildering nosedive.

In a nutshell: I have spent the past two and a half months fighting, of all fucking things, hives. Debilitating, unbearably itchy, splotchy red hives, of the sort one gets as an extreme allergic reaction. Only, I'm not allergic to anything. I am, however, immune-challenged, what with my hypothyroidism and Hashimoto's. Both of these conditions put me at greater risk for something called Chronic Idiopathic Urticaria, or, in plainspeak: Neverending WhoTheFuckKnowsWhy Hives.

It is a long and boring story involving lapsed insurance policies, indifferent doctors, blood tests, urgent care visits, and weeks on end of intense misery - and mystery. Really all that matters at this point is that eventually I figured out a medication "plan" that manages and ameliorates the symptoms. But it's a doozy.

You know how groggy a single Benadryl makes you? I'm currently taking eight Benadryl a day. Eight. Plus nightly Pepcid. Plus my regular dose of synthroid.

There's a potentially happy ending to this story, in that there's a decent chance an untreated dental infection has been the source of the hives. I found out about the infection two weeks ago. My dentist explained that rather than manifest in my mouth itself, the infection has been draining down directly into my lymph nodes, which then may very well have been distributing the fucking infection throughout my body. Causing my mast cells to freak out and fire histamine in an effort to protect themselves. Causing the hives.

I had the offending tooth removed a few days ago. I am on antibiotics. The hives seem to be abating, but I'm still too terrified to quit the Benadryl and find out if they're really gone (it takes a few days of "building up" resistance to the histamine before the Benadryl is effective for me, and every time I skipped a dose or was even a few hours late, boom, my skin would explode again).

Ugh this is so boring. Other people's health issues are so not sexy or interesting. I am sorry. It's just been an incredibly challenging few months, and I wanted to offer an explanation for my disappearance. There were some really, really bad moments during which I entertained some really, really bad thoughts. Luckily, where "luckily" doesn't even come close to expressing what I'd need it to, I wasn't alone in any of this.

"Supportive" is a similarly insufficient word to convey how amazing Timo has been during this time. It's no exaggeration to say I couldn't have survived without him. He was there at three am, when every inch of my arms, legs, neck, chest, and back were aflame with blooming, excruciatingly itchy red roses. When the only thing to be done was head back to the hospital for another round of steroids. Even on nights when there was nothing he could do but keep me company while I suffered, he insisted on keeping me company while I suffered. He went online and did research on his own, to understand what was happening to me and how to help. He found holistic doctors and learned the difference between H1 and H2 blockers. He talked in terms of "we" and "us". As in, "We're going to figure this out. We're going to get you answers and get you better." He'd lift my chin and make me look him in the eye and believe him. He made me feel much less alone, during what is ultimately a very lonely ordeal.

So. That's a bit of what's been happening. But there's been lots more going on, much of it wonderful. Shows and trips and another birthday. An anniversary. And I'll catch you up on all of it, I promise, but right now? Right now I am sitting in my favorite neighborhood coffee shop, on what has turned into a gloriously grey, breezy day, waiting for my boyfriend to come meet me so we can have drinks alfresco at the open-air restaurant next door. He just got off a plane an hour ago. He's been gone for two weeks.

We have some catching up to do, too.

We’ll Call it Shady Lane

September 5, 2017

I need an app that maps the shadiest pedestrian route, for any given time of day. Nothing too complicated. Just, you know, an algorithm that calculates the position of the sun relative to building height, trees, sizable landmarks, etc., factored down to the minute so as to maximize the amount of shade one enjoys while walking.

I am convinced that between Google and NASA, the data have already been collected. All that remains is some number crunching.

So can someone please crunch those numbers? Walkability scores are everything nowadays. There's gotta be $$$$ in an app like that.

March 2, 2018

Well, hi. Welcome to this dusty little shell of an abandoned blog. Ugh. The promises I have made to myself regarding its revival are piled high and deep, an avalanche of worthless IOUs. I will try to sweep them away and tidy the place up. It might take a bit, because man. I once considered myself a fiercely creative person. But now when I seek that person out, hoping for a hit of enthusiasm and inspiration, she just looks askance at me. What did you expect? Unexercised muscles atrophy, dummy.

It is so hard to come back. I don't know where to begin. I don't know where I was. I don't even know what I want to say. I only know I want a certain feeling back.

I'm happy. I'll start with that. Things are good. I've been promoted to assistant manager, ho-hey. It's great, and I'm proud and excited - but something about that title makes me cringe. It feels so puffed up. I told my boss how weird it feels, to send emails signed as such. "Well that's what you are," she says. "You're doing a great job," she says.

I adore my boss.

Timo and I are still going strong. It's been a year and a half now. He's just gotten a promotion, too. His new title has much cooler words in it, like "director".

I work a lot - but I love it. Lots of six-day weeks, thanks to frequent events downtown. Also, when someone calls out, 9 times out of 10 it's me that covers for them. I train new hires (well, we've really only had one recently), code and file invoices, and now I've taken over ordering. I organize and write up procedural stuff related to our POS system, plus occasionally help with marketing. All this while more or less running the front of house. I only ever occasionally feel overwhelmed, and that's only when I'm working solo on an extremely busy day. I don't get to work with my boss very often; she's been promoted, too, and has two stores plus corporate training to oversee - but when I do it's a blast. We are sympatico. The other day she asked whether we couldn't just clone ourselves to run the whole shebang.

Timo and I do the best we can, with our contradictory schedules. Most nights I work late. Some weeks I only see him once or twice. He travels a bit here and there, too. Right now he's in Poland. The plus side of all this is that when we do get together, we are crazy excited to see one another. It is still really, really good with us.

He went home for Christmas, but came back in time to spend NYE with me. I made him go with me to see Deadmau5 in San Bernardino, outside in 50 degree weather with a few thousand kids rolling in spirit hoods. (There is nothing in this world like being at a festival with him. It is my heaven.) He came home from Germany loaded with chocolate and affection, as always.

I don't know why I've stopped blogging. I really don't. At first I used work as an excuse, but that doesn't really pan out. I could make time for it, I know. I work with lots of other creatives who make time for their passions.

I think deep down I'm afraid I don't have anything to say anymore. Anything that matters. I think deep down I'm afraid I've become just another working stiff.

But I'm going to try again.

March 7, 2018

On the train home tonight:

An elderly woman was stepping into the car just as the doors were closing, and the rolling cart she pulled behind her got caught on the wrong side. Those doors aren't super sensitive to obstructions, and they don't bounce back as readily as they should—her cart was stuck outside and it didn't look like anything was going to prevent it from being ripped away in another second or two.

Several people sprang into action: a man who'd boarded at the previous station with his little girl, a pair of chatty middle-aged women sitting with a group of five of six others, and a kid in Converse and headphones who moments before had been nodding away to his music.

The whole thing was over in a flash. A flurry of arms and legs, a short burst of alarm noise. Strangers who act on instinct and that innate quality of human compassion. Next thing you know the woman is sitting safely in her seat, looking around at us with a grateful smile. I briefly locked eyes with the father whose daughter had watched the scene standing stock-still. The train car was silent for a moment, catching its breath, before we burrowed further into the night. Back to our homes and our loves, back to our jobs and our worries, back to whatever things would divide us from one another once more.

March 12, 2018

I stumbled onto Prettyville on Christmas Eve.

I'd closed the store alone, a little earlier than even I'd gotten permission to. A few last-minute customers had wandered up, looking hesitant and slightly sheepish, like they knew we should all be someplace better, and felt equal parts guilty and defiant. Well, you're here too, so do your job and feed me. 

But I was uncharacteristically firm, shutting the lights and shaking my head. With a feeling of beneficence, I dismissed the crew and bundled up for the walk home.

I'm used to Christmases alone. My family's been gone for a while, and boyfriends are usually with theirs. This was the first one without Chaucer, though. That was a bit rough. Still, it's really not so bad. The streets are bright but calm, everyone indoors already celebrating or gearing up to. I have the place to myself.

Timo was of course in Germany, though this time our separation was under vastly different circumstances. This time, it wasn't breakup and heartbreak; this time, it was just a visit home. He was coming back to me, and to us.

The thought of that was brightness and calm, too.

The gym was closed, naturally, and naturally it being so made me want a run even more. But there is no running in K-town. There is not even texting-and-walking in K-town. The sidewalks are absolutely treacherous, and demand one's full attention. Still, I figured if I stayed on the actual streets (there being no traffic anyway), I could minimize my chance of face-planting and phone-shattering.

I ran west on 4th.

I love my neighborhood not because it is any thing of beauty - it is not, though it has many fun, funky little pockets of color and culture. I love it because it's here that I picked myself back up again, when everything went to shit. K-town gave me shelter and safety while I licked my wounds and accepted my new realities.

But yes: it's a crowded, cramped, and occasionally crazy mess, and in my free time I almost always hop on the train or bus, or jump in an Uber and leave it. And until Christmas Eve, those are the only ways I'd ever left it. I'd never actually walked my way out of it.

Well.

I didn't know exactly what lay exactly west of me, literally up the street I live on, because I'd only ever headed west along the very busy thoroughfares of Wilshire, or Third, or Beverly. And while I knew that somewhere in that general direction was a very lovely neighborhood I sometimes rode through, I didn't have my precise bearings on what or where.

Prettyville is Hancock Park. Hancock Park is, in my opinion, the most breathtakingly beautiful neighborhood in Los Angeles. I've been to every gorgeous little beach town on the coast. I know enough of Echo Park and Silverlake and Los Feliz to appreciate how delightful they are. I worked in Beverly Hills and Bel Air. I think the Hollywood Hills are stunning - as is Eagle Rock. And Timo and I walk the handsome residential streets of his own West Hollywood all the time.

Hancock Park blows them all away. It is unlike anything I have ever seen.

Maybe it's the midwesterner in me. Maybe it's the OCD in me. Maybe it was the fact that it was Christmas Eve, and many of the homes were aglow with carefully strung, twinkling lights. But I was gobsmacked. Block after block of jaw-dropping, multi-level mansions (most, I've since learned, built in the 1920s). Sprawling, immaculately maintained lawns with thoughtfully designed landscaping. Stone walls and high hedges. Ivy and thick-limbed trees. The roads themselves wide, tree-lined, and lit with old-fashioned street lamps. The contrast between what I'd just left and what I'd just found - it was like stumbling into a movie set. My eyes popping out of my head, I slowed from a jog to a crawl as I took it all in.

Prettyville was dead empty that misty holiday night. Alone with my thoughts, my wonder, and my breath coming in little puffs, I fell in love. I'd never want to live in Prettyville - not without a team of housekeepers and interior designers to unburden me of the stress of trying to Fit In and Keep Up. But holy shit. What a treasure, right under my nose.

I've since made night runs in Prettyville an occasional thing, when I'm not feeling the ugliness of the gym and the monotony of the treadmill. Only nights, though; that's when it's most magical to me. It is always so quiet, so still. I rarely see anyone walking around. Never anyone else jogging. Hardly any cars pass through. It's kind of unbelievable, like a secret I can't believe hasn't gotten out. Every time I'm there I half-expect to be apprehended. Thrown out, for not belonging. Excuse me, ma'am, this area is for successful people only. You'll need to leave immediately. 

Prettyville doesn't make me pine for more, though. It's aspirational, sure, but not because it oozes wealth. It's the peacefulness of the place I'd want for myself. The lack of chaos, at the end of what I have to imagine are some very long days. Prettyville mortgages can't come cheap.

My heart does ache a little when I think of how much Chaucer would have loved it. I can see him trotting along its smooth, straight sidewalks, holding his head high to look left then right. He was always curious but fearless in a new place. Sniffing the air, tall and regal, but with his wonderfully goofy face. I wish it could have been a Christmas present for both of us.

March 13, 2018

The landlord I have right now is my favorite landlord I have ever had. He is also far and away the worst landlord I have ever had.

He's inept in the extreme. Toothless in a residential conflict (of which there have been many).  Useless in a maintenance crisis (of which there have been many). Almost always unavailable. But I can't help it. I love him.

His name is Nigel, and I refuse to change that to protect him, because he is the Nigelest Nigel you could ever know. He's British. Yes that's right: my landlord is a Brit named Nigel. I bet I could stop right there, because I bet you already love him, too.

Nigel is short, sixty-ish, slightly pot-bellied, with reddish hair and ruddy skin. He wears glasses and is partial to navy and grey track suits, though I can't imagine Nigel runs much track.

It was Nigel who clinched the deal, when I was considering moving to this building.

I'd gone through a third party rental service, one run via a very cute website I'd stumbled across. The service hosts a limited, carefully curated selection of stylish but affordable spaces across LA's various neighborhoods. But the girl who handled my listing was supercilious, impatient, and moody—awful. From day one I wanted to tell her to take a flying leap, but I wanted the apartment, badly.

When I finally came to view the unit, she turned the pressure up, big time. There were other interested parties, I had to move fast, etc etc. She stood there in the doorway, portfolio in hand, all but tapping her foot at me. I had half a mind to bolt, but then Nigel came knocking at the door.

"Oh, hello," he popped his head in. "I'm Nigel, the building manager." He stuck out his hand and smiled his funny, shy little smile. I'd come to know it over the next year as the same one that appears whenever he cracks a joke (of which there have been many). Nigel stood quietly nearby as my would-be leasing agent reiterated the building's amenities (of which there are few).

I ignored her and turned to Nigel. "Do you live in the building?"

"Yes, I'm on the third floor. Anything you need at all, I'll give you my number, just text anytime."

Live-in building managers are a good sign in my book. I felt myself deciding. The lure of having this sitcom character as my landlord was too great.

Then he piped up again: "Do you know, if you take this unit, you'll get free internet?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, it's the only one, and only because you're right above the laundry room modem. I've tried it myself. I don't know how strong the signal is, but I suppose if you're close enough to the door..."

And the rest is history.

Well, no. The rest is shit story, because almost immediately after I moved in, disaster struck. Check that: disasters.

There was the time my bathroom roof caved in due to a plumbing issue in the apartment above. And if you're thinking Oh no, I hope it wasn't... it was. It was that, exactly. Nigel's response? A lot of hand-wringing, exclaiming Oh dear, and an infuriating refusal to commit (without his boss's approval) to the expense of a 24-hour emergency plumber. Repair that took days longer than it should have.

There was the time water started pouring from my kitchen ceiling...through a light fixture. Nigel's response? Disbelief that another plumbing issue would strike again, and so soon, and only my apartment. Assurances that no electrical fires were possible. Repair that took days longer than it should have.

There was the time Timo—having accidentally taken my key and returned to hide it outside my window while I was at work, hid it a little too well—and Nigel had to be summoned to produce a spare. His response? He'd not properly labeled his copy of my key, and wasn't sure which of several dozen it was. Famished and exhausted from work, I sank to the floor in the drafty hallway outside my door, fantasizing about my fridge and my bed. My bumbling, embarrassed landlord tried key after key after key, chatting me up amiably the whole while, as if we were having a cozy afternoon tea instead of fighting with a deadbolt at 11pm on a Sunday. He felt worse about how cold and tired and hungry I was than anything else, and eventually insisted I wait in the model unit across from my own while he called a locksmith. Nigel came in to find me curled up tightly on the tiny love seat, clutching the (inflatable) bed's flimsy coverlet, the world's most miserable lockout. He offered to order me a pizza.

When The Great First Floor Feud of 2017 broke out (long story short: I had an unbelievably inconsiderate, chain-smoking, music-blaring, offkey-singing asshole of a neighbor), Nigel did not have my back.

When multiple residents decided it was cool to use the patch of stones underneath my window as their dog's personal WC, Nigel did not have my back.

When one of my asshole neighbor's friends stole my doormat and it was caught on camera, Nigel did not have my back.

And yet.

There was how he was with Chaucer, and how Chaucer was with him. And if I've said it once I've said it a hundred times—the way to my heart is through my dog's heart. Always will be. Also: regularly hearing my doggo's very English name pronounced with a very English accent? Priceless.

There is his unfailing self-deprecation. There is his pure, unselfconscious and utterly organic British humor, which will catch me off guard in the most welcome moments, such as when I'm feeling a bit low. There is the fact that he's the only person in this building who routinely receives packages from Barnes and Noble. There is the fact that he managed to secure a lease renewal for me at a zero dollar increase. That's zero, nil, nothing, nada.

And there is the fact that every so often he'll stop on the stairs outside my door, hang out for a moment while I'm coming or going, and randomly open up about his personal life. About his friends in the valley, who are lovely, but who have rather annoying children, to be honest. About the family he's going home to see, but could probably just as well do without, thanks very much. About whatever.

When Nigel gets Nigelly, you can easily see what's underneath. A very sweet, very funny, possibly lonely but overall well-adjusted fellow living abroad who's ok with being the odd one in.

And I'm glad he's in where he is, in America, Los Angeles, Koreatown, 90020.

March 21, 2018

I didn’t find out until fall of 2016 that my brother had died that summer.

I only had one brother. He was four years older than me. He was an addict, a violent criminal, and mentally ill. When he died I hadn't seen him in nearly a decade. The last I spoke with him was when our mother died; when our dad died we had no contact whatsoever. His final parole officer was legally obligated to send me warnings that he still made threats on my life. He didn't recommend reconnecting.

Anyway, regardless of all this, learning he'd died (of liver poisoning) knocked the wind out of me. In fact that's very much what it felt like— a deflation. Like a sigh. Like a third tire going flat on the saddest, most beat-up station wagon ever to limp along the road. In this tragicomic metaphor, my family is of course the station wagon. A car full of alcoholics, anger junkies, depressives, and well-intentioned failures. I'm allowed to say this, being one of them.

When that third tire went kaput, it was like Well fuck. Now what. You motherfuckers all skipped town, and now I'm the only one left, to what? Elevate the family name back up to some baseline of respectability? Prove that our existence was worth something? Well, you guys upvoted the wrong one. Prepare for an afterlife of disappointment.  

I've had a lot of cheese-stands-alone moments in my life, and this was the loneliest cheese I'd ever felt myself to be.

And when I got over myself, I mourned for him, and all the happinesses he might have had. Did have, a very long time ago. I cried for the little boy who pulled his littler sister in a red wagon down a sidewalk in a town so small it didn't matter if they got lost. A smart if difficult boy who loved paper planes, then model planes. A boy who hid from the things that troubled him in boxes of baseball cards, then British Invasion box sets. A teenager whose fucked-up internal wiring was all too easily ignited by some fucked-up parenting. My brother didn't stand much of a chance, to be fair. Our parents were a mess. Our household was a mess. I survived, relatively unscathed, by the skin of my teeth.

So yes, there it is I guess. This post ostensibly about him is really about me, and how I moved on from the death of my last remaining immediate family member: easily enough. Like a patched-up tire with some miles yet left on it. Like you do.

March 28, 2018

There is a thing I love about living in LA, and that is the feeling that it will never be mine. I will never own this city. It's just too huge, and my purview too limited. My job, my small social scope, even my carfreedom - all serve to tighten the geographic circles in which I move. Because of this, Los Angeles retains for me a sense of wonder.

And I'm never more blissed out on this wonder than when I ride home after spending time with someone I love. I lean my head back and just take in this city that's not really mine. Neon steel concrete glass flash. Crushing cruel powerful pretty promise. The big, beautiful shit show that is LA. It moves me, sappy romantic that I am.

Glitz and grit are indistinguishable in those dark hours, and co-mingle like my emotions. How on earth can I feel so lonely? I just left his arms. What the fuck am I so happy about? I'm exhausted and a week from pay day. What did I do to deserve the amazing people in my life? They definitely don't need my bullshit. 

It's a heady cocktail of melancholy, nostalgia, self-recrimination and gratitude. It gives the best hangovers.

April 9, 2018

A man and a woman are sitting in a car outside the grocery store, parked within the pool of the store's fluorescent light. Their eyes are closed; her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. They could be at a drive-in movie, or taking in the view on Mulholland—oblivious to anyone or anything else. I only see them for a split second as I'm walking by, and their expressions don't betray whether they are in the throes of bliss or the depths of consolation. Whatever it is, they look for all the world to belong together, and to feel safe in that belonging.

From the side entrance of a restaurant, a man emerges, carefully navigating his road bike through the doorway. Over his shoulder I catch a glimpse of the kitchen: just-scrubbed pots, stacked sacks of rice, the mess of day's cooking slowly being cleared away. He lights a cigarette as the restaurant's manager steps outside, carrying a chair. Standing on the chair, the manager reaches up to click off a neon OPEN sign. One click makes the sign pulse. A second click sends ribbons of blue and red racing round the letters. A third click and the sign goes dark. The two men exchange the briefest of words and nods. Then one goes in and one goes on, and I am driven further into never ending cinema of the city.

April 11, 2018

In the past couple of weeks, four different people with whom I haven't spoken in a long time have sent me messages. None of them read my blog, so my reemergence here has nothing to do with it. It's just funny timing, I guess.

Three of these people sent the tiniest, friendliest of communiques. I doubt we'll reconnect in any real way, and that's understandable—too much time, too much mileage, too much life has come between us. Still, it's nice to be thought of, and sent these random pings. They feel like warm little waves rippling in from distant shores.

And then tonight, I heard from someone very special to me, whom I have missed terribly. A text that was both an acknowledgement of the space between us and an invitation to close that gap. And that—that was like the sun breaking over the ocean itself. 

And if that sounds dramatic, it is, because the few friends I have mean everything to me. They are the closest thing I have to family. Unfortunately, the great tragedy of my life is that despite loving so fiercely and with the whole of my heart - I am still a master at pushing people away. At failing them, and hurting them. Half the time I don't even have to try. I'm a natural. 

When I got that message tonight my inner monologue was like, Oh. Maybe you are not so horrible after all. Which I know betrays a rather sickly sense of self. But there it is. Maybe you are not so horrible after all, because someone you respect and love misses you.

And so just in time for Spring, here I've got this perfect emotional manifestation of the season. Something delicate that wants to push through, and can, with the right nurturing. Something that already has all the requisite genetic coding, and only needs renewal and rebirth. A very Spring thing indeed.

April 29, 2018

In the cold, concrete-floored basement, there's a shop table covered with the guts of dissected medical devices. Clipped wires and dials. Metal rods and needle-sized levers. These are the trappings of an electrical engineer. This is my father's office. 

I don't mess with any of it, not that I'd get in trouble if I did. My dad encourages curiosity. The only things I'm forbidden to touch are the bench vise and scalpel blades. "You'll lose a finger," he warns, though about which I'm not sure. He encourages curiosity and questions, which occasionally I produce. I rarely understand his answers, however. I am my father's daughter in many ways, but not in this way. He will explain concepts to me a hundred times and I will never get them. That's okay. I'll get a lot of things one day that he never will. 

Still, I like to be in it—this space. There is a sense of relaxed gravity, and intelligence. I'm only eight years old, I don't yet appreciate the sort of mind required for engineering. But there's something magical in my dad's tinkering, that I know. He brings things to life, often with visible sparks of energy. It's dangerous and delicate work, and requires all his concentration. I have to play quietly, if I'm going to be down here.

Right now I'm playing with a stack of ferrite magnets. Cool and smooth to touch, they are the color of coal and the width of dimes. I pry two from the stack and set them down on the table a few inches apart. Slowly, very slowly, I move one toward the other. The second magnet scoots away, powerless to resist the opposing polarity. Then I flip one magnet and reverse the game, seeing how close I can get the disks before they snap together in attraction. The click they make when they combine is eternally satisfying, and a sound that will stay with me forever.

- - -

I heard it tonight, in my memory, as the heat ran from your body to mine, and things I never understood made sense for the length of a lightning bolt.

Magnetism is a fact of the world we can neither force nor resist. And conductivity is how easily things pass between you and I, because of how we choose to minimize the space and the obstacles. That's all I need to know, anyway.

May 2, 2018

the last things

Summoning enough self-discipline to climb back out of the warm bed and take an Advil. I don't drink much these days. Three cocktails could prove disastrous in the morning if I don't take precautionary measures.

Then back to the warm bed, where I make him watch a YouTube video of some insane South African dude introducing a pair of kittens to a couple of (fenced off) tigers. The tigers chuff and pace and yowl, curiously sniffing the kittens through the wire. You have to wonder if deep inside these distant cousins is some ping of recognition. Oh, you're sort of like me. Only much, much stronger. 

Or if the kittens would just be so many snacks. The strong can't be expected to be merciful, just for the sake of the weak. The strong have to eat, too.

The vodka, not content with soaking my liver, decides to poke around the glass menagerie of my emotions. I know better than to open my mouth and say what I'm thinking, but I do it anyway. Fears tumble out, bald and ugly. What are we doing, where are we going, what if, what about, blah blah blah. He catches them, setting them down gently on the ground before they can crash and shatter.

It is what it is. It's mostly wonderful. It's probably okay.

the middle things

A second round of drinks at The Stocking Frame. A pizza. Some pasta. Kenny and Alfie on one side of the high top table, Timo and I on the other. I didn't think he was going to make it. Long, bad day at work, which is far across town anyway. But he made it happen, and when he walked in my back was to him, and Kenny's "There he is!" is so delightfully familiar, so genuinely delighted, that I'm treated to that incredible feeling that happens when you get to be simultaneously in the company of the One You Love and the ones you love, and everyone has come to be happily knit together. I feel spoiled.

It's so good to be with these three men, and despite my own long, bad day, I feel myself glowing with liquor and laughter. Equal parts sharing. Everyone has something to say. My history with these friends easily mapping onto new territory with Timo.

We head to the show, The Fratellis at Belasco. Drinks are on me. Tipsy, I tip heavily. Bartender counts the cash, frowns, asks me if I'm sure. I wave gallantly. I'm so rich tonight.

Upstairs just to show Timo the venue, but when a waitress tries to upsell us on getting a table, we spontaneously accept. We'd wanted one anyway, because we wanted to sit down. We're kind of fucking old. We chat and joke through a forgettable opening act. A mildly illicit Kenny-Ellie memory (gay bar, foam party, shirtless dancing) comes up in conversation and I produce my phone. Oh hell yeah I have photos. Kenny sees that I've actually got an entire album of him. He starts sending himself shots he hasn't seen in six, seven years. When I look at one, check the date, and see that our friendship is in fact that old, my heart does a curious thing. Feels less like it grows than it graduates. Why yes, I have managed to keep this awesome friend in my life that long. Achievement unlocked.

The show is terrible. The arrangements are rushed, the sound tinny. It's no big deal. We're casual fans. We blow the pop stand after a few songs and go for late night Chinese food and the most delicious passionfruit cider in the world. Alfie is a regular here, and they keep the kitchen open late just to accommodate us. Noodles and dumplings, spice and heat and salt. Peking Tavern, still one of my downtown favorites.

the first things

I am in an Uber, on my way to meet my friends and my boyfriend. Hair up, bangs down. Jeans, white sneakers with silver satin shoestrings, and my favorite red lip gloss. Work day behind me. Nothing to be ashamed of, little to be afraid of. Los Angeles leaning into another cold spring night. Stars and stars, oh my stars.

I will never tire of this.

August 28, 2018

The inane clown posse is coming to town. They'd like your money, but they'll settle for your attention. It's all they've ever wanted, anyway. For the low low price of second-hand embarrassment and a few hours in their company, you can earn a hand-stamped Certificate of Participation. But be forewarned that this participation, billed as the selling point of the experience, is actually meaningless. Your presence is merely another ridiculous stage on which they take themselves much too seriously. The inane clown posse always has been—and forever will be—enamored of only itself.

Blame their mothers, their fathers, their teachers, their childhood keepers. Blame whoever looked the other way, disinterested, at their desperate cries of "Watch this!' and "Watch me!"

The inane clown posse just wants your love. Please, won't you give it to them? Be kind. Tickets are cheap. Let them feel almost famous, for almost nothing. 

August 31, 2018

My skin is sparkling, I have just realized. Tiny flecks of coruscating color: pinks and silvers, blue-whites and white-blues. I'm laying on my back, holding my right arm skyward, looking down (up) the length of my bare wrist. High above me are the treetops of the small olive grove where Timo has helped me set up camp on a twin-sized mattress we carried out from the house. The sheet on the mattress is a repeating vine-and-leaf pattern, the greens and golds of which perfectly match the greens and golds of the olive grove. Just a coincidence. Just a delightful coincidence.

I let my eye move slowly along the path of my skin, drinking in the supernatural flashes of color. This is the acid taking hold, I know. In my mind, I will it forward. I open myself up to it and dare it to do its worst. Right now, during the preamble, I'm unafraid, hungry for the unimaginable joys it holds. Slowly, slowly, I absorb the realization, as my body absorbs the chemical. And as reach my palm, I let my fingers uncurl towards the sunny canopy above. And oh my god, here it is. My fingers stretch out and reveal themselves to be thirty feet long, capable of touching the tips of the trees.

Laughter and wonder.

My boyfriend’s face appears over me. He's come down from the porch (where he's set up his own camp) to check on me. His features are slightly distorted, but it's nothing frightening. I've only taken one hit this time, about a third of my usual dose. This is just a gentle ride through the stratosphere. I doubt I'll get much further up than the outer edges of the cosmos. I certainly won't be diving into any psychological black holes today, that I can already tell, from how mellow the onset is. No rocket ride up. Just a smooth, slow, stardust-strewn launch.

"I'm fine," I assure him with a smile. "I'm great."

I stay in this space for what seems like hours, but will later prove to be only about half of one. At my request, he brings me things. I want colorful things. I want something pink. He brings me a toothbrush holder and a lipgloss. But both are manmade, and therefore ugly. "Take them away," I beg. He tries again but there are no pink flowers in the yard or the driveway of the house we've rented for the weekend. Instead he offers me a selection of small leaves, twigs, buds, and other bits of the landscape, chosen for brightness of color, or intricacy of shape. My favorite is a finger-sized bottlebrush-looking sprig, with tiny milky blue facets at the ends. The texture and color blow my mind, and I twirl it with fascination. Really, I don't need much more than this beauty.

For once, I am lucid enough to be able to self-assess, objectively. I'm definitely tripping, but I'm in control of my facilities. I can steer this thing, a little bit. On a visit to the bathroom (always slightly challenging on acid), I become suddenly aware of the music we've been playing, across two speakers (one at Timo's camp, one at mine). It's ODESZA. It's perfect. So perfect in fact, that I need it closer to me, louder. I pick up one of the speakers and hold it against my ear on my way into the house. When I have to set it down to actually pee, I realize this will never do. I can't be that far away from it, ever again. Back outside, I hand the speaker to my boyfriend.

"Put this in my head," I say, because it's the best way to explain what I need. Pretty high himself, he blinks.

"Put me in this song," I clarify. And my boyfriend, acid trip babysitter extraordinaire, understands. He plugs headphones into his phone for me and I happily traipse back to my camp, eager to see how this new dimension of stimulation will unfold.

Well.

There is a reason I take LSD once or twice year. There is a reason I feel I actually *need* to, because it constitutes a sort of psychological reset. Put simply: I need to visit the wonderland. I need to remember that the world can be this beautiful. Months and months of getting saturated by all that is ugly in life. The sickening realities of politics and economics. The physical death of the earth. LSD pulls back a curtain and reveals another place, full of hope and wonder and possibility and heartbreaking beauty. It makes me believe that it's all worth it, that at the end of the day the universe holds purpose and meaning.

I lay and listen to the same song, over and over and over. "Late Night." I gaze up at olive branches and know peace. Laughter bubbles out of me. It's the color. I can't believe I ever thought there were just a few colors here, or that the landscape was drab. The geometry of the ground is captivating. Dropped olives the color of blackberries, fallen leaves like little gold coins. And above, shafts of yellow sunlight weave through blue sky. I'm gripped by how gorgeous it is, and float away on thoughts of love. I'm clear-headed enough to text several of my friends. (The colors on my phone are heaven itself.) To Mason I say

I'm tripping on acid right now and here is what it is

I cannot go much further in life without knowing I've done everything in my power to persuade you

It is so beautiful

You need to know

Everyone needs to know but especially you

I'm crying. My boyfriends’ face appears again. I try to explain. "It's so beautiful. And it's right here. I wish everyone could know. It's right here." He smiles and brushes his hand against my cheek and then lets me be alone in my reverie. He knows this is the breaking-through - the reset that I was looking for.

Loving, laughing messages come back from the friends I've texted, and they feel like stars falling on me. Sparks of light and love. The tears in my eyes only make everything more beautiful, splintering the scene a hundred-fold. A word comes to me: a kaleidoscope.

March 9, 2019

Point D: Monday, February 19th, 2019 

I'd just finished a 62-hour week. I was exhausted but triumphant. Sixty-two hours of (mostly) successful work, in my new position. Two years ago I didn't know I was capable of the things I apparently am. I can manage people, and their various workplace neuroses and needs. I can manage a store, its product and cash flow. I can manage the dozen little fires that spring up a week, in a restaurant--the dozen little time-sensitive crises of last-minute call-outs, broken grills, misplaced orders. And much more importantly, I can apparently manage my own historically volatile emotions in such situations. I can check and then moderate the anxiety, fear, anger, and frustration that naturally surface when things don't go as they should; when others don't do their part. I can be chill, and just do what needs to be done.

Anyway: exhausted but triumphant.

He asked whether I had plans for the night, immediately adding that he understood if I was too wiped to hang out. Actually, I said, I very much want to do something. I very much want to go out and be alive and social and remember that work is just one part of me. My friend Costa had suggested dinner at the Pacific Dining Car. I told Timo to come join us.

I will, he said. That sounds wonderful. I just have to wait until my groceries get delivered.

I'll never forgot this bit. The stupid groceries. He texted repeatedly over the next hour and a half, with increasing self-annoyance. So mad at myself. I'm sorry, baby. I could already be there with you guys, if I wasn't a lazy ass who has to have groceries delivered. 

As my friend and I feasted on prime rib and Bordeaux, I kept telling Timo not to stress. That we'd be there, drinking still, whenever he made it. He was so wound up about having to wait, about not being with us already. And when he came, he was all smiles. Hugs for both of us, kisses for me. His hand immediately found my leg under the table. Laughing and joking through the cocktails he ordered. Good humor and affection as usual, as always was with him. I was relaxed and content.

Point E: Thursday, February 21st, 2019

I'm on a late morning Amtrak to San Diego, to spend the day with my best friend. The Pacific Surfliner hugs the coast, reminding me of all the pretty beach cities less than an hour and $30 away from my living room. It's not so bad, this life I've knocked together. My sweet little apartment. My job, demanding but rewarding and often, dare I say it, quite fun. My friends, who have rallied around me in this moment, their indignation and shock soothing to my fractured heart.

As we speed southward along the Pacific, I go over conversations I've had in the last three days. The initial one with Timo, all stumbling confusion, suffocating panic, agonizing questions, unclear answers. The subsequent ones with my friends, where, as surprised as me, they hypothesized as best they could.

"It sounds like depression."

"It clearly has nothing to do with you."

"He sounds really lost."

"I don't think he has any idea what he wants."

I turn over these thoughts, one by one, willing myself to accept them.

A tone sounds from the intercom: an address to passengers. "Gooooood morning, folks. This is Amtrack 2023 from Los Angeles to San Diego and points in between. Please have your tickets on hand as we come by."

Points in between. The words stick in my head. That's what I will call it, I think. When I'm ready. When I have time to sit down and attempt to tell this story. Where it started, where it ended, where it's going. Points in between - that's all life is, anyway. Points significant and less so. Points you remember and points you hope to forget.

Points you can look forward to, when the one you're at is just about as unbearable as can be.

Point C: Friday, February 15th, 2019

I'm coming off the subway, heading into work early because one of my servers has called out sick last minute. I'm tired. I'm annoyed. I'm rehearsing a discussion in my head, explaining to this employee calmly that in the future, half an hour is not enough notice when he is the only person opening the restaurant. That unless he's on his damn death bed, I need him to drag his ass to work and wait the thirty minutes it'll take me to get ready, get there, and send him home. The store can't not open, just because someone has a cold.

As I step off the escalator onto the upper level of the station, a man lurking in the space between the stairs and a support column says something to me. A Hey baby of sorts. The sort of bullshit I usually ignore. Only today something in me twinges sharply, and I don't ignore it. I glare at him as I pass and say evenly "Stay the fuck away from me." He says something else, something threatening, puffing up in a "What you gonna do" posture.

And rather than walk away, as any sensible person would do, I decide that right here and right now is where I draw the line. I plant my feet and look him dead in the eye. "Stay. The fuck. Away. From me." I make each syllable count, loaded with the assurance that I am unafraid of him.

He takes a step forward, inches from me now, and raises his arms at his side. Calls me a bitch. Asks what my fucking problem is.

And that's it. I've been triggered. He's no longer a stranger. He's now every man who has every physically or emotionally abused me. My brother. My last boss. The psycho I dated in Arizona. All of them, rolled into one repulsive bully.

I spit in his face.

The first hit he lands makes my left ear ring. Later I'll be itching my inner ear and feel the scab; at the time I won't realize he's drawn blood. Another hit, and I find my voice. He's cursing at me, laughing as he pushes me back. I don't remember what I'm yelling back, but I'm pushing too. He's small. I ask him how long he's going to jail for. "You see the cameras? You see all these fucking cameras?" I don't recognize myself: not my voice, not my fury, not the unconscious rage with which I'm fighting back.

It's over pretty quickly. I'm on the ground, pulling out my phone, fumbling for the video function, screaming for help as he strolls off unhurried.

All the usual shit after that. No one stops him. He walks straight past two Metro security guards whom I beseech for help. They offer none. Time slows down. The adrenaline levels out in my bloodstream and I collapse on the ground, sobbing, in shock. A woman approaches, hands me her business card. "I saw it. I can be a witness if you need me." Then she boards her train and goes about her day.

The security guards help me find cops. They take a statement.  I know it's a waste of time. This is now just a thing that happened to me, and it's my choice to either stay angry or let it go.

Point F: Wednesday, February 27th, 2019

"Hey, can you come here for a second?" One of my employees invites me around the corner from the kitchen, into his workspace. I'm anticipating some kind of serious exchange, some problem to be solved, some fresh headache. But he just looks with a funny little smile at a small white gift bag on the wooden block. My heart leaps into my throat. It isn't my birthday. There is no ostensible reason for this.

"We just wanted to get you something to let you know how much we appreciate you," he says.

I try to joke through the moment, lest I cry. "What is this nonsense?" I pick up the bag, smiling, shaking my head. "What did you do?" Some chocolates. A boxed spa gift certificate. And a card that my three closest, most supportive and most reliable employees have signed. I read it on the spot, silently, my heart thumping hard.

Ellie - thank you for being such a dedicated, hardworking, and amazing boss. You are truly extraordinary. Love, F

Ellie, it has been such a pleasure working with you. I hope you feel supported and loved because you truly are an amazing person. Thanks for being such an awesome kick ass boss. Love, K

Ellie - I told Erin that she was the best boss I've ever had. I lied. Hope you know how much all of us adore you and respect you. Enjoy the little pick-me-up and keep being the badass you are. - C 

I can't really talk. I just shake my head more. I find each of them and hug them. All I can muster is a simple, sincere "thank you" lest I completely lose it. And just like that, years of insecurity--walled like cement around the belief of my inadequacy--crumble.

I actually matter to people. I am actually worthy. I am doing something right.

Their words rush in to fill, just a little bit, the ripped-out hole in my heart where another thing was, just a few days before. I am loved, still, by some.

Point A: Saturday, July 21st, 2018 

We had plans. Dinner out. But Timo has asked me to come over to his house instead. Said something about wanting to stay in. No problem. I'm game to watch a movie, order some takeout.

When I arrive, he's sober-faced and quiet. I grow nervous. Ask what's up, whether everything is okay. He asks me to sit on his couch. Starts crying. I assume I'm being broken up with, and feel the blood in my veins turn icy.

But no. This isn't that. This is the polar opposite of that. This is him asking for more. There's a speech about how little time we have together, because of our schedules. And then Timo, overcome with emotion, is asking me to come to Germany and meet his family. "I need them to understand why I'm not coming home." It dawns on me what he's saying. And in fact he then spells it out: he wants to move in with me, but he hasn't yet told his family how serious he is about me, and he knows they're going to take it hard. So he wants them to meet me so they understand why we want to be together.

I'm deeply happy, deeply moved by his invitation. It's what I want, too.

Point H: Thursday, July 25th 2019

I'm on a flight to Seattle, a city I've never been to, in a state I've never been to. I've come for a two-day music festival. Two days not of just some music I like, mixed in with other music I can tolerate. Two days of all music I absolutely love. I've booked myself the most deluxe on-site glamping tent money can buy. For once I am not staying in a hotel, sheltered and socially sequestered. This time I'm leaving my comfort zone. I'm open to anything. I decided to give myself this experience five months ago, on a day in late February, when I realized it would be the perfect celebratory milestone. Five months, I'd thought. That should be enough time. Five months of hard work to cleanse my soul. Five months of rededicating myself to me, and all the things that make me me.

All I know is I'm somewhere totally new but also completely familiar. Tens of thousands of others feeling the same things, moved in the same ways. I've taken myself out for an adventure, and there's no way it won't be amazing.

Point B: Thursday, January 21st

The paper I am signing has my name, my boss's name, the date, and a list of my new responsibilities. I barely glance at it. This has been a long time coming, months in fact, and there isn't any anxiety left. There is excitement, sure. I am getting a significant raise and, with that, the opportunity to start reshaping my life in better ways. But I've long been doing almost everything on this job description. If you'd told me even just a year ago I would have said No way. Not possible. Way too much responsibility and stress for me. Next to no experience with these things. No formal training. And yet, as my boss's boss said to my old boss: "She's the one. It's just a matter of figuring out the right number."

So we figured out the number. And suddenly I am a boss in my own right. Can you believe it? Can you even fucking believe it? A full time (plus) job, for your blogmistress, who, only a few short years ago, spent her days ambling around taking selfies with her dog.

It only took her half her life to grow up. But grow up she has.

Point D: Monday, February 19th, 2019 

We said goodbye to Costa and took an Uber back to my place. I don't remember him being especially cuddly in the car, but I don't remember him being distant, either. I do remember him griping about a scooter someone had lazily shoved off in front of my apartment. But then we walked up the stairs and through the foyer as usual.

I don't remember if he had his hand on the back of my neck, as was our usual thing. All the promise that familiar touch held, as we moved together towards my quiet, private space.

I only remember the look on his face. I only remember how flat and cold it was, when I turned to say something, slipping off my coat. There was clearly something wrong. My heart already pounding, I asked what it was.

"Ellie I'm breaking up with you." The words crushed together so that it actually sounded like one. My first thought, absurdly, was that I had taken LSD and forgotten, and this was simply a very bad trip. But that split second was a luxury compared to the next one, where I felt my heart hit the floor and shatter into a million pieces.

So now to try and explain what I still don't understand. Does it matter? I guess you're owed something, for following along this drawn-out drama so far. In a nutshell: he's unhappy at his job. He's here in the US on a work visa. The clock is ticking. Doesn't feel ready to move in with me (though I told him I'd happily wait until we were both ready for that, because I'm not even ready myself). Also: he misses home, might just go back to Germany. Etc. I asked everything I could. I said everything I could. But he shut down pretty quickly and I realized all that matters is that he was leaving my life.

It was over in five, maybe six minutes. He stood up and asked for his key back. Took his copy of my key off his own keyring and set it down with a little click on my desk.  Let himself out.

And that was it.

We had one subsequent conversation. I left nothing on the table. I told him that he was the love of my life and that somewhere in the future was a line where if he reappeared (again) to (again) ask to be let back in, that I would have to say "No, I can't, I'm sorry, I've moved on." But that as far as I could tell that point was a long way off. I offered him time and space to figure out what he wants. I thought I heard pain and conflict in his voice, but I don't know. All I can do is let him go and focus on my own goals now. Work at being a better, stronger me.

Point G: Now

And that's where I'm at. Spending time with friends. Working, working, working. Learning to focus on long-term happiness. Trying to find the dark humor in yet another loss. They are all almost two exactly years apart. Mom. Dad. Brother. Chaucer. Timo. Trying to remember that others have it worse. Listening to friends who tell me not only can I handle it, but I am handling it, so.

I have more time now. Maybe I'll be here more often. This definitely feels good and right. When in doubt, return to the things you love.

March 12, 2019

After Timo broke up with me, I was a mess. I just couldn't make sense of his decision. We'd been happy, I was sure of it. He told me all the time how much he cared about me, how much he appreciated my love and support. He was incredibly expressive and caring. He did nice things for me all the time. We exhausted ourselves to spend as much time as possible together, work be damned. We positively lit up whenever we saw one another. The sex was unreal. Half the reason I didn't blog about us (well, other than work taking up so much of my energy) was that I didn't feel I needed to. I had absolutely nothing to prove about my romantic/personal life. I was just...happy.

So those first two weeks were unbearable. I couldn't focus at work, couldn't talk about anything else with my friends. So, so much crying. Crying the likes of which I haven't done since Chaucer died. Meanwhile, I did everything you're supposed to do in a breakup; rather, everything that has previously been really helpful.

I made a list. On this list were things about Timo that I had never allowed to bother me. That I had chosen to overlook. That I had weighed against my gratitude for just simply being loved and treated well - and therefore just didn't amount to enough to matter. On this list were all of his shortcomings. Some were petty; most were valid, and truly objectionable character flaws. I let myself drum up every time he'd been callous or unfair, and I put it on the list. Also on the list were reasons we probably, arguably, weren't great for one another. The ways in which our values clashed. Our preferences, ideals, interests, passions, etc.

I looked at this list hourly. It helped.

I deleted a lot of photos. And as I went through and revisited these memories, I had to admit something to myself: many of these times we spent together? The day trips and the getaways? They were not actually spectacularly great. In fact many of the photos gave me a sort of uneasy feeling, as I remembered a fight we'd had that day - or, to be honest, how dull the day had actually been. So I added these revised memories to the list. That helped a lot, too.

I made a goal grid on the wall in front of my desk. Just eight small squares of paper, stuck up with washi tape. Physical, financial, and intellectual goals. Bite-sized goals. Ones I can achieve easily and quickly enough, to give my self-confidence a boost. As soon as I knock one out, I put another in its place. Putting the focus back on me.

I watched Guy Winch's TED talk on heartbreak. It gave me a lot to think about.

I forced myself to say "Hey, beautiful" every time I looked in the mirror. I didn't believe it, it made me laugh to say it to my puffy, miserable face—but at least it got a laugh out of me.

I made the decision to reclaim some things, lest I fall into the trap of thinking I'd lost them - or that Timo had taken them with him.

For one thing, I ordered myself a small bottle Noir 29, which is a Le Labo scent I'd gotten for him, that had been a very special and meaningful choice, because I adore that scent. Rather than let it be ruined for me, or allow myself to feel triggered every time I smell it on another man - because it is LA, after all; men here wear Le Labo - I decided I would make it my scent, now.

For another, I forced myself past the sexual block that had formed in the breakup. Our connection had been priceless to us both, and a huge source of joy. When it ended I felt doomed. Like no one would ever get me the way he did. And then it dawned on me that 50% of that connection was due to me—my openness, my communication skills, my being comfortable with me. And I'm still here. So after spending several nights feeling sure I'd never want sex again, I forced myself past the wall. I cleared my head, cleared my night, and took myself on a mental and physical date the likes of which I had not done in years - 2.5 years, to be exact. I did things to myself that even Timo had not, even when invited. And holy fuck. Holy fuck. So yeah. I took that back, too.

Another thing I did? Play German language YouTube videos. The most banal or cornball shit I could find. I did this to desensitize myself to something I had fetishized about Timo. I have always loved the way that language sounds, always found it incredibly sexy. I know I always will. But I listened to it with new ears, and in new contexts, until it became flat and a little ridiculous, and I could start to see why so many people find it harsh and discordant.

And finally, I decided that I'm going to Instagram our Tulum trip, which I'd never done. Only he's not going to make much of an appearance in that episode. He chose to take himself out of our story, so it's mine now.

So that's all the work I was doing, in a desperate attempt to just get on the far side of the pain. And it helped, definitely. But there were all these interstitial moments that were still just breathtakingly hard. And there were nights, alone at home, when I wanted to crawl out of my skin. When even the love and support of my un-fucking-believably amazing friends was not enough.

And it was in one of those moments that I asked him for one more conversation. The six, seven minutes he'd given me in my apartment were not enough. I needed to understand. I could not let go until I understood.

So we talked (this was a week ago today). And while I expected cold stoicism from him—a level-headed coolness that would leave me no room for doubt--what I got was the absolute opposite. He was conflicted. He was in pain. He cried. And most damaging and confusing of all? He would not straight up tell me that he didn't want to be with me. I asked him to say it -- and he wouldn't. "Why won't you say it?" I asked, my heart racing. "Ellie, you're asking me to jerk you around."

And that was it. When I heard that I thought I had him. I thought that meant he just needed time. So I offered it to him. I took control of the conversation and told him I was very much still wanting us, but that he could have some time to figure out his path. The door wouldn't be open forever, I said - but it was still open. I don't remember exactly what our last words were, but when I hung up the phone it was like I'd taken heroin. I felt so high on hope I almost threw up. I walked into work so jacked up on the fantasy that Timo was maybe still mine, it was like I'd shot adrenaline straight into my heart.

Well, that hope turned out to be utterly corrosive. Pure poison. I thought I couldn't concentrate before? Every ding of my phone sent my heart straight to my throat. I was sure he was doing it again - coming back to me again. I'd given him the most amazing deal ever: take your time, do your thing, I need no commitment, see ya when you're ready--and with that, I'd draped my heart out over a metal spike. I lived like that for about a week: consumed. Telling myself I was keeping my expectations low, but not believing the lie one bit. It was fucking hell.

And when the day I knew he was coming home from Europe came and went and he didn't appear on my door, contrite and full of renewed love -- then I knew I couldn't live with wondering. And I very quickly, very completely, lost my mind, and reached out to him again.

And how he responded - and what he responded with - were exactly what I needed. And all in a rush, I fell out of love with him. All in a moment I was launched as if by a ballista to that far side of pain I'd been desperate to get to. He showed me who he was and who he's always been.

March 13, 2019

My eyes played a trick on me today. From the backseat of a car, driving into the city, I saw the San Gabriels far off behind LA's skyline. And for a moment they looked to be covered in snow. It was easy to believe; it's been very cold for what feels like a very long time.

But then I realized - that was just the sky, skirting the peaks in white. I was actually looking at two separate things: the fixed and unmoving forest, and the floating, ephemeral cumulus.

That was some twelve hours ago. By now the mountains can't even see the clouds anymore.

I wonder if it hurt, to say goodbye.

I bet the clouds cried. I bet the mountains won't soon forget.

March 14, 2019

Before Timo and I spoke on the phone - one week into the breakup - I sent him an email. It contained things I needed him to, if not acknowledge, at least hear. I put a lot of thought into it. It contained some criticisms, some deserved call-outs--but mostly clarifications about where I'd been at in the relationship. Because I suspected his ending it had a lot to do with his fear that I was in some kind of hurry to get to the next level.

(I was not.)

But when we talked on the phone, I'd asked him if he'd read that email. He had not. "I couldn't," he said.

So I proceeded to say the things I needed to and ask the questions I needed to. He was honest and undefensive, but very emotional in his responses. Some of what I told him he hadn't realized. I thought I heard a shift in his voice. He cried. He refused to point-blank say he wasn't in love with me. Said "You're asking me to jerk you around" instead. There were other little moments during the call, too. Little clues, little softenings of his tone, in which I heard - still - love.

And it completely fucked me up. I hung up victorious and sure he just needed a little time to miss me. He was in Europe for work, but I knew when he came back he'd call. He'd want to see me, right away.

I knew it.

But then of course he didn't. And every minute of that first 24 hours was a breath held until I remembered I had to keep breathing. It was one of the most torturous days of my life. The next morning as I was getting ready for work, I made the decision to message him. I just had to know, either way. Had he been conflicted? Did he maybe just want to take a little time, think about what he wants? Or was he done--truly done.

I sent him a short message saying that apparently I wasn't as strong as I thought I was, and while I thought I'd heard conflict in his voice, I wasn't going to be able to just sit on my hands with the indefinitely open door that I'd offered him. Can you just please say the words, 'I know for certain that I don't want to be with you now or in the future'? so that I can for real this time move on?

I couldn't focus at work, kept checking my phone constantly. No response. Hours go by. No response. I'd DMed him on Twitter, and as best I could tell from the dumb little checkmark/date stamp system, he hadn't even read it. Which makes no sense, because he lives on Twitter. Had be blocked me? Had he actually blocked me?

I barely keep it together long enough to close the store, get on a train home, get out of the subway car, and get on the station escalator before messaging him again, this time SMS. He's got an Android, though, so I've no way of knowing if he's read that, either.

It's the worst feeling. I am instantly twenty-whatever again, just pathetically begging and chasing whichever man it is (oh god there were too many) who just isn't that into me. I hate myself, in this moment. A grown woman knowing better than to do what she's doing, but doing it all the same, because she's a grown woman with anxiety and abandonment issues, and, probably, a dash of love addiction.

I wait and wait but he doesn't respond. I am absolutely beside myself. By this point I know he must be totally done, but I just. need. to hear. it. I need to hear him say it. I need either the ice water-in-the-face of a cold, "I'm sorry, Ellie, I don't want to be with you" or the satisfaction of hearing a tear-filled version of the same.

I call. He doesn't answer. I leave a voicemail. I am now in a dangerous place, spiraling fast.

And this, my dear lovely friends of so many years - this is where everything changes. My own mental illness is what is now about to save me, in a way. Because Timo knows I am not always, shall way say, "totally together"? He knows I am prone to debilitating, dangerous panic attacks. Ideation. Very, very bad stuff.

He knows this about me, and yet he does not respond.

And so here's the thing. Even if I weren't? Even if I was the sanest, healthiest, stablest human being on the planet? We were together for two and one half-years. He broke up with me out of the fucking blue. If I needed one more conversation - ten more minutes after two and a half years - I should have gotten it. Full stop.

But I didn't get it. Timo did not pick up the phone and call me back, broken and hurting fellow human being that I am. He didn't even text back. He fucking DM'ed me on Twitter. And I could tell, both from the dumb little checkmark/date system and from the absolutely banal and nonspecific BS that he sent, that he had not even read my DM.

In other words, he had not read or heard a word of the pain I was in. He saw I was reaching out, needing help, but he just...shoved his fingers in his ears. Hid completely. Would not give me the closure I was begging for. Could not even read my words. And I guarantee he deleted my voicemail unheard.

So this DM comes back, these three little paragraphs of absolute breakup-cliche dreck, and I'm sitting on my bed reading them, and it all comes home for me. How unbelievably not okay it is, for him to do things this way, to someone who he knows suffers in the ways I do. To not have the tiniest bit of compassion or patience. Mind you this had not been me trying to get him back. It had just been me, hurting badly, asking for absolute closure to a very confusing week.

And I realize that this was the best thing ever. Just the best thing ever. Because who wants that? Who wants a person like that in their life, capable of such selfishness, cowardice, and cruelty?

Not I.

- - -

So here's where I'm at now: on the far side of it. I got launched hard and fast to that far side. And I am really grateful to be there. I'm smiling again, and laughing, and the amount of time I go in between thinking about him gets longer and longer every day. I'm stung by the rejection, of course. Because ego never really dies. And I'm angry that he didn't hear me out (or read me out), even though it would have been painful. He told me during that phone call that he'd decided in January to end it. That's a full month of pretending, and incredible pretending at that. That alone is just... that alone earned me one more conversation.

And I'm sad to lose companionship and affection. That's hard. But now I look back at things differently, through the lens of his final choices. And I still have my list of all the reasons he is wrong for me. Big reasons, small reasons. Petty reasons, important reasons. And I have everything else to keep me busy. Awesome job, world's greatest friends. And some of the loyalest, most supportive people on the fucking internet to cheer me on as I get. back. up.

Again.

March 16, 2019

Months ago Timo and I got tickets to Luttrell, and the show was last night in Hollywood. We bought our tickets individually, and I knew there was absolutely no way he'd go anyway, but I was feeling a little emotional about going for another reason. July 3rd, 2016 was the last time I went out as a solo and single person - and that was the night I met Timo. So yesterday was the first time in two and a half years I was going out with that particular status again.

I've been going out to clubs and shows by myself for years. That doesn't bother me. It was just, you know - significant.

I texted a bit with Cam before I got ready, which is always so empowering. He said he wished he was here to go out with me. I told him he always is, in spirit. Then I sent Costa a Luttrell track. Costa has absolutely no exposure to EDM, and since I always go to his shows (including a country concert at The Echo), he's promised that one of these days he's going to come to an event of mine. (I've been waiting for the right thing to bring him to. A hot, sweaty club isn't his scene; needs to be something major and open-air.) But in the meantime, I'm introducing him in bits and pieces. "That's so you," he said, in response to the song I shared.

So I get ready, I'm feeling really good, great mood, super confident. I'm even having a good hair night. And I'm walking down the Boulevard, listening to Kolonie, feeling all warm and wrapped up in the love of my friends, and it's just great.

It's just great.

I get into the club and I'm ordering a drink when I get a text from one of my coworkers - a frowning picture with her and Costa. Help :(, it says. I don't know if they've run into one another or are out together but they're two of my absolute favorite people and it's awesome. I have a huge smile. Sorry, I text back. It's fatal. You've got...Costaitis.

Come out! She texts back.

Lol I am high af gurl. I need music.

Omg where are you!! Let's go dance. I'm in weho.

A second later, I get another text from one of Costa's best friends and college buddies. Come ouuuuuuuuttttttt, he says.

I ask: is there anything better than multiple people urging you to come be with them? Is it not just the best feeling in the world? To me it is. To me it is gold. To me it is everything.

By now I'm starting to have trouble reading my phone. Come to MY out, I reply. I guarantee it's better.

Where?

Sound in Hollywood, I tell them both. But now I have to get rid of my phone and get to the dance floor. I have absolutely no expectation anyone is going to come, they're all already out somewhere, so I check my coat and phone and that's the end of it.

And it's so good. The music is perfect. I've seen Luttrell a handful of times, but this is the best set so far. I'm in heaven. I'm too high to dance much, but I find my usual spot near the outskirts and just drift away for 45 glorious minutes. Then at some point something makes me turn around. I don't know if he touched my shoulder or I just subconsciously felt his presence, but I turn around and fucking Costa is standing there, wearing his fucking cowboy hat and just fucking smiling at me.

Let me explain the significance of this. Costa is from Nebraska. He grew up on a cattle ranch. Granted, he then went on to study at Yale and work in politics in DC before pivoting to do creative work--but he's a country boy at heart. He also hates crowds. He has told me this. He also has never taken a drug other than weed in his life. Also? He was already out, elsewhere. And to drive across town in LA on a Friday night; to fight the crowd to get your damn ID from the bar where you've opened a tab; to derail the buzz you've got going just to go wait in a different club's line, pay a (not inexpensive) cover, work through another crowd to order a drink, then go fight through 500 people to find your one single, solo friend... I was very high in this moment but ecstasy is a love drug, and all the meaning of what he'd done to come spend time with me just came crushing down on me and my jaw fell open.

It's too loud to talk really so I just shake my head at him. For like twenty seconds. He gets it. Gives me a hug and puts his mouth close to my ear. "Edmund's here. He wants to see you. Franki's here. She wants to see you, too. All these friends are here for you," he says. "But right now..." And then we just dance.

I dance with my friend who, just a few days ago, spent an hour on the phone with me, as he stood under the stars back home in Nebraska at 2am, standing outside in the snow after the birthday party he'd flown back for. An hour telling me all the good things he sees in me. It was a conversation I'll never, ever forget. I had been feeling really, really low, in a place of desperation and fear, and he took those fears and beat them to death with encouragement and support. Said ridiculously kind thing after ridiculously kind thing about my character, my heart, and the friend I've been to him. "If nothing else," he'd said, "I just want you to feel seen."

That is a thing I am currently having in my life - that friendship.

So the slight bummer ending to this story is that I got separated from Costa and Edmund pretty quickly (my fault; I dashed off to dance and I lost them). And I didn't have my phone on me, plus I was extremely out of it (not to mention the show was oversold and jam-packed), so we ended up apart in the end. And infuriatingly, I never even got to see Franki; but she assures me she had a ton of fun anyway (and I believe it - Franki is the sweetest, happiest girl ever). But the best part is that both Costa and Edmund clearly loved the experience, too. I don't think either of them had ever been to something like that. “This is actually pretty great,” Costa said at one point. And that? Introducing someone to my world and having them like it? That too—gold. The vibes were great and the music was incredible, and the lonely night I thought I was in for morphed into just this beautiful affirmation that I'm not alone at all.

So that is my Friday night tale for you. Happy weekend, babies.

March 19, 2019

St. Patrick's Day is a very big deal for me. It's been a big deal for me since 2012, when I went to the downtown block party with Cameron and Greg and had one of the greatest holidays of my life. As long as I live I will never forget the closeness the three of us felt that day. Arms slung around one another's shoulders as we belted out Sunday Bloody Sunday, singing along with the U2 cover band that sounded for all the world like the real thing, feeling invincible in our connection to one another, to our futures, to our beliefs about ourselves. 

It was just a few weeks before my dad got sick, and it remains in my memory a time of suspended innocence, before everything just went...upside down. Before my dad died. Before I inherited all the money that I was completely unprepared to handle. Before I learned how deep and dark my depression can go. Before I wasted nearly four years aimlessly wandering the halls of my own life.

March 17th, therefore, imprinted itself on me. It came to signify joy and friendship - and the friends I choose as family. It became my favorite holiday.  And for the next couple of years, I lucked out and again and again and had absolutely fantastic, laughter and love-filled St. Paddy's Days. Different friends, different boyfriends; same celebration of gratitude.

So gearing up for this year, freshly (read: painfully) single, I really, really wanted to have a special day. I needed it. So I took a shot at organizing a relatively big group of friends/coworkers/ex-coworkers. And though I tried to keep my expectations low, I really did pin a lot of hope on everyone turning out. In the morning I rallied the troops and started a group text to get everyone laughing and hooked on being together. And it worked. And they all came (except one, who couldn't get out of work). And it was just fucking glorious.  

We opted out of the actual block party and took up residence at the corner bar (which was much busier than these photos make it look). And for the first time in, I don't know, maybe ever, I spent the day with people who not only love me and accept me despite my vast catalogue of personal failings - they also respect me as a coworker and, crazily enough, their boss. 

And I felt more whole in myself than I can remember ever feeling. And it was just such a wonderful thing, to talk and laugh and spend time with people I've grown close to over the past two years, to just lean back and watch them be exactly themselves. There was lots of drunken hugging - we are an affectionate and demonstrative bunch. Multiple times I laughed so hard I cried. And then in other moments I just quietly listened and appreciated these incredibly supportive, really good humans I get to have in my life.

Today I stopped by to say hi to Costa as I was leaving work. We talked for a minute about whatever, and then he said something like "By the way, yesterday? Was the greatest day ever. You made the greatest day ever happen." I shook my head, started to say it was thanks to amazing people just showing up, and that's all that matters.

"Yeah but you made them show up. You set it up, you invited everyone, and it was such a great crew. We all had a blast. Seriously best day ever."

That right there is all I need in this world - and I'm not talking about the compliment of my party planning skills. That right there is a dose of invincibility that will power me for months.

Not that this puts ever more pressure on you, St. Paddy's, 2020. Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll do just fine.

March 25, 2019

She'd known him for six years, the night she got to know him better.

Six years of chaste, usually comical assignations. Late-night trips to his various apartments (he moved as much as she did). Hollywood, Silverlake, even the valley once. Or he'd come to her place, usually after several days of flaking and last-minute cancellations. Sometimes they'd meet in public: a hasty exchange in the intimates section of a crowded Gap, or the parking lot of a Costco. Exact change always ready for him, bills folded neatly in her palm. The awkward, attention-getting way he'd shove a baggie of pills (or mushrooms or tabs) in her open tote bag. The whole thing so ridiculous, always. Fear and shame attaching themselves to something that should produce neither.

He exasperated her to no end. He was unreliable and uncommunicative, and his products were consistently inconsistent in quality. Sometimes though, they were pure magic. She had no choice but to see the humor in it all and to come to regard him with affection.

Over time, they became friends of a sort. He always followed up to see if she'd enjoyed/survived her purchase. Such customer service, she teased, admittedly moved by his concern. When she took acid for the first time and found herself in a blind spiral of terror, he answered her call and calmly talked her off the ledge. And when that same acid leveled out and she discovered the pure, heart-splitting joy it could offer, she called him back. He answered again, this time laughing to hear her first-timer's evangelism. I know, babe, he said, simply. I know. And when she took it subsequent times, she couldn't wait to talk to him again. There is no connection like that between those who've crossed the same rainbow and found the same gold.

These pre and post-purchase conversations grew in length and scope. She learned about his other interests, professional and creative. She listened to his music. When he quit his bar gig and began working in a lab -- a genuine, salaried job -- she was thrilled for him, and truly impressed with how far he'd come.  She knew all too well how easy it was for bright, good-hearted people to undersell themselves for the sheer ease of it.

He kept selling her drugs even when selling drugs became the side-side hustle. And then suddenly, he wasn't really a dealer; he was more of a friend keeping her in the loop. When something came around that was purported to be good, he offered to be the go-between. Or when she wanted something specific, he made a call or two. Meanwhile, he worked full time and pursued his passions on top of that. Just like a regular civilian. Just like her.

And of course, all this time, there was the fact of their chemistry. That didn't hurt her willingness to accommodate his flakiness. It was the sweet, uncomplicated chemistry of two people who are in no danger whatsoever of getting involved and getting hurt. She had a boyfriend, almost always. He was over ten years younger than her. She was, essentially, his client. No danger.

Still, it was there. Hello and goodbye hugs that lingered, with smiles that said everything. His occasional compliment on her looks, her outfit. Over time he grew bolder. The compliments became more direct. It was flattering and fun to her; he was absolutely adorable. But it wasn't an option. There were an assortment of things in the way. Among them: she was taken.

Until she wasn't.

II

Weekends all to herself - she still wasn't used to them. Entire days with no one to answer to for how she spent her time. Time that, immediately after the breakup felt hollow and anxious, was now starting to feel luxurious, precious, and full of potential.

His Friday afternoon text caught her running errands in WeHo. He opened with the usual subject matter. Had she tried them? No, she had not, but she promised to let him know when she had.

You know I'll text you when I do, all lovey and dumb.

I just wanna Netflix with youuuu.

She looked at her phone. Well, here it was. As good as an invitation, if she wanted to accept it. No reason not to. Nothing serious on the line. Nothing but some fun, probably, which she was certainly entitled to. She was, after all, one hundred percent single. She considered for a second, then messaged him back.

It'll happen. One of these days I'll be in Hollywood and messed up and I'll just text you "Fire up the wall stars I'm coming over."

She watched the "read" notification land. Knew he was looking at his phone, right at that second. Digesting. Picturing it, maybe. She watched him type and erase, then do it again. Then again.

I want to take some together but I feel like I'll fall in love. She smiled. She knew exactly what he meant.

No you're safe I don't have a heart. Deliberately unpunctuated. That's how the kids did it, right?

So let's roll and go out.

And there it was. Right there on the table for the taking, if she wanted it. He knew she could, if she wanted to. She'd told him about the breakup a few days before, when she'd seen him last. Why do you always look so fire, he'd texted immediately afterward.  Hush, she'd said back. Pfffft German guy, he'd replied. Get you an Elon Musk. 

She stood in the California sunshine, one of the first warm days of the year. God it had been such a long, cold winter. But now the heat was coming back. Just a little bit, and slowly. But it was coming. That was undeniable.

With a sigh she decided to shelve this delicious offer. She wasn't ready. But she was definitely curious. With reckless flirtation, she answered. When it warms up. So I can wear less. Feel more sun. Feel more skin.

He tried again. Let's link up now. 

She thought about all she had to catch up on after the long work week. More errands. Housework. Sleep.

I can't todayyyyy. 

What about tonightttt?

When she didn't respond, he continued, playfully trying to box her into a commitment. Just kidding. Tomorrow sounds great. Let me know what time.

Very cute, she thought, but didn't respond. That was enough for today.

But by the time he tried yet again, two hours later, she'd had a full two hours to ruminate on possibility. Two hours to walk the sunny streets of her city, reflecting on how great most aspects of her life really were. Two hours to remember that life was all hers again. Two hours of uninterrupted music in her ears, setting a soundtrack for her imagination--and her dangerously impetuous nature.

Two hours, it turned out, was enough time to change her mind from Soon to a Sure, fuck it, tonight, why not.

Because sure, fuck it, why not? Tonight.

III

"Let's get faded and find some music."

That had been the official invitation. And maybe it was something about the word "faded" that edged her into "yes" territory. No one had ever invited her to get faded. Not in so many words (and words were everything). Faded sounded like just rewards for getting successfully past a difficult time. Faded like the pastels of sunset, deliciously cool after a long hot day. Faded like forgetting.

Yes, faded sounded just about perfect - so she said yes. After that, there were only two decisions to make: what pill to take (they'd agreed to party together, but launch solo) and what to wear. Both were easy enough: nothing crazy and nothing fancy.

Jeans. A crewneck top with thumbholes. Chunky white sneakers and a puffer. See how casually I am taking this? she hoped her clothes said. See how hard I am not trying? Dressing up or dressing sexy was absolutely out of the question. She'd feel ridiculous.

She'd suggested The Roosevelt, a renovated depression-era hotel on the far end of the Boulevard. It offered options: sprawling lobby with tufted leather sectionals; poolside lounge with DJ and tropical-themed bar; swanky speakeasy with cushy booths lining a single, perfectly restored bowling lane. Whatever vibe they found themselves falling into, The Roosevelt could accommodate.

Not that it mattered; they would leave after two minutes anyway.

She gets there first. Arranges herself, puffer-less with legs crossed, on one of the oversized lobby sectionals. Breathing deeply as the high kicks in. Breathing quickly when she spots him across the room.

"Hey." Big, boyish smile. Plops down unceremoniously next to her. Gives her a one-armed, sideways hug. It's an awkward angle but his touch feels different than anytime before. They'd shared dozens of quick hugs over the years. The difference is that this one doesn't need a chaperone or a curfew. This hug is an unopened envelope that can contain whatever they want.

He's already high too; already restless. "Let's get out of here," he says, offering his hand. "Let's go make some mayhem." She takes his hand self-consciously before dropping it a minute later. As much as she loves his conspiratorial, mischievous tone, her hands are not her strong suit. She isn't ready to let go of her insecurities quite yet. It won't be long now, and the pill will do away with them altogether - but not yet.

On the street outside they assess their surroundings. The Boulevard this far west isn't particularly crowded. If they head east and dive into the thick of things, they risk the throng of bumbling, gawking tourists harshing their buzz. So they go back into the hotel. Clamber upstairs to the speakeasy, joking unsuccessfully with the stone-faced bouncer, who unamusedly lets them into a bar thumping with shitty (to them) hip hop. They frown at one another dramatically, covering their ears as if in pain.

"Ugh. God. This music."

"Yeah, no. There is not enough liquor in the world to make this tolerable."

Back on the street now, the chilly night air welcome on their hot cheeks. They're going higher now. Soon they'll be absolute chatterboxes. Best to hole up somewhere warm and comfortable.

"I know," he says, taking her hand again. "Powerhouse." She's never heard of it but he nods confidently. "Super old school. Right at Highland. Let's check it out." They walk a couple of short blocks before a traffic light stops them. Standing close together, all the potential of a starry night's worth of adventure laid out before them, he suddenly kisses her forehead. And it's everything, that kiss - everything she needs to know. It lasts exactly the right amount of time. It contains exactly the right amount of pressure. It hits her at exactly the right spot, because she's now realizing he is exactly the right height.

And, most importantly, that is his first kiss. Not some fumbling, grasping, too-early and too-deep attempt at having her. This forehead kiss is barely a suggestion. It is sweetness and warmth and six years of harmless flirtation wrapped in the thinnest, most delicate lace of maybe. It says: I am so glad to be here right now. I appreciate this. I'm not going to rush this. 

It says everything that the next fifteen hours would say, in fact. And then the next two dates after that.

IV

The Powerhouse looks, smells, and sounds as exactly as she expected. She's reminded of the once great, now shuttered Bar 107. Unpretentious crowd, bartenders who are surly with newcomers but chummy with regulars, and 90s-era bangers on the stereo. It'll do just fine.

She slides into the booth first; he closes in tight. And they're off. The lightning round comes first on this game show, and they skate from topic to topic back to topic, ticking boxes and laughing much more than anticipated. Five minutes into the conversation she realizes she has brutally underestimated his intelligence. He's making jokes that she barely catches. He's clever as fuck. Ten minutes into the conversation, she senses him realizing that's he's underestimated her, too. It's in his face and reactions when she references (the right) bands or songs or genres of music. When she asks probing questions about his work and his passions. When she gets it.

They don't drink. They just talk.

She loves the way he looks when he's listening to her. There's really no space between them already, and she has to twist sharply to face him directly--but his body language is serious all the same. Head slightly tipped down, eyes focused on the table, looking up at her quickly when some point trips his interest. If he interrupts her he immediately urges her back to her train of thought. He wants to understand. For her part, she feels one hundred percent relaxed and herself. There is nothing on the line her but a good time. This could never be a thing, right? There is no need to be nervous. This is not the usual two person audition. This is just some friends getting to know one another better. And it doesn't even matter that he has just casually pulled her legs across his lap. She's acutely aware of it but it's so natural and right that they don't miss a beat to acknowledge the step.

It happens fast. They're laughing too much, with too much chemistry to stop it. He calls it out, inhibitions peeled away by the chemicals flushing from his brain.

"Why am I so comfortable with you? Why is this so easy?"

She smiles. God that feels good. "Because. We've known each other for a long time, remember?" She shrugs, still smiling, and meets his eye. He wraps a hand gently around the back of her neck, kisses her, and then presses his forehead softly against hers.

This—all of this—is the exact opposite of what she was expecting. He is an entirely new and different person, a hundred times more faceted and complicated than the profile she had constructed of him.

He's sensitive: when she teases him about an old unsettled debt between them, his face darkens in shame. "Ohhh," she touches his chin. "You know I'm teasing." He won't look at her. "I'm sorry," she says, placing her palm against his chest. "That was a weird time in your life, wasn't it?" He nods. "It was a very weird time in my life."

He's quick-witted: for every wisecrack she gets in, he gets in two that are even better.

And most wonderful of all, he's vulnerable: every few minutes, as they move along this uncharted but strangely clear path, this adventure in shared surprise, he stops to marvel, aloud, at how great it is. "What's happening right now? Why are you so awesome?"

And it is, simply, great. They are having a blast. It is clearly on. God knows for how long, if it's the drugs alone, if it will even last the night--but right now, it is on.

After an hour of mutual delight, of talking and laughing and just enjoying one another's closeness, there's a pause in the action. They both feel it but it falls on him to say it.

"Do you want to go to your place?"

She does. She really does.

March 30, 2019

Friend who's been struggling a bit gets back from out of town and stops by my work to drop something off for me. Walks into the store, back to my office where I'm in a meeting with my boss. Wordlessly sets a small wrapped gift and a card in front of me on my desk, then turns and leaves without interrupting us.

A bit later when I'm alone I open the gift and read the card.

Ellie - my mom always wrote notes on a piece of paper tucked into a card; that way the card would become another part of the present. I figured you’d get another use out of this one. I saw this and thought of your glorious skiing past. Until I can get you another pair of Rossignols, this will have to do. I can’t thank you enough for always being there. So for those long days without enough to do, I thought you’d appreciate a challenging puzzle.

Love,
A Challenging Puzzle

The gift was a small Lego skier.

I text the friend two emojis—a heart and the bomb—and that's it, until I can say thanks later in person.

Everyone has different metrics for success, whether it's financial gain, creative output, or some physical milestone reached. I have a little bit of each of those, but more than anything, my sense of achievement and meaning comes from feeling like I'm a good friend to the people who've trusted me enough to let me in. It's everything to me. And everything I've learned about how to be a better friend has come from befriending better people than myself.

Chances are I will lose the toy and maybe even the card some day. But I'll never forget how this friend makes me feel.

April 7, 2019

Here is the first thing that she did not expect: for him to step into the space between them, in the assured way that he did. She was older. She felt, in some ways, more powerful. It had always been her money, her yes or no, her accepting or ignoring his occasional, hesitant flirtation. She expected that when it came down to it, that power would hold, and he would be shy. That he would follow her lead. 

But when they came to the place where these things unfold, he stepped into that space so confidently, so expertly, and with so much self-knowledge that she never stood a chance. Key, meet lock. Click. Then it was just a matter of delirious discovery after delirious discovery.  

What, his hands asked, if I were to do this? 

How did you know? her body answered. 

Things he said became tattoos she'd retrace the shape of again and again over the coming weeks weeks. Breathless chemistry: that was the first thing. 

The second thing was a wavelength thing. They found one another one it, on that infinitely nuanced spectrum where humor and intelligence hum, waiting to be sparked by the other. Jokes that hit their mark in the sweetest spot. Playful teasing that pulled all the right strings. Cultural references (fucking god how much she'd missed sharing cultural references) that landed. 

And the third thing? Was how quickly, and with what beautiful abandon, he let himself feel what was happening. How honestly he let himself express it, directly, in plain language:

You are fucking amazing. 

I've been thinking about you all day. 

You have no idea the things I've said to my friends.

These moments she gathered up, inhaling them deeply like clipped flowers that might not last the week. 

These were the big surprises. The smaller ones all centered around how much they had in common, in interests, tastes, styles, personality quirks. She had forgotten how good it felt to knit to someone with the same basic values and lifestyle. Work, friends, self care, creativity, play. Rinse and repeat.

She started to lose track of things, like how many times she'd seen him, how many things they were planning to do together, and the reasons why any of it would be a bad idea.

June 1, 2019

Work.

Work is great. It's been six months now since they foolishly put me at the helm - but I haven't crashed the ship yet. In fact, hilariously, I have actually turned out to be rather good at it. Of seven stores, mine is by some measures the most profitable, and has in fact only been profitable since I took over. I am constantly insisting to my bosses (who I love) that this has nothing to do with me, that I'm just showing up every day and making common sense decisions and trying to keep people (employees and customers) happy -- and they are constantly insisting that I'm killing it. (Their actual words.) It has been a huge and unexpected boost to my self-esteem, and despite the work being unglamorous in the extreme, I absolutely love my job. I work with a crew of funny, caring, and awesome people who've become great friends and I count each of them a blessing every day.

Social life.

I spend a lot of time with coworkers and ex-coworkers who've remained friends. They're awesome and supportive and we're close knit to a point where it actually feels like family. And if you've been following me for some time, you know how much that sense of belonging is like heroin to me. It's all I want. And I have it again, after not having it for some time. And it's so, so great. I see the my LA friends (the few who didn't move away) every so often, and Cameron (still living in Texas) and I talk every single day. I couldn't imagine life without him in my corner.

Love life.

The thing that I've been writing about since March is still going. He lives in North Hollywood, which is a right bitch to get to from where I'm at, so we're only able to see one another once or maybe twice a week. But we recently had a talk about this and I agreed to tweak my schedule a bit so we can change that.

Most nights that we get together we immediately fall on the bed and just lay wrapped up in one another's arms, talking and laughing and listening to music and only leaving when we're too hungry to sleep. Sometimes we go on day trip adventures. Sometimes we cook. The other night at midnight he wanted "to bake" so we went to the store and got stuff to make cake and manicotti. Sometimes we go to shows. These are my favorite times with him. On these nights he doesn't let go of my hand, and he pulls me through crowds, spinning me to the music, blatantly showing off to strangers how happy we are, smiling at me for hours and hours in a way that makes my heart feel brand new.

I've spent the past two months falling for him, and here's why:

We have the same sense of humor. Absurdities in the world and in other people strike us the same way. He tells great stories about ridiculous things that happen during his day, because he has a knack for finding the humor in adversity. He has this one laugh that he only does when he's laughing really hard, and it's about the best thing ever. I'm in love with that laugh. He's the biggest cuddle bug I've ever known and can fall dead asleep no matter what crazy position he's twisted himself up against me in. He brings out a nurturing side of me that I didn't know I had. With him I'm a more patient, accepting, and grateful person. In return he guards my heart and my body in the most beautiful ways. When we walk down the street he always, always, always maneuvers himself to be closer to traffic, to be between me and some shady person. He comes out to the street to wait for my Uber and when he puts me back in another one at the end of the night, he tells the driver to please drive safe. "Precious cargo." (It is of course to be silly, but it's adorable all the same.) And he monitors my mood and happiness like -- well, like Chaucer did. Very closely. He knows when even the slightest tiniest thing has bothered me and will not let up until I admit it. He makes sure I am good -- and that we are good. It's important to him.

He's a songwriter (by hobby not profession) so he feels and thinks in lyrics and music. He's made me half a dozen playlists. I've made him two. When we miss one another, we turn to these. That's a really big thing for me that I've missed. I shared my blog with him. I showed him what I'd written about him. I didn't know how he'd take it. The first thing he said after reading was "No words." Then he described my writing as "next level" and said some other really sweet things. His creative life is very, very important to him, and he protects his creative time carefully. I love and respect and find inspiration in that.

And more superficially, of course, he is absolutely, positively perfect for me physically.

Health.

I'm running fairly often and still doing my dumb little faux-ga / faux-lates moves that I do at home. I'm pretty happy with my body. I wish I had more self-discipline when it comes to sugar and eating too much too late at night. But generally I'm feeling fit and healthy.

Writing.

As is obvious, working full time still takes a pretty big toll on my creative life. But lately I'm coming to think there's another reason I don't blog as much. Same reason I stay away from Instagram. I'm just losing my taste for self-reflection. For talking about myself at all. For selfies. I have a theory as to why this is, and it's pretty simple: the happier I am - and I'm talking true contentedness with who I am and where I'm at in my life - the less I need to shout about it.

But I still love to write.

So to that end, I've been toying for some time with the idea of taking a fiction class. Because I just have no clue how to approach fiction. Last year I met a published writer who's been through Iowa Writer's Workshop and was just listed as one of the best 15 fiction teachers in Los Angeles, and I'm on his mailing list.

I'm thinking about it, but it's pricey—and my little free time is very precious—so I dunno.

And that's all the news fit to print. Birthday girl, over and out.

June 17, 2019

I held a staff meeting at 7am this morning, my first ever. Literally everyone showed. For the industry I work in, and considering how early and how far these people had to trek just for 45 minutes of listening - this is remarkable. The meeting went well and I didn't even speed talk, which is what I usually do when forced to speak in front of a group. It was just easy and comfortable.

Afterward I shot my boss a quick note just to share this win with him. I only see my boss about once a month; he bounces between SoCal, NorCal and NY, and our store happily needs very little onsite attention. He always emails back quickly, though. Today he answered: Ellie, the atmosphere and culture that you bring to your team is like no other. I truly appreciate it, and keep up the great work. He cc'd his boss on this reply.

I immediately screenshot this and sent it to all of my close friends. I do this, of course, because it's the one area of my life that I'm still insecure about - the one where I most feel I've something to prove. My friends (who know this about me) indulge me with various versions of Fuck yeah or Wow or in one case, some well deserved piss-taking: Manage that workflow. Create synergies.

Not ten minutes after this, one of my employees comes back to tell me that my boss's boss's boss - the company founder/CEO - is here. This is a totally unannounced surprise visit, which, okay, fine - but it was a whole thing. A whole media project thing, with a camera person and producer. Bit nerve wracking. In addition, she also included me in her Instagram story, introducing me as "Ellie, our GM, who is killing it." I laughed and demurred and said something about how I just show up, everyone else does the hard work - but I later saw that she captioned over me while I was talking: "She's being modest."

So all of that was great. And on top if it I got to talk to, see, or text about seven of my friends, old and new. And if you don't already know this about me, that is my metric for, well, pretty much every shade of happiness: how much connection I feel to the people in my life. How many conversations, how many laughs, how many witty text conversations. I live for their love. It's truly pathetic.

Anyway: I don't often have days where the awesomeness stacks up like this. But today it was stacked, and I wanted to remember it

June 17, 2019

I don't have as much energy and enthusiasm for Instagram as I used to; most of the time it just feels like an arms race. Like if I don't periodically supply proof that I am alive, that I'm still moderately attractive, that I have friends and a boyfriend and do fun things, I will be dismissed as irrelevant and uncool. That I will be pitied for my lonely, workaday life.

This is hugely ironic, since the years of my IG heyday (~2013-2016 I guess?) were actually some of my unhappiest. These years were broken up with the occasional incredible experience, sure, but the truth was that not having a (real) job was a soul-crushing existence that made me feel ashamed and alienated every single day. But wow were my dog and my boyfriend photogenic, and wow was it easy to look at pictures of us and convince myself that I was complete and life was okay.

I have a couple of wildly successful friends, one of whom leads the kind of life most people would kill to spray all over Instagram. International travel, a gorgeous girlfriend, endless good times with long-standing, very close friends. He doesn't post one fucking bit of it on social media. Occasionally he'll send me some jaw-dropping photo from, say, the south of France or Aspen, when I ask where in the world he is. But that's where his need to prove anything to anyone ends.

On the other hand, I have acquaintances whose quest for validation on IG makes me genuinely uncomfortable. These are the same people who will tell you, unasked, how blissfully happy they are, how devoted and adoring their partners are. Okay. Sure. But just as the truly rich never talk about how much money they have, the truly happy don't need to constantly assure everyone how perfect everything is.

That's part of why I don't like Instagram as much anymore. It can all seem a little sad and desperate, and any given image is now suspect. Instagram couples in particular get serious side eye from me - because I've been in one. All that energy invested into building a narrative feels tryhard.

Then there is the fact of my own questionable motives. It's definitely nice to see, at a glance, all of the people that I'm currently close to, and all the recent great times I've had with them. But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't some part of me needing to regularly post a Happy Square to remind those who've hurt me (read: left my life for one reason or another) that I'm doing great, thanks for checking in. Oh did you think I'd have trouble getting over you? Peep how ridiculously hot my new boyfriend is. While you're at it, kindly be reminded how attractive I am. Or: Remember when you decided I wasn't good enough for your friendship anymore? No worries, look how much fun my new friends are. 

Anyway, here are some blurry and imperfect shots from moments that will stay in my memory as anything but.

June 24, 2019

And then one day, you'll come home to a short, scribbled note. Just six words, plus your name, plus his. And this note will be confirmation that everything you felt all weekend, during the marathon three nights you spent with him, wasn't just in your head. And it'll stop you dead where you stand, next to the lamp where you read it with a smile. Because you know all too well that time has a way of taking things eventually, every last thing you love, because that's just how it seems to go.

But in this moment, time can't do anything. Time can't reach you at all. In this moment, all that exists is the undeniable reality that someone is in love with you. And that's a choice he's making, despite all the reasons he could choose not to. There are a hundred things about you that make you - that make any of us - an imperfect choice. But he doesn't care about those things. Instead he's focused why he should, why he can, and why he wants to. That's a minor miracle. It's a triumph. It's the "I told you so" of all your friends who reminded you that awesome, amazing things you cannot predict are always just around the corner. It's beauty itself.

Which is why you don't move from where you stand frozen next to the lamp. You just let time stop all around you and meditate on the fact that in this instant, on this day, in this year of your one precious life, you are fucking loved.

October 28, 2019

I have news.

That's a conversation I had about an hour ago.

You know me. You know my tendencies towards hyperbole and sentimentality where romance is concerned. So I'll try not to go there. I'll try not to gush and instead point at those texts right there by way of explanation and evidence. Seven months in and that's where we're at: imminent cohabitation.

Not that it matters (other than for the sake of this decade+ narrative I'm still running here), but he brought up the idea first. We are both utterly dog crazy, both desperately wanting a pup back in our lives (his ex took his to another state when they broke up two years ago). And so he very casually started to drop the occasional "what if" into our conversations, usually when we were cuddling and being especially close. "What if we got a little boy pup and named him Holden?" "What if we got a little girl pup and named her Scout?" And I would smile on the outside and smile even bigger on the inside and just enjoy the feeling of a man liking me enough to even consider that scenario.

And the what ifs became more serious in tone until one day he was sending me links to listings of two bedroom apartments and we were getting granular about what neighborhoods would work.

But I should back up.

Hello, hi, how are you? I am Ellie, former lady of leisure who now runs a restaurant and has roughly 1/100th of the free time she used to, when she was your scandalous near-daily-read-of-choice. I very much miss having the time and energy to blog like I used to, but man does it feel good to have structure, purpose, income, self-respect and the respect of others. I get to give people jobs and solve problems all day. I'm really good at it most days. My boss just told me I'm getting a raise. It hasn't even been a year since my promotion.

Professionally, I'm 8/10.

Socially, I'm 6/10. I don't get to see my friends as much as I'd like, but who does? I feel very close to all of them - those who have chosen to stay in my life, that is - and that's enough for me right now.

Physically, I'm 6.5/10. I have a pretty good exercise routine but holy fuck is it a daily fight to eat well when you work in a restaurant with so many tempting options.

Emotionally, I'm 9/10. Despite the fact that my life is mostly work, I generally feel peaceful and grateful. I've made some changes in my lifestyle that have freed up a lot of mental energy and made me more calm. I only spend time with people (both IRL and online) who give me a positive charge, who show me genuine love and care. I avoid Instagram like the fucking plague. (I haven't been on Facebook in years.) I very carefully curate my media intake. I cut out podcasts that overstimulated me or triggered me in any way, including most news. I spend at least some of every night at home with no media going whatsoever - not even music. Just pure quiet. And I'm currently on a Twitter detox, after realizing I had gotten way, way too emotionally invested in the Yang campaign.

Oh, and I'm wildly in love with the first boy who's ever actually said the phrase "I'm in love with you" to me. So let me tell you a little bit about that, with as little hyperbole as I can. (No promises.)

Somewhere around the end of summer, something shifted between us and I realized that my insecurities about him were unfounded and just plain in the way of loving him. Actually, I shouldn't put it that way. It was less a passive realization on my part than a series of active expressions and, well, actions on his part that made me feel that way. He became open and emotionally sharing with me in a way that he hadn't been before. At first this made me almost resentful in an "aha! I knew you were just as human and needing of love as me!" kind of way. But I've come to realize how beautifully organic it was. He was simply taking his time to feel his emotions and not rush in until he was sure. And then he became sure, and because it was on his own time and at his own pace it feels so pure and authentic.

But let me tell you about his birthday. That was a real leveling up between us. Check. This. Shit. Out.

Kenny loves adventures. Even simple ones like picking a recipe and following it. He loves new experiences. Loves learning - loves, even, trying and failing. But he doesn't love planning. He doesn't love logistics.

So I texted him on a Thursday (i take Fridays and Saturdays off) and said, Yo. I'm kidnapping you for your birthday. Overnight. Not telling you what or where, but I'm giving you three choices. Fun Fancy, Fun Adventurous, or Fun Playful. You have to choose one.

And then in my head I planned out three distinct adventures along those themes.

All three, he said.

No, I said. You have to pick one.

He chose Fun Adventure. But it ended up being all three after all. And it was so awesome. And he was so grateful. It couldn't have gone more perfectly or made us more close.

And I will tell you about it when next we meet, but now it's 11pm and I have to get up early so I can go be a human with a job, a boyfriend, and lots to look forward to.

Back soon.

January 28, 2020

Do you remember the first night? You touched me in some way that I made some noise. "Shhh," you whispered, and in that instant you owned me forever. But do you remember, also, me telling you how much I loved that you did that? "I can't wait 'til you do it again," I said. "Promise me you'll do that again, just exactly the same."

Only you never did. 

And that's what I'll remember. That you so easily could have made me so happy, with something so simple. But you didn't listen, or you didn't remember, or you didn't care enough. 

They say people will forget what you said and did, but they'll never forget how you made them feel.

- - -

I have been blocking and unblocking your number, like some kind of weird game of iPhone Russian Roulette. I block and tell myself I feel empowered. I unblock and tell myself I'm not waiting. 

Waiting is the thing that killed us, just so you know. Not this big long last wait, while you got enough power over your demons to open your life back up. Instead it was the dozens - literally, dozens - of small waits. The many, many, many times you left me waiting around for you. Made plans with me. Then just never showed up. Canceled. Chose something else. 

Saturday night was just one time too many of looking forward to being with you but being let down instead. I want the record to be crystal clear on that. That's all it was. One too many broken plans. 

The simplest explanation is sometimes the most heartbreaking, but I learned last time around that no explanation is just pure cruelty.

So that's why. Straw, camel, back. Broken.

June 12, 2020

My inbox is full of your invisible apologies. I'm writing them for you because I know you can't.

You should know the only thing I don't forgive are those final words, unjustified, untrue, and ugly. They threaten to stain my every last loving thought of you.

I even forgive the betrayal, the living lie you brought into our sacred space. I forgive it because I know how desperately you need distraction after distraction, to keep the demons at bay.

But here is the thing. They're not really at bay. They're there. You can shove all the guilt and shame you feel right now, over this unnecessarily cruel ending, under your bed and numb yourself to sleep. But while you're drooling on your pillow, they're crawling into your open backpack. Settling into your worn out pant pockets. Clicking with finality onto your keychain.

And if you don't figure out where the fear and pain comes from, your saga of self-sabotage will never end. And the things you try and hide from will never let you be.

The only words you should have said, if any, were It wasn't you. Or maybe Just know: you are enough. I know this, of course, and have good friends to tell me over and over, as many times as I need.

But for all I gave, for all I forgave, that is the one thing I can't get past. Do with this information as you like. Make it right or don't.

I know how to write the apologies I should have gotten.

June 14, 2020

Last night was the first night where thinking of you didn't feel like slicing off a piece of my stupid, unteachable heart. I think it was the breeze, which caught the thought that keeps catching me unprepared (bodysuit, so high, you had to help me find my way into it, did you still feel the same or were you already gonnnneee), unable to breathe.

Instead of pain there was nothing. A memory, factual. Neutral neurons, fired.

That's how I know your eviction notice has been served. And yes, the courts have been closed, granting you this rent-free stay. But everything is opening back up. I'll soon be sitting down with the constant ones in my life, the reliable rocks who'll tease me back to myself. 

At least he was better than... At least he didn't....

And I will be reminded of the small army to which you've enlisted yourself. Your rank and title among them my secret. Your files my privilege alone. You were best at x, you were worst at y. I lied about this (while you lied about that).

It will be easier and easier until one day I cannot believe becomes I cannot believe I and then finally, I cannot believe I ever.

And so it goes. 

June 16, 2020

Silence can only be weaponized against those who don't have all the words they already need, right inside of themselves.

That is the writer's escape hatch. You can push her down into a quiet, dark place where her hardest, most fatalistic thoughts can just fucking have a go. Eventually, though, she'll come to her own defense. Out will come the pen and paper, and she'll stack word upon word upon word until she's made a ladder to climb up on.

The words never fail to fix. The pieces can always be puzzled through.

There is no disarming a writer whose weapon is invisible and timeless.

June 17, 2020

True story: I learned to run in the city by pretending Hamilton Leithauser was waiting for me in my bed, and that when I got home, sweating and triumphant, he was going to make me yell like he does in songs like Angela Surf City and Victory and, really, any song by The Walkmen that showcases those fucking pipes of his. After a shower, of course.

Learned to run? you ask, understandably. Well. Running around the financial and industrial districts of downtown LA takes some getting used to. They're not the friendliest or safest or cleanest of streets. You've got cracked sidewalks, tents, rats, stoplights, and plenty of suspicious characters to contend with. It takes some focus.

So with Hamilton screaming encouragement in my ears, I got used to the terrain. 

Hilariously, I ended up dating a dude who was an actual real-life friend of the singer's. So after a show one night, I was introduced. I think I said something terribly maudlin about his music helping me cope with the death of my father. True enough, but wow what a lie compared to the real story. 

Then I went completely underwater with EDM and never really resurfaced. My current run album is Stream of Consciousness by Spencer Brown which if I could force you to listen to one track from, it'd be this. Or maybe this, which is the funnest song I have ever danced to everrrr, at a festival (Dreamstate last November). Pure joy.

But lately I've been listening to Hamilton again, on the train mostly. To and from work. His voice is my personal fight song, and these days I am fighting very hard - to stay in control of my emotions, to trust the process, to see the big picture and have faith in better days ahead.

We all miss our friends, I know. Our families and coworkers and other familiars. But I also miss parts of myself that I put aside over the past year, in an effort to - well I don't know, really. In an effort. 

Trying to get back. Trying.

Sound on

June 19, 2020

I went to the coast yesterday, with Erin. We bought lunch at a seafood restaurant in Malibu that had temporarily set up an outside drive through. A tent for staff taking orders, a standing beverage cooler stocked with canned beer and sodas, and the hallmark charm of SoCal seaside fish shacks: hand-drawn chalkboard menus.

Fifty-five bucks got us fried clams, fried squid, fried onion rings, french fries, and two bottles of water. Would we like ranch for dipping? You bet your sweet mask we would.

Across the highway from the restaurant is a small pullout overlooking County Line Beach. We ate in the car, gazing out at the ocean and debating the graces of surfers vs skaters vs snowboarders while eating regrettably massive portions of deep fried fare. So bad. So great.

When we'd had enough, we moved to a wooden bench bolted into the cliff side of the rusted out guard rail. We watched the young and the athletic suit up, stretch out, and wade determinedly into the tide, tethered by the ankle to their beat-up boards. Midwesterners, we admire but do not understand surfing.

How do they not bang into one another, when they cluster up like that? 

Ugh. I could never find my balance.

Isn't the water too shallow, where the waves hit?

For some of them, it had to have been their first post-lockdown surf. I bet it was glorious. It looked glorious, to be battered clean by waves that seemed strong enough to smack COVID-19 all the way back to Wuhan.

I envied them their fortitude. Too cold for my blood.

Me, I'm still waiting for my own post-lockdown burst of freedom. I had drinks in a real live bar last week, and I go for maskless runs in Hancock Park almost every night. But I'm pining for something big. Something commemorative and regenerative. An overnight in the woods, maybe. A full 24 hours with nothing on my face but fresh air. We'll see.

Out of nowhere, a black and white Border Collie appeared in the weeds near our feet. But she had no interest in us. She sniffed around impatiently while her human locked up the car, then bounded down the cliffside ahead of him. Erin and I looked at one another, briefly terrified - so steep, oh my god, is she - but when I stood up to check, she was already splashing around in the water's edge.

We watched man and dog play frisbee in the grey June gloom. Leaps and barks and digging and laughing and scolding and tricking and laughing again, until a sandy-haired, slump-shouldered teenage lifeguard came by to stop the sport. County Line is not a dog beach. No off-leash play today.

Girl, tell us about it.

Eventually I declared a need for ice cream, because fuck self-restraint during a pandemic. We got back into the car and wound our way down to Brentwood, for scoops of Salted Caramel and Lemon Verbena at Sweet Rose. Five thousand stars.

Then, neither of us feeling inclined to return to "real" life, we had a single, drawn-out cocktail in Santa Monica. It was lovely to be out, out of my house, out of my work - but it's just not the same. Servers in masks and plastic face shields. Restricted seating placements. Rules underlining everything. Low-grade anxiety and hyperawareness unescapable.

I know we've got a long road left, and I'm grateful for the social and professional diversions I've been blessed with (my work never closed - I'll tell you about it in another post). But if you've been wondering how I've been doing? I've been holding my breath. I've been surviving, but generally ill at ease. Everything feels suspended. On hold. Life in abeyance.

Is it the same for you?

September 4, 2020

Last night I took somewhere between one and two grams of psilocybin (powdered caplets of questionable dosage) and when they kicked in two hours later, turned off the lights, put on my compression sleep mask (the closest thing I have to a blindfold), put in my AirPods, and climbed underneath my favorite knit blanket.

In the safety of my own home, cozy in the comfort of my unnecessarily huge bed, and with no company other than the music of Joel Zimmerman, I melted into my own mind for two and a half hours of soul-righting joy.

I know I get dramatic about psychedelics. I can't help it. They change my life, every time. It's why I feel compelled to advocate (okay, fine, evangelize) for them - with all the usual stringent disclaimers. So buckle in, because this will be no different.

Last night I got past the paywall of my own subconscious. I was guided there with extraordinary love (mine) and light (also mine). In this deepest of caverns there exists the singular clarity that I very purposefully set off to find: self-love. Earlier in the day I had been disappointed by canceled plans. That itself is not such a blow under normal circumstances. But in case you haven't noticed, these are not normal circumstances. 

The absolutely wrecked state of the country has been pushing me further and further into despair, and my pain is manifesting in really awful, damaging ways. I have a lot of trouble being alone. Like - a lot. Me, solo Coachella girl. Me, sibling-less, dog-less, divorced orphan. Me. I'm clinging to people in ways that are deeply unhealthy. Needing more from others than I should be able to find in abundance, in myself. It is a desperate and lonely place to be.

That's where LSD and psilocybin come in. Because they are so powerful and because I have slid down the darker side of them, I only have the nerve to fuck with them a couple times a year. But when I do, my bravery is rewarded like it was last night. I slipped down, down, down and landed face to face with the thing I have been struggling with lo these many socially distanced months.

This is where it gets hard to express what I felt. This is where it gets unavoidably esoteric. I'll just say this. Last night I remembered...everything. I remembered that I am enough. I remembered that no matter who moves through my life, I am the constant. I am my own source. 

Of course, all the while I was reveling in this revelation, I was treated to the most phenomenal light and sound show that the universe has to offer. Just an absolute fucking mental festival. I laughed, delighted by the complexity of the simplicity. I cried happy tears. I twisted and turned under the soft blanket and thrust my hands up to touch the kaleidoscope above me (plot twist: it was actually inside me). When I emerged at 11pm, everything still very much aglow and askew, I attempted to eat a hot dog (only thing on hand) - but I couldn't, because I couldn't stop laughing at it. Please picture me standing in my near-dark kitchen, in only a hoodie and my slipper boots, just savagely laughing at this poor hot dog. Finally I gave up and ate some raspberries that tasted like the entire rainbow. It was the best date I've had with myself in a long, long time.

September 10, 2020

I had plans to sit down and write a flurry of posts tonight. I've been making notes of things to blog about - small, inconsequential things. Poetic (to me) notions I've had lately. Little victories I want to remember.

But now that I am here, there are lead weights on my hands. Everywhere I turn my thoughts is like pushing on a bruise. This time. This insane, apocalyptic time. What can you even say? How can you find level enough emotional ground to be still and corral your thoughts? I fucking can't.

Every otherwise quotidian challenge is amplified by the sadness we're already carrying. The pandemic. Our joblessness, or that of our friends and family. The surreal state of politics. The racism and violence. The natural disasters coming so furious but so frequently that we're in danger of getting inured to them - until they suddenly kill us.

Pasadena is under evacuation watch, because of the wildfires. Fucking Pasadena. 

I play distraction games with myself. French exercises, reading, yoga, running, cooking. Thirty minute blocks of doing whatever holds my attention until inevitably, around eleven o'clock at night, everything I've held at bay all day comes crashing in with a vengeance. And then I am racked. All the pain and uncertainty I feel for myself and the people I care about, all my failures past and present. There's no hiding under the covers from any of it.

I'm used to depression. I've either lived with it shadowing me or straight up enveloping me for most of my adult life. But now I am seeing my friends suffer, growing listless under their forced inertia. And it makes me angry. So, so angry. They didn't do anything wrong. They don't deserve it. If I could I'd siphon it all off of them, out of them. Make them pure and whole and untouched by the monster who is my familiar. 

Tonight the sky is red and my afflatus flat. I will try again tomorrow. 

September 11, 2020

In November of last year, Kenny and I agreed that if we found the right place at the right price, fuck it, we'd move in together. He'd ditch his NoHo studio and I'd ditch my Ktown one, and we'd join forces and finances on a two bedroom. 

A couple weeks after that, a one bedroom opened up in my building. And though it was tiny, the rent was amazing. We talked and agreed that it would be worth it to shack up someplace much smaller than we wanted, temporarily, to give us time to find the perfect two bedroom. I knew that if we changed our minds and I had to pay for the apartment myself, I could - so I jumped on it.

Then (and I've no plans to delve into reasons beyond this), he and I realized we aren't ready to live together. So the place became mine alone.

I never took any photos of it, but it was pretty cute. Nicely finished like my studio, and I made it super cozy with rugs and whatnot. But the building was truly terrible. My neighbors were trash. They treated the property like garbage, and my landlord didn't care, even before COVID hit. I fought the good fight, but Ktown is thoroughly infested with roaches - ask anyone who's lived there. It was depressing as hell, but cheap, and I was quickly paying off my credit cards. So I stayed. 

Then COVID hit. And at some point I'll circle back and tell my pandemic story, but suffice to say my very crowded neighborhood, the constantly fighting, non-socially distancing tenants in my building, and my daily subway commute all became suddenly very scary.

Now, one of the crazy silver linings I experienced because of COVID was financial, insanely enough. I was allowed to work as much as I wanted - and I was still an hourly worker. I worked every single day, for weeks and weeks. Every single day. No days off. I crushed overtime. I was given a bonus and then hazard pay. I obliterated five figures of credit card debt in a few months. I completely turned my finances around, while most of the world was losing their jobs. It was surreal and I am endlessly indebted to my amazing company (again, I'll tell the whole story later) for their generosity.

I started to make a plan to get the fuck out of Koreatown. I was originally thinking fall; I had a certain number in mind that I wanted as a savings cushion, when I moved. I already knew the place - one of my girlfriends had just gotten an apartment there. It was built in the 80s, just on the other side of the freeway, in "Downtown West" as it's called. It has massive, light-filled lofts at a fraction what they cost in the financial district just a few blocks away, a pool, a fitness center, and tenants who've been there decades, they love it so much. 

I reached out to the leasing agents, just to start the conversation and get on their list (I wanted to find exactly the right unit), and one thing led to another. In July I signed a lease and moved in. It was a sped-up timeline, which made me nervous, but it proved to be one of the best decisions I've made in years.

I'm a 12 minute walk from my work. I don't have to get on the train at all anymore. But if I want to, I'm a 10 minute walk to the downtown hub of 7th St./Metro. From there I can get to Hollywood, Santa Monica, Pasadena, the Valley, the airport - pretty much anywhere I need to go. I'm a ten minute walk from Whole Foods as well as a regular grocery store (though there's actually a really nice Grocery Outlet across the street from me). I'm an eight minute walk from Target, Fig & 7th, and the Bloc (shopping/dining complexes). Plus, obviously, all of downtown - bars, nightclubs, restaurants - is literally at my feet (I live on top of a hill - more on that later). 

The change in my lifestyle was so abrupt and so vast I honestly didn't know what to do with myself, for the first few weeks I lived here. My place is easily twice the size of the Ktown one bedroom, and probably four times the size of my studio. I went from having no AC, no dishwasher, a bullshit tiny fridge and a shit building with no amenities - not even functional laundry, at the end - to having central AC and heating, a huge fridge with an ice maker, a dishwasher, a microwave, a pool and jacuzzi, a fitness center, a washer and dryer in my unit, and a balcony.

September 13, 2020

As usual, I meet him on the street outside my building. Sometimes we call to one another in the dark, a high-pitched chirp or squawk. It's one of the wonderfully dumb us-isms that make too much time apart start to hurt. Amazing how the silliest bonds can be some of the strongest.

Tonight I just silently smile and open my arms in invitation. Nothing in this world like the feel of him, after a break. Weeks of tension and loneliness melt off of me and I unwind, finally relaxed in the security of our reunion. I am entirely too dependent on his love, entirely too hinged on the ups and downs of our relationship - but the world has grown terrifying and awful and I need him. I unapologetically need him.

"I got some licorice," he announces, and I see telltale bits of red in his perfect, bright smile. "And I have a surprise for you."

We stay so long on the sidewalk, hugging, saying hello, and just breathing one another in, that someone on a patio nearby cracks a joke. We don't quite catch it, something teasing or perhaps mildly derogatory. 

"I haven't seen this fool in three weeks," I explain to the voice. I take his hand and lead him to the gate. "We have work to do," I add, over my shoulder.

But we don't get five feet before he stops me, needing to reconnect now, here, it can't even wait until we get upstairs. This is a thing he does, a thing about him I love so much. His urgency to get everything out that he needs to tell me, right away. He needs me to know all the things that are on his mind about us, about me, about how he feels. How he's missed me, how much he's thought of me, how he can't wait to show me this that or the other thing he's gotten for me or for us. Sometimes there are apologies in this outpouring; often soothing reassurances (see above reference to insecurity). And it's all laced together with the most exquisite demonstration of physical affection. He slides his fingers around the back of my neck, his thumb along my jaw, looking me straight in the eye. He presses his forehead to mine, wraps me up in his arms, growling at the feel of my body again after so long. Deep sighs, whispers, compliments. Bliss.

Whenever he does this, I am reminded of how it feels when, on a chilly day, the sun comes out from behind the clouds. A sense of relief and gratitude for the return of warmth. Being back in the sunshine of his love is an all too real, visceral comfort. 

We stop another two times before getting to the elevator. And even when we get to my floor, he won't let me out of his arms, won't stop talking to me, loving on me. The elevator door closes on us twice before we make it out. In the span of five minutes - just being near him again with all his warm bright sunlight energy - my very immune system has boosted. I can fucking feel it. I can feel how happiness is flooding my bloodstream, like a drug.

- - -

Star machine.

Star machine.

I know it's called something else, a laser sky or a galaxy projector, whatever. But I'm calling it the star machine.

The feel of you. You need to know. I need you to know. I don't trust this world anymore, I don't trust it not to take you away from me. I don't trust myself not to lose you. So you need to know.

The feel of you.

We say puzzle pieces, but do you really understand? It's lock and key. I can barely let my mind settle on how perfect you are, it feels dangerous, like I'll never get some part of myself back, if you go. You think I hate when you sleep, but sometimes, sometimes when you sleep it's my favorite thing because then I can just look at you. The lines of your body, you don't know. You have no idea, but you should. From your cheek down your neck across your shoulders down your back to your waist. You should know. Anything could happen, so you should know.

You should know that when we are twinned up, entwined, smiling at one another in unimaginable bliss, that it's like nothing I've known. You release and ignite something in me that no one ever has, and you should fucking know it. 

Look at me and tuck my hair behind my ear. Twist it in your fingers. Press your face to my body and whisper how beautiful I am, how much you've missed me. When you do these things I'm not even sure I'm myself anymore. How could I be? How could I be the same person that has to get up, get dressed, leave, be a person, pay bills. Not possible.

Stay with me in this space we have created, we can keep it perfect if we try. Don't go away too long, please. Don't forget how this feels. Everything out there is awful but in here there is only our love and our laughter and we are safe. Don't go away too long. 

Bring the sunshine back soon.

September 14, 2020

I've always thought of myself as a closet misanthrope. That's not really the right word. I don't hate mankind. But I sort of lowkey wanted to see the world...tested. I secretly loved the idea of some apocalyptic event leveling the playing field. Tabula rasa. A do over. And this time let's make it fair, motherfuckers. End of the world movies have always been my favorite for this reason. Most people I know found Wall-E depressing. I found it vindicating. It's what's coming, you guys. Laugh it up. You'll see.

I remember once as a kid driving by a massive landfill, on some family road trip. I couldn't wrap my brain around the scope of it. I questioned my parents for days, upended by the realization that there was that much junk, that close to cities where people, like, lived. I don't know how I thought trash was disposed of up until then. I probably thought it was all burned and thus neatly, permanently erased from existence. 

After that my radar was forever sensitive to stories about mass waste. I learned about plastic islands in the ocean, trash mountains in third world countries, even space debris - and it started to dawn on me that there was simply not enough room on the planet for all the people and all the things they threw away. It just wasn't tenable. Where the fuck did we think we were going to put it all? It seemed absurd that we thought we could keep going like we were. It seemed even more absurd that no one was freaking out about it. 

I became a teenager with much bigger things to worry about, so that seed of disgust just quietly took root in the back of my mind. But then came two decades of watching the world more or less shrug its shoulders first at the ozone layer, then oil spills, then animal extinctions, then the corral reefs dying, then the glaciers melting, then increasingly disastrous natural disasters, and now my state is burning down around me while my president makes every single thing that's already bad, worse.  

And now that everything is truly terrible, it turns out I'd like to change my answer from I told you so and we kind of all deserve it to Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I know the world isn't really ending...but it kind of is. Some of what we're experiencing will get better. The pandemic will end, eventually. Trump will leave the White House, eventually. The wildfires will be put out, eventually. But the cultural, social, economic, and environmental cats are all out of the bag. Wealth disparity and class warfare are only going to get worse, unless enough progressives with enough power find ways to shift the paradigm. And they'd better do it hard and fast, because meanwhile, to quote Bill Nye, the planet is on fucking fire. Climate change is going to make once farmable land unusable and force mass migrations - but only for those who can afford to move. Water wars are coming. And my country is too fucking stupid to enact UBI, which would raise the floor and help millions of people have a shot at surviving the heartbreaking and gross socioeconomic inequities which exist, which are insidious and intergenerational, and which are only going to get worse.

And here's the thing I have learned about myself, through all of this. I'm not a misanthrope at all. I'm actually so empathetic that now when I feel hopelessness, it's not for myself, but for how fucked up everything is, in general, for everyone.

I'm most devastated for anyone younger than me. I can't imagine what it's like to be a teenager or a zoomer right now. I'd be fucking furious at the world I was inheriting. I feel like mine is one of the last generations to have had it really good. Really green, really clean, and really simple. When I was growing up, kids were pushed out of the house after school, told to go play and come back at dinner time. News was once nightly, with Tom Brokaw. That was it. No doomscrolling for hours on Twitter. No getting oversaturated and overstimulated with depressing story after depressing story on social media. No depressing story after depressing story, period. 

Yes of course there was bad news. No period of history is without scars. But this is it. We've heard from the scientists. We can't undo what we've done to our one, precious planet. And the outlook for the world's economics isn't much better. 

Rambling. Sad angry rambling without much point, other than to get it out of my head. 

Is it still depression if the sadness has an identifiable cause, and no clear solution? I don't think I'm depressed so much as despairing. And I feel like in order to not totally give in to that despair, I'm going to need to absorb less and less of the world's sad, bad news. 

September 26, 2020

"What should we do for my birthday?" he asked, and by then it was coming up quick. He'd had time to choose his own adventure, but hadn't yet mapped anything out. 

"Do you want me to plan something?" 

"Yes."

"With your friends or just us? Because if with friends, I'm gonna need numbers."

"Just us."

And so I was deemed Birthday Director for the second year in a row, a title that holds very little pressure when the honoree is as easily pleased as him. Gratitude is his natural state. Simple gifts, simple gestures - they simply delight him. It's simply lovely. 

I chose a cabin in the mountains near a lake, because of course. He is woods and water, fish and fire: a Portland transplant. For days I teased him with photos of plank decks surrounded by towering sequoias - a green oasis above the smoke and smog of LA. Ours alone for two nights of whatever we wanted. He worked himself into a fever pitch of excitement over a one-bedroom AirBnB a mere two-hour drive away. It can be very easy to make him feel loved. Which tracks, because it is very easy to love him. 

We ended up leaving later than we'd planned (miscommunication + misunderstanding + crossed emotional wires tripped us up temporarily) - but by 2pm we were on the road.

Freeway, highway, grocery store for supplies. I filled the cart with fruit, snacks, and frozen meals while he lingered over toys and tech gadgets. 

"Look, babe. Dinner." I held up an enormous, family-size package of macaroni and cheese, knowing he'd find it as absurd and therefore essential as I did. I couldn't wait to sit awkwardly far apart from him, divided by a meal the size of my TV, high on shrooms and attempting to spoon white cheddar mac n' cheese into our hysterically laughing mouths. Meanwhile, he'd grabbed an RC car set, a pair of LED headlamps, and a weird little plastic foot massager he'd surprise me with later, rolling it over the calves he knows are my forever sore spot.

Adventure Babes, as he had verbally hash-tagged us the minute we got in the car, were armed and ready. 

The cabin was smaller than I expected, and we got briefly lost and cranky on the narrow, winding country road it hid on. These facts combined with the headache I felt coming on made it hard for me to find my bearings for a minute. Ever sensitive to the vibes between us, he unpacked quietly as I set to rearranging the space. I moved furniture, rugs, pillows and blankets to optimize the coziness of our chillout space on the front deck. 

A bottle of wine, a baggy of psilocybin, and a favorite playlist. Oxygen oozing from trees that literally grew through the house. My headache cleared off quickly, and the emptiness of my stomach cleared a path for quick onset of the shrooms. Just enough to forget I'd been tense twenty minutes prior. Just enough to put on one of the headlamps, a pair of sunglasses, some slippers, and shuffle around the house cackling at my own dumb jokes while he cooked, his own tensions melting away in a tab of lsd and a glass of moscato. I clicked through the settings of the headlamp, stabbing him with the spotlight shooting out from my forehead. He flinched; I howled with laughter. 

"You look like a jackass," he said, which is a thing we only call one another when we are high and extremely emotionally close. It is always accompanied by a suppressed smile and often followed by intense physical affection. Translated it means "I fucking love you." 

- - -

The thing about looking someone in the eyes and not saying a word is that you can imagine they're thinking anything. You can write any script you want to, in your head, as they move on top of you, under you, inside of you, through you. You can pretend that when they pin you down or pull you close, that you're on the same psychological plane, connecting on thoughts that perfectly puzzle together what the other wants and needs.

But the thing about looking someone in the eyes after a year and a half and still feeling your breath stolen, suspended, silently restrained in the chemistry that is somehow, mystifyingly, stronger every fucking time - is that you know you actually are.

You know.

- - -

We lounged. I lined an outdoor loveseat with blankets and pillows and stared for hours at the treetops swaying above. When it got dark, he surprised me with the galaxy projector aimed up at the branches, a thousand pin pricks of laser light crawling across the pines. I hadn't thought it would work, had tried myself but couldn't get the placement right. Had been seriously bummed. But he fixed it. "What's going on out on the patio?" he asked casually, coming back into the kitchen. I stepped outside and saw and screamed, clasping my hand over my mouth. It couldn't have been more beautiful.

We ate. We snacked on grapes so plump you could eat them like tiny apples. He made me bacon and pork chops, marinating steaks, and bringing me snack after snack where I lay outside, forgetting I ever had a job or any adult responsibilities at all. We'd bought a box of individual fruit gummy packs, which I started demanding as payment for doing small favors or tasks. It became a thing. Once when he gave me one, I walked into the bedroom and set it down, then came back out empty handed. "Babe. You are not going to believe this, but I just got mugged in the bedroom. They took everything. They took the gummy snack. I'm....I'm gonna need another one." Biting back a smile, he fetched another one and handed to me, avoiding eye contact. 

We laughed. I discovered that grapes can wear raspberries like tiny wigs, brought one to him wordlessly, high and utterly fascinated. We were quiet for half a second, gazing in wonder at my creation, and then we lost it. We just fucking lost it, and we didn't recover for two days. We found hilarity in every single thing we touched, said, ate, did. A shared pot pie became the single funniest object on planet earth when we decided that unearthing the rare, seemingly hidden peas in the pastry shell was an act of pea-leontogy. We accidentally launched the rubber ball I keep on hand for goofing around with on top of a partition in the cabin, and he rigged up a broom with a plastic hanger and one of the headlamps. For most of the night, he'd intermittently stop whatever he was doing and take a crack at wrangling it back down. Finally he realized he could lift me up to the edge of the wall where I'd be able to use his contraption to snare the ball. With one hand holding my ass up and the other waiting to hand off the broom, he supported me as I grappled and then grabbed. We got it. The victory was immeasurable. We love that dumb little ball.

We adventured. When it got dark, we loaded up his backpack with water, snacks, various cameras, my inhaler, and weed, and crept out onto the pitch black road. Fully expecting to hit a dead end of nothing but private drives but doggedly determined to make it as dramatic a walk as possible, we ended up finding an a creepy, COVID-abandoned camp of some sorts, a complex of buildings that included a massive, deserted mess hall and industrial kitchen. We poked around with our flashlights, completely forgetting our headlamps, tiptoeing into a pantry still stocked with cookware and tools. I saw a wall ladder leading to an attic, and swung myself onto it before he could object. In the crawlspace above was nothing but insulation and some coils of copper wiring - but everything feels more dangerous when you're not supposed to be seeing it. Back outside on the grounds, shushing one another as we wondered at the weirdness we'd wandered into, we suddenly stopped short. Two queen-sized, carved wooden bed frames with turned legs sat outside, on a concrete clearing, at an angle from one another that didn't make any sense. What the actual fuck. The whole setup felt thoroughly cultish and eery as hell, and we decided to scoot before getting busted for trespassing. It was the perfect little adventure.

We played. With nothing but my rubber ball, a wooden crate, a linen hamper, and a stack of giant Jenga blocks, we invented game after game after game. Sometimes we'd lose the ball in the ravine below, and I'd stomp around in the dead leaves and cobwebbed bushes, high and fearless. "Leaves of three, let it be," he called in warning from the deck above. I'd return, triumphantly wielding the ball in my hand, and challenge him to mini feats of arcade-style athleticism. "I bet I can lob this ball over the ceiling beam without hitting it" or "Try and bounce it over the pillow into the crate, like a miniature golf course." Age differences don't matter when you both act like ten year-olds. 

We explored. We drove to the lakeside town where my dinosaur-obsessed boyfriend happened upon an actual dinosaur store. Some paleontologist had opened up a boutique with his wares: smooth Megalodon teeth, globes of fossilized amber in shades of rose and gold. Several million years-old toys for several hundred dollars a pop. I drooled over a stunning polished, cylindrical lamp cut from various geodes, and bought the only souvenir I could afford: a quarter-sized cluster of periwinkle grape agate. "I'm going to stack it on top of the two stones you brought me from Portland," I told him. "Like a tiny cairn." 

We connected. We dj'd our favorite music for one another. He showed me a little graphic story he'd created, and played a sunrise set he'd written. Again and again, in the emotionally-neutral space of a stranger's home, we hid no emotions. Before him, no one had ever actually touched my face, locked eyes with me, whispered how much they love me. I didn't think that was a thing that existed in the world, because I'd never known a man man enough to do it. And with him I get it over and over and over, and it has become the very drug I need to survive. It is an unbearable sweetness, this soft, quiet, affection. The gentle restraint until there is no more restraint. I'll never get over him.

- - -

Psychedelics dilate time, but it still went fast. Forty hours, more or less. He slept the whole way back, partied totally out.

Babe :) he texted me a few hours after I dropped him off. 

yas?

I love you

why?

Your smile, your booty, your laugh, your everything

I think, translated, that means I did a good job as Birthday Director again this year, and that I don't have to get over him just yet. 

October 27, 2020

A friend texted me last night, needing to vent about the state of the world. I ended up writing this very long response, which I realize is a good summation of where I'm at right now, emotionally. Figured I'd share.

- - -

Everything changed for me in the primary. I was absolutely gobsmacked that Andrew Yang didn’t win in a landslide. I was heartbroken to learn just how fucking stupid and short-sighted my country is. Then, hit after hit: the pandemic, the protests, the divisive politics. I started to withdraw from the news this summer, and then when RBG died I decided I probably needed to quit news entirely until after the election. 

Twitter had become increasingly toxic by this point, too. It’s either endless regurgitation of bad news, cult of wokeness inanity, or mean-spirited “jokes”. One of my breaking points was a tweet I think you posted a reply to - someone eviscerating someone else for some silly thing. There is so much pettiness and bullying and sniping on Twitter, and thanks to the algorithms, there’s no escaping it. 

Sam Harris has interviewed some of the key figures in The Social Dilemma, really smart and well-spoken people who make the case that social media is deeply detrimental to our well-being. Which I’ve always known - I was off of Facebook by 2009 and greatly curtailed my use of IG when I got tired of married men DMing me. And of course the fact that we’ve lost control over the content we see. IG jumped the shark when they killed chronological ordering. 

Since the pandemic started and I realized that nothing will ever be the same in this country again, I re-committed myself to a life of the mind. I know, sounds dramatic. But I’ve spent most of this year thinking about when in my life I felt the most engaged intellectually and creatively - what did my world look like at that time?  Well, it looked like stacks and stacks and stacks of books…which I had time to read, in part, because it was pre-social media. I thought long and hard about how simple and pure that time in my life was. Books, running, hiking, classes, friends. That was it. I was happiest when I was actively learning. So now I'm recreating my reality without the distractions that didn't exist, back when I was an active learner. 

(Also: there is a .05% chance I will still, one day, become a professional writer or novelist. I don't know if I have it in me. But I do know that drops down to 0% unless I change what I do and think and read, daily. Garbage in, garbage out, right?)

When The Social Dilemma came out, I was primed. It was the last little push I needed. I’ve been talking to some of my parent friends for a long time now about how Silicon Valley parents forbid screens entirely - the richest schools in this country are now completely screen free. That tells me everything I need to know. 

I deleted Twitter and stopped taking in the news entirely, from any source. Within the first week I had read two novels. 

But, much more importantly than that—I cannot tell you how much more peaceful it feels. There is a…quiet in my brain. There’s more space for reflection. I have done an enormous amount of work, emotionally and psychologically. I’m less reactive. My self talk is more positive. And even if I don’t do *anything* with my time when I come home from work, it’s still just a beautiful feeling of relaxation and chill, the not having of NEWS NEWS NEWS and CONSTANT INPUT AND STIMULATION.

Vote. Talk to people, if conversations present themselves, about why you feel the way you do re: important issues. Beyond that, save your fucking sanity and inner peace. American news is a nothing more than an outrage machine. I learned that when I saw them blasting every stupid fucking inconsequential thing Trump did rather than seriously take up the issue of UBI. Our country could have turned around right then and there—but it didn’t, because scandal sells.

I have very little hope for the world right now, and my heart absolutely breaks for zoomers and beyond. I truly believe the best any of us can do for ourselves is largely withdraw all the toxic things in our culture and environment and learn, quickly, where and how to find inner peace. I’m continually refining my own search and constantly asking myself: What makes you happy, El? Some things I know already and am working toward, some things I’m still finding out. 

But the answer is certainly, definitely, decidedly, not to be found on the nightly news, on Facebook, or on Twitter. 99.9% of what is to be found there is perfectly engineered to elicit our ugliest, most base reactions. I may never go back to taking in the news. Really. If there's an assassination or a natural disaster heading my way I'll found out about it soon enough. And I will always know where I stand on moral matters; my values don't need Apple News to direct my vote. 

Do your part and participate in the democratic process. Then turn it all off and go do the things that make you happy.