Journaling
Personal writing from 2012 onward.
Jump to the beginning.
January 12, 2021
I just read the full text of the Article of Impeachment against Trump. Not sure why I did that, but it was strangely therapeutic. Just an exhaustively comprehensive analysis of how his months of lying led to the attack on the Capitol. For verily, he that fucketh around shall findeth out.
Also, did you know that Members (as in of Congress) and Framers (as in of The Constitution) both get capitalized?
Anyway, here's a quiz:
Which of the following is an actual footnote from the document?
A) See Chris Sommerfeldt, Pro-Trump rioters smeared poop in U.S. Capitol hallways during belligerent attack, NY Daily News (Jan. 7, 2021)
B) Alexander Hamilton, The Federalist Papers: No. 1.
C) Michael Levenson, Steve Inskeep, Ben Sasse Rips Trump For Stoking Mob, Calls Josh Hawley's Objection 'Really Dumbass', NPR (Jan. 8, 2021).
D) All of the above
If you answered D, congratulations, you have correctly appraised the surreality of US politics, circa 2021. Your prize is getting to explain all of this to your grandkids.
January 14, 2021
The other day while walking through Koreatown, I passed a long stretch of rose bushes that ran alongside an apartment building. The flowers were lush and white, and any of them would have complemented a bud vase beautifully. Some blooms were slightly withered, however, or had dropped enough petals to become slightly lopsided. Others were imperfect in some indescribable way, in some minor aspect of their shape or shade.
As I walked by, I made a game of quickly picking a favorite from each cluster. I didn't slow my pace, so only had a split second to scan them over and choose. That one. That one. That. There, that one. It made me smile, the simple silly fun of it. A dozen tiny moments of concentration and consideration. Could be replicated, scaled up anywhere if you, like me, are working on staying out of your head and in the physical world around you.
- - -
Have you ever had a positive attachment to a thing that was also painfully attached to another thing? A song you love that reminds you of someone you've lost. A name you like "ruined" by someone awful who has it as theirs. A fondness you had for some place that, in your mind, became paired with a bad experience.
Picture a florist's walk-in cooler, with a dozen vases filled with mixed blooms. Any one of those flowers is a beautiful thing on its own, and any one is interchangeable with the others. Your associations are those flowers; they don't have to be fixed. Mix them up. Move them around. You have the power to create new, even better arrangements.
January 20, 2021
6 ways to shake off the last 4 years
1. Sit in the bathtub with the shower running above you. Think back to 2016, to the feelings of disbelief and dread that settled in the day after the election. Meditate (briefly) on every sickening thing you can think of, that Trump and his administration did. As the water hits your skin and drains away, let the toxicity of his presidency drain away, too. It's finally fucking over.
2. Cull some of your news-related follows on Twitter: the journalists, pundits, and wonks who've helped keep you sane. Stop taking in the exhausting 24-hour a day news cycle. The grownups are in charge again. You can relax.
3. Explore non-political interests on social media like science, the arts, or some other aspect of American culture that doesn't elicit twice-hourly commentary from Maggie Haberman.
4. Lighten your news podcast load. Give yourself permission to be blissfully ignorant, for a time, about current events. Switch the channel of your attention to literally anything else.
5. Dedicate yourself to a new personal project, perhaps in honor of the breathtaking scope of problems that the new administration must tackle. Biden and Co. have to fix an economy, eradicate a pandemic, and stave off a civil war. You can make a Chatbook.
6. Celebrate. Bake a cake. Get fucked up. Grab your tripod, speaker, and iPad, and trespass somewhere the city skyline makes a great backdrop for your own private dance party. Or, like, whatever works for you.
January 22, 2021
Hey, hi. Are you staying safe and sane? Did you have a good week? Mine was a bit of a rollercoaster.
Ye olde deprefsionne has been pretty relentless most of this month. It hit a recent low on Wednesday night when I lay curled around my phone in bed, absolutely racked, tearfully listening to Biden's Lincoln Memorial speech. But that was some Churchill-on-the-Victrola London blitz shit as far as I'm concerned, and I ate it up. I found myself silently pledging: Yes, okay, grandpa. I will hang on a little longer. Fuck, okay, I promise.
(It's been a time.)
But then the next morning, out of nowhere, a full pendulum swing in the opposite direction. Thursday began with awesome work-related news and the hits just kept coming. One of those great days in the midst of a rough patch that makes you say Ah yes, this is why we keep the faith and arise once more from the bath mat after a crying spell! Existence is occasionally tolerable!
So I'm making a list and loving it twice, of all the positive things from the week that I can think of.
1. Got some news from my boss that I can't share yet, but suffice to say I can rest easy about what's coming down the line. Gonna be a busy, challenging spring - but I'm gonna be okay.
2. Cameron, my madly creative friend who always has about ten red-hot irons in the fire, put in a big push on one of his projects. He put together a visual compendium of the concept that explains it simply and beautifully. And it is so clever, and has so much potential, and I'm doing everything I can to help him get it off the ground. We are both super stoked.
3. Erin came home!...for a few weeks, anyway. We had a huge catchup session and holy god was it great to see my friend. She and her mom (who sent me a gift basket with, among other treats, homemade Chex mix) are now actively campaigning for me, too, to move back to the Midwest. Alas, I do not have a job waiting for me, managing a gorgeous inn in Amish country (!), and I don't think California is quite done with me yet...
4. Stopped by my own (temporarily closed) store, ran into some acquaintances I haven't seen in a minute. Is there anything better than hearing your name yelled from across the room followed by "We were just talking about you!" I'm sure there is, but in that moment, I couldn't have told you what it is. I have desperately needed socialization, and connecting with them was delightful.
5. I bought a moka pot! Every year or so I change up my caffeine source, because I think it's important to keep my addictions fresh. And right now I'm all about the espresso. I got a 3-cup white Grosche Milano and I'm in love. It's so tiny, so easy to use and clean up, and such a lovely little morning ritual.
6. My buddy Steve landed a large and lucrative contract. He, like me, battles the Depression Demons, so I'm so thrilled for his big win.
7. Jen Psaki. That's it. That's the item.
8. Positive California COVID cases are, apparently, actually going down. What light on yonder horizon breaks? or if you prefer, What bed in yonder ICU vacates?
9. Got the most incredibly kind and encouraging letter from a reader. I couldn't even read it all at once; I'd get through one complimentary sentence and my imposter syndrome would yank me back into a chokehold. Eventually I finished and I haven't stopped floating since.
10. Ordered a full-length mirror from Wayfair which came *just* messed up enough (on the back, not visible, doesn't bother me a bit) to get that sweet 20% off "damaged during shipping" discount but not so messed up that it needs to be returned. Score!
11. Heard unexpectedly from my friend Jamie in NYC who I haven't seen in years, but with whom I have the most elegant repartee. You know those friends, and those exchanges. The best.
12. It's been grey most of the day, which energizes me, emotional goth that I am. I'm such a fish out of water in this state, ugh.
13. I made a lil dance video! I wanted to do something to commemorate the election with my own personal moment of celebration. And it's cute but it was a very cloudy and windy night, and I kinda want to redo it and post a better version where the skyline is more clear. But it was hella fun to trespass, wait until I was sure no security was around, and then just fucking blast my music, consequences be damned. (There were no consequences. No one saw. No one cared.)
14. No less that three sweet pups climbed all over me when I met them for the first time, in various situations this week. Nothing, nothing, nothing better. I always walk away from petting a dog and immediately sigh - I can literally feel my blood pressure drop, instantly.
15. Today I learned the word Icarian, which means what you think it does, and which I absolutely love and can't wait to use.
16. My cousin texted me tonight, which was a lovely surprise. He's the only relative I have any contact with. We only reconnected recently, and we still keep a respectful distance from one another (the drama in my extended family runs deep and very, very dark), but we've always been simpatico and eventually I think we'll get close again.
January 25, 2021
Have you ever been stuck on something, trapped in some negative headspace you can't get out of? It feels like you've fallen in a cold, dark well. And you pass your days just staring up at the sunlight, where everyone else is going about their lives, and you wish you could be up there, too. But instead you're down in the Well of Rumination. The Hole of Non-Acceptance. The Chasm of Spiraling Negativity.
It's a horrid spot. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
Your brain works furiously to get you out, because you love yourself and recognize that it's an unhealthy place to be. You reach for any thought that can act as a foothold or a handhold, to help you climb out. Most of my footholds seem sturdy at first, but turn out to be useless. They crumble under the weight of truth, because they aren't genuine. They're spin.
An unsure toehold is a thought you can circle back to a hundred times, but in the end isn't going to make you feel any better. That's because deep down, you know it's either untrue or besides the point.
A secure toehold shines like the truth: gleaming, golden, guaranteed to hold your weight. But just like real-life climbing, you've got to the do the work to reach it. You have to stretch (your mind), be flexible (in your beliefs), and have faith in your footing.
Hook your heart on honesty and you'll be back in the sun soon.
February 2, 2021
Erin leaves Friday. Already.
Last night she came upstairs (we live in the same building) and sat on my rug and we talked for two hours. Today I went and did the same at her place while she packed.
Just now I wrote and printed up a letter for her to save and read at some future point, when she's having a difficult moment. She's been through so fucking much in the past year and a half. A huge breakup, the death of her dad, getting laid off due to Covid, and now she's heading back to Ohio to start a new job in a new line of work.
Pinned underneath the photo are a small cellophane sleeve and a little white envelope. On the back of the envelope I wrote:
instructions:
1. gently remove butterfly*, fold, and place in cellophane sleeve. place in pink envelope for safe keeping
2. gently remove photo of friends** and place in white envelope. place in pink envelope for safe keeping
3. wait until you're having a bad day and need a boost
4. open and read letter
* some things change
** some things don't
She bought a three bedroom house the payments for which will be 1/3 of what we pay in rent for our LA studios, so there'll be plenty of rugs for me to lay on when I go visit.
But holy hell do I hate farewells.
February 5, 2021
Some people will grade your quiz before you’ve even taken it. When you realize this, quit the class. They’re going to fail you no matter what.
February 17, 2021
If I can’t have my way with you, I’ll have my way with words (about you).
February 21, 2021
I dreamt of wolves the night we didn't say goodbye—the night you left me with two single letters and not much more.
"Should I move on? y/n"
You answered quickly.
"It's not that easy."
I dreamt of wolves, which was a departure from the whales and the water. Five or six of them, out in the cold, caliginous night. Snow on the ground muffled their movements, but I knew they were there. And they knew about me, too.
We went back and forth. You talked about how hard it's been. How you're figuring yourself out. How you're trying and fixing. "I know," I said. "I believe it. And I'm not crowding you or rushing you. But it's been three months and I'm checking in." But you wouldn't choose y and you wouldn't choose n, so we went a few more rounds.
The wolves paced underneath my window while my mind roamed other dreamscapes, anxious and aware that some unconfronted danger was waiting for me. Finally I came back. It was an empty, echoing shell of a building, like the weird, abandoned camp we found that night in the woods.
I think wolves have always reminded me of you. You like to move in packs, with whom you trust everything. You can be solitary when you need to be. You were made for the cold, and for never being caught.
I felt compelled to open the window and climb out onto the ledge. I was dangerously close to the ground, to the animals below. I couldn't stop myself from reaching out to them. Shades of ash and smoke; lanky, hungry, menacing. The nearest snarled at me as I extended my hand. But slowly, gently, I ran my palm across his furry head. He flattened his ears and stood still for my touch.
It went on for maybe an hour. "It's been horrible and the only outlet I have is music and going outdoors." By now how pointedly you were avoiding saying anything about me, about us—only you, you, you—had me desperate to end it, finally. Just a month ago you said "I'm doing this for you," but you weren't, were you? You aren't. I've turned off all the music, I've lay alone and silent in my bed listening as hard as I could, but all I have heard is snow falling, covering and quieting every trace of us.
"I already know how you feel about music and outdoors. I'm asking how you feel about me. Should I move on? y/n."
"y"
And just as I'd willed it into existence, the y you chose lit up the otherwise dark room, a tiny point of light like a candle burning out. I didn't miss a beat before I asked one last question. "But it was awesome for a while, right? y/n"
"y"
I didn't remember the ending to my dream until late in the morning, and when I did, an avalanche of feeling knocked me breathless. In the end, the perspective shifted from first to third person, and as if filmed by drone I saw myself sitting in the snow, surrounded closely by the wolves. Two stood like sentries at my shoulders: noses up, noble. One lay across my lap, a wild thing choosing to be docile and calm. Two or three others were a blur of fur and limb and majesty. They were mine and I was theirs and there was safety and trust and an unspoken intimacy.
I won't look for you again. You can have your forest back, and I'll find one of my own. Snow will fall and erase our tracks, faster than it took us to put them down. Winter is merciful that way.
February 27, 2021
If you are no longer someone’s sun and moon, don’t settle for being just a satellite in their sky. Find a new universe to shine bright in.
March 15, 2021
I just had the most incredible experience.
I ate at Chipotle.
I ate at Chipotle, as in inside of a Chipotle. Indoors. With walls surrounding me (because of being inside). And yes I was alone, because most of my friends lost their jobs in the pandemic and had to move away. And yes it was with limited capacity, so no one was close enough to see me try and break my personal record for percentage of burrito consumed in a single bite (it's 30% - my record is 30%). And yes the little table tent politely exhorted me to wear my mask when "not actively eating" (I assure you that is the only kind of eating I do at Chipotle).
But who cares about any of that. I ate inside of a restaurant. I sat at the counter facing the street, and a FedEx delivery guy took the seat directly in front of the window, and I dined while averting my gaze from his ass which was eye level AND IT WAS GLORIOUS. And a chihuahua came by with his owner, and lifted his little leg on the bushes outside AND IT WAS THE MOST INCREDIBLE DINNER THEATER EVER.
And I don't know if my city is taking this leap too soon. I know our new case count has absolutely plummeted, because I watch those numbers (less than 700 today!!!!) more closely than I've ever watched my checking account balance -- but I don't know if we're moving too quickly. Time will tell. All I know is that I will never
ever
ever
ever
ever
take this simple experience for granted again.
And as I sat there tired from the microdose of COVID-19 coursing through my veins, doing Great and Noble Battle with the Pfizer vaccine right there alongside it in my bloodstream, I felt the deepest, most genuine gratitude to be alive, to be here in this fucked-up but beautiful metropolis that has watched me empty my heart and my wallet time and again, eating a meal that will induce self-hatred the minute it is concluded.
And when I walked back home I pressed the crosswalk button and I thought how if my friends were there right at that moment, and if we were drunk enough and they dared me to, I might put my lips to that crosswalk button. Just because I could. Just to show Corona who the fucking boss is and which species is superior.
I ate at Chipotle, and it was beautiful.
May 16, 2021
Had a doozy of a doctor's appointment today, hoo boy. I am fine. There is nothing (new) wrong with me. But the visit was kind of a perfect storm of weirdness and bad vibes and bad timing, and I ended up bouncing out dramatically before it was even finished. Total scene. So now I have to go back next week, like I'm taking some kind of make up test. (Which is exactly what I am doing: taking a make up blood test.
First I miss my bus because LA Transit likes to sometimes move stops around temporarily, like it is a fun video game to see how many attention-paying riders they can catch, like Pokemon. Well, they didn't catch me! Because I do not at first notice the wee mini poster they taped up to the poll announcing the stop closure in 5pt font. Cool, no problem, love waiting around an extra 15 minutes in the blazing sun.
Finally get to Beverly Hills where my (female) doc's office is and the coterie of staff checking me in (one to take my temp, one to check my insurance card, one to admit me, one to walk me back to the examination room) are all OVER IT, clearly, and the word of the day - one I don't think I've heard used since my dearly departed mother used it to describe the rich Scottsdale girlfriends of mine she didn't like - is "clippy." Clipped, short tones errywhere I turn. Not so welcoming! But cool, no problem. Essential workers are way more over COVID than anyone, for sure.
Then the admitting nurse asks if I'm okay with my doctor bringing in a resident during the exam, for training purposes. Uh, okay sure, why not, says I, pro-science, pro-education. So doc comes in with this super young dude and I'm really only barely thrown by the duh, dumbass fact that it's a guy, because I will Take One For The Team of modern medicine, yes! Only, then my doc dips completely out and I realize that Resident, Jr. is going to do the examination alone. Not a problem, except this guy is super solicitous and my doctor is hella awesome and holistic and always makes it a point to probe a little into her patients' personal lives, psychological well-being, and physical fitness.
All good things! But the thing is, none of those things are going super hot for me right now! I'm burned the motherfuck out at work, all my best friends blew town last year and I haven't had time or opportunity to really make new connections, I work too much to work out, and am generally pretty depressed and dispirited, despite knowing better times are ahead.
Do you know where this is going? Of course you do. I pretty much lose it on poor Doogie Howser who, alarmed but doing his damndest to conceal it, wraps up this interview post haste and leaves to go give his report to my doc. Meanwhile I sit there berating myself, feeling absolutely pathetic for my lack of emotional control. Good times.
Doc comes back in, further embarrasses all of us by attempting to console me about the Very Difficult Year everyone has had, and then it's time for the physical exam. Great, let's do this. Ears, check. Eyes, check. Lymph nodes, check. Stomach, check. Then: Do you mind if Dr. Babyface stays while I examine your breasts? Fucking ambushed. I mean, so dumb of me to give a shit. So, so dumb. He's a damn doctor. But for some reason, on this day, in this moment, I am just not into it. But what am I going to do? Be a fucking weirdo and say Yes, I do mind, please make him leave? No way. So she pulls the gown off of me and there we are. All five of us. Me, doc, doc jr, and my two exposed tits. What a party.
It's over in less than a minute and I'm fine, I'm calm and ready for the next parlor trick, which I know will be collecting approximately 3,302,382,293 gallons of my blood for various standard tests. Doc and sidekick leave and a new duo enter: one to take my blood and one to interrogate me suspiciously about the status of my insurance.
Data entry nurse is verifying my birthday for the umpteenth time this visit while blood-collecting nurse is taking an extraordinarily long time gathering vials, needles, stickers, etc, and being VERY conversational about it which I DO NOT LIKE. I do not want to hear the particulars of my blood work, no I do not. I start to get really tense and shift in my seat, and both these women hone in like hawks on my anxiety.
"Do you get dizzy when you have blood drawn?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll need to lay down."
"I'm good, thank you. I'd rather sit up."
"Well, now that you've told us you get dizzy, you have to lay down. Cedars Sinai policy."
Excuse me what now. But sure, okay, if this day has shown nothing else it's that I'm a people pleaser to the end, so I lay down on the exam table feeling for all the world like a mental ward inpatient about to be strapped in for 'lectro. I last about five seconds in this position before I sit up and for the first time in an hour, assert my needs and express a boundary.
"Yanno, I'd really feel a lot more comfortable just sitting up. If that's cool?" Questioning looks from both nurses. "Really. I'm good."
"Okayyyy."
And for real, I was ready to go, I was fine. But then the nurse who was going to take my blood became overly gentle and started crooning at me like I was a child, talking slowly through every tiny step she was taking as she laid out her weapons next to my exposed forearm. Honestly I don't need you to tell me you're "just going to find a nice vein" girlfriend. JUST FIND THE FUCKING VEIN, IT'LL BE YOUR LITTLE SECRET IF IT'S NICE OR NOT.
I couldn't deal. I announced very loudly and clearly that I was sorry, but I could feel a panic attack coming on, and I was going to have to leave and reschedule. (I have had exactly one panic attack in my life, coming off anesthesia when I was 29.) And to their credit they were super chill and professional and were like Cool, u good, go home. Which is what I did.
Not my finest hour, in not my finest week, in not the finest time I'm going through. But I have a countdown app crammed full of specific, exciting and happy-making things to look forward to in 2, 6, 10, 28, 94, 101, 111, and 418 days exactly.
Oh, and I guess I could add 7 to that list, when I head back to Beverly Hills to surrender my blood in, one hopes, a better state of mind. On second thought, I'll leave it off.
May 18, 2021
I don't think I've ever related to anyone less than the segment of the population who want to keep wearing masks. I cannot fathom wanting to be muzzled like this for a single nanosecond longer than is absolutely necessary. I'm not convinced I'm the same species as people who say, "Meh, doesn't bother me." Or, "I kinda like it." I get it. I understand all the reasons. You haven't caught a cold in over a year. Your allergies don't bother you as much. Your asthma is better. You like the barrier between yourself and your icky fellow human. What the fuck ever it is, I get it.
But I am over here counting down the days (28) until I can rip this fucking thing off my face, stomp on it, maybe light it on fire, maybe slash it with a paring knife, not sure yet, but just get it off of me. It's more than the physical annoyance. Much more. By now I'm well used to futzing around with a mask, earbuds, sunglasses, and a hat to boot. I mean, I hate it. But I'm used to it.
What I have not gotten used to and would not, I'm sure, in another five years of this shit, is the inhuman feeling of having half my face covered up. My smile. My facial expression. My laugh. The shape of the words I am saying.
Sometimes I think I'm crazy—or at least, very alone in—how utterly depressing and dehumanizing I have found masks since day one. We are all walking around with one of the most essential parts of our bodies hidden from view. We can't smile at one another. We cannot smile at one another. Am I the only person that finds this fucking heartbreaking? Our voices are muffled, we have to repeat ourselves, half the time we don't bother trying. It's like we've had to hit pause on connecting, unless we a) already know one another or b) it's absolutely necessary.
I feel like a zombie. I feel unseen. I feel disconnected. I hate it so, so, so much.
I have never once gone maskless. I have played by the rules and I have done so willingly, to protect everyone as well as myself. It was never a question for me, ever. But my god. Here, just a month away from the mandate dropping in California, when I can feel normalcy within reach, I am starting to comprehend how psychologically fucked the mask element of this whole disaster has been. And while maybe I'm just overly sensitive to it, one thing is for sure:
I will never take another human face, in all its imperfections, for granted again.
April 20, 2021
I met Paul at the Wilshire/Western Metro station late on a Friday night. I was not out shopping for a meaningful if brief encounter with a meth addict on my way home from work, but 2021 is full of surprises so far.
Paul's first words to me were "Never seen that before, huh?" He was stepping through the sliding door that connects subway cars, something riders rarely do. I had glanced his way when I noticed, but mostly I was staring down the length of the train car, which for some reason was unlit. My expression was one of mild concern, not curiosity.
"What, moving between cars?" I said neutrally. "Yeah, I've seen that. I'm just wondering why the lights are out." At that moment, the lights went back on. Neither of us commented on it.
I sat down in one of the spots facing the aisle, one reserved for seniors and the disabled. But it was nearly midnight and save for Paul and I, empty. With no seats in front of me, I could kick my legs out and lean back.
Paul moved past me, deciding on his own seat. I took him in guardedly, unbothered but prepared to bolt if necessary. He was somewhere between 25 and 35 years old, with deeply tanned skin, close cropped light brown hair, and greenish eyes the whites of which glowed against his darkened skin. His clothes were tattered and filthy, with pants sunk half past his hips and work boots halfway unlaced. There was no question he was homeless and either an alcoholic, an addict, or both—but there was an energy about him, an alertness that gave me the impression he had plenty of fight still left in him. Paul was clearly on the losing side of life's many battles, but as of yet he remained undefeated.
In the entirely empty train car, Paul chose the seat directly facing me, putting us mere inches from one another in the otherwise wide open space. I didn't flinch or glare or get up and move. I allowed it. I waited.
He slumped in his seat for a moment's rest, then immediately yanked the gaiter that covered his mouth and nose down to speak. I jerked upright, scolding "Ep ep ep!", the universally recognized sound for No no no, don't do that. The sound mothers make to their children when they grab at something they shouldn't.
Paul understood and with both hands, pulled the dirty cloth back up over his face, this time all the way up, covering his eyes and forehead ironically, like an impudent child sarcastically making a point. He took a few sharp breaths, sucking in the fabric that bound his face tightly. It was an absurd and darkly comic moment that I nevertheless couldn't find the laughter for. Pretty much like most of the past year.
I was a week past my second vaccination and feeling somewhat invincible, so when over the course of the next few minutes the gaiter ended up down around his neck and Paul's mouth and nose stayed totally exposed, I didn't say anything. I did some quick calculations in my head, the variables being
1. How likely I was to get the virus from someone who clearly roamed the city all day
2. How likely I was to get the virus at all when case counts in LA had plummeted so sharply
3. How bad it could possibly be for me if I did get it, now that I was all vaxed up
4. How good it felt to just sit next to another person with our faces seen clearly by one another, with our expressions of hesitancy or amusement or curiosity or compassion plainly visible, like real human beings sharing a moment of normal human interaction
and I came to the scientific conclusion of: Fuck it.
Paul fidgeted while we waited for the train to leave the station. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He pulled at the sleeves of his shirt. He cocked his head left and right. The way he jerked around it was like there was another Paul inside of him, restless and captive.
"Do you live around here?" he let his head hang back on his shoulders, only turning his eyes toward me to ask this.
"I live downtown," I said.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's okay," I said. The space where normally I would return the question to anyone that wasn't obviously living on the streets widened and widened, until there was just a chasm of silence.
"Do you think I could stay at your place tonight?" At this he turned his whole body toward me, an acknowledgment of the seriousness of the plea. I held his gaze in return, smiled sadly, and shook my head. He nodded. What he'd expected. No hard feelings.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Elizabeth. Yours?"
"Paul." He thrust his hand out, but not as an invitation to shake mine. Instead he flattened his palm and held it directly in front of my chest, inches from the zipper of my jacket. He held it there, suspended, as if feeling my life force. He held his palm out to so long I started to think he wanted me to touch it, to meet it with mine.
"No touching," I admonished gently.
"I'm not," he protested, truly enough.
Suddenly, Paul sprang out of his seat and reached into his back pocket. I watched as he pulled out an assortment of objects, none of which I could identify other than as things I would immediately throw away if I found them on my floor, and place them carefully onto his subway seat. A crumpled up bit of paper. A broken glass pipe. What looked for all the world like rocks but which I knew were not.
He fumbled with these things, putting one or another to his mouth, tasting, testing. I braced myself for I wasn't sure what. I told myself that if he lit the pipe I would have to move to the other side of the train. I didn't want to inhale anything. But just as quickly as he'd started on whatever this mission was, he aborted it. He sat back down, angled towards me amiably. Still fidgeting.
"What are you on?" I heard myself asking.
"Meth," he said simply. "I drink a lot too." I could tell. I could smell it. "When was the last time you got high?" he asked me.
I didn't point out the assumption or qualify which drug I meant; I just answered honestly: "A few weeks ago."
"Molly?" Paul had me pegged. I laughed a little and nodded.
"Yeah. I had some molly once but then they gave me meth. It was at a party. They didn't tell me. They were like 'Hey, you should try this blue!' and I was like 'I don't know, I don't know what blue is'. It was at this girl's house, all these people. I didn't know. So then I was like 'Okay, sure' but it was meth and I was hooked."
This monologue went on for a minute, Paul animatedly acting out the scene, changing his body language and voice to reflect the different characters of his story. I couldn't really follow. I just watched Paul deeply inhabit a moment from his past.
Abruptly, he changed tacks, looking at me intently. "What's the longest you've ever stayed awake?"
I took a moment to genuinely consider the question. I thought of the time in college when my boyfriend and I shot out to Disneyland for a day and then drove back that same night, both of us having to work in the morning. I momentarily got lost remembering the sleep we finally had a day later, when we woke up so disoriented and dream-drunk we didn't even know what day it was. I thought, there must have been a time when I stayed up a day straight at least to write a term paper...
"Hmmm. Maybe a day? A solid day?" I offered this to Paul with a smile, as if it were a small gift I was hoping would delight him. By now we were pulling into my station, and I patted my backpack to check for my phone and keys as I started to get up.
"That's how long you've been alive," Paul said seriously, watching my face to see if I understood.
There is a phenomenon that occurs when you take enough LSD, that you learn/know/understand things during the trip that escape you once the trip ends. It's just a fact of acid. You can't bring everything back with you, and you have to accept that some of the mind-splitting bits of clarity you glimpsed when you were in the wonderland are going to have to stay back behind the curtain until you're brave enough to go find them again.
That is how Paul's proclamation struck me. Like a slice of universal truth I nevertheless would have to take his word for. He was in a place I wasn't. He could see things I couldn't.
I reached into my bag and opened my wallet, pulled out the twenty, the five, and the handful of singles inside. "When was the last time you ate?" I asked him. He dropped his head. "Here," I said. He shook his head. "Please," I said. He took the money but didn't say thank you. Just looked past my shoulder at the empty car.
All at once, I felt my heart crumpling up inside me. I was going to lose it. We walked out of the train together and I picked up my pace to let him know I was leaving the station alone. I turned back and held my arm straight out. I made a peace sign with my fingers, walking backwards, looking him in the eye, smiling fiercely.
"Don't be sad," Paul called out softly. I was smiling determinedly. I had purposefully, carefully composed this smile out of view, wanting to leave him positively charged from our conversation. But he had seen right through me. I shook my head at him, a liar through and through.
I managed to get a quarter of the way up the escalator before the tears hit, well out of Paul's sight. I wouldn't have wanted him to see me breaking in two like that. He has much better things to see, that maybe I never will.
May 4, 2021
Jude is a nursing student who up until classes started up recently, was driving for Uber. He's never come into the restaurant as a courier, though. He's only ever come in to order food, and now, as a regular, to hang out and chat me up.
Jude is a couple years older than me, and more than a few times we've connected over our GenX politics and sense of humor. We don't have a ton of time to talk—I'm working after all—but we're clearly simpatico. If it were 1987, we'd be sitting in the back of the class together, cutting up. He's smart and funny and unfiltered, except when politeness requires otherwise. My whole staff loves him. He makes it a point to learn everyone's names, to use them, to tip well, and to compliment our service, our food, and our vibes.
For the first few weeks he called me Boss Lady. I'd hear his deep voice easily from the office where I'd be working: "Is Boss Lady here?" I'd come out from the back of the store, point at him, he'd point back. Jude's a big guy with a big presence. He has ADHD, which I have come to realize is a thing that I am inexplicably drawn to. I don't know what it is, but I definitely find people with ADHD to have a kind of light and spirit and quickness I'm really attracted to.
Anyway, he'd summon me from my dungeon of an office and we'd go sit outside while the kitchen was making his food. Just talk for a few minutes about his classes, or about driving, about my work or sometimes other customers. He found out about the issue I was having with a former employee—the one that necessitated a restraining order—and he offered to drive me to the courthouse if I needed a ride.
When Jude discovered that I had three hours of walking every day to get to and from work, he was horrified. He became obsessed with my shoes. "Vans? You're wearing fucking Vans to walk three hours a day? No. Absolutely not. What size are you?" I laughed him off, but did end up switching to Allbirds a few weeks later. The upgrade did not satisfy Jude. "What the fuck are those?" he pointed at my already filthy cement-grey knit shoes.
"They're Allbirds," I protested. "They're made from trees! Super lightweight, so much more comfortable than the Vans, I promise."
Jude was unimpressed. "They look like socks. What's the matter with you? Those are a travesty." He pointed at the thick-soled tennis shoes on his own feet. "These are your next shoes. These are the most comfortable shoes I've ever had. All the nurses wear them."
Eventually he extracted my shoe size from me, saying something about his female roommate's extra pair. "Oh," he said. "No, you're not her size. Oh well." But Jude took that piece of information, squirreled it away until I'd forgotten about it—up until a few nights ago when he came in, ordered some food, stood around while we caught up, and finally pointed at the cabinet where we store all of our to go bags.
"Give me a bag," he said. I reached for a small kraft handle bag. "No," Jude said, leaning past me to grab our largest paper bag. "Come with me," he commanded.
We walked out to his car in the dark. He was parked in the unlit, weed-filled alley and cracked a joke about murdering me. Then he opened the passenger's side of his car and I saw the shoe box sitting on the seat. I lost it immediately. Cupped my hands to my mouth, turned and walked a few feet in the opposite direction, not saying a word. Didn't stand a chance, just started crying immediately.
"Oh stop it. It's just a pair of shoes. Come on, knock it off."
I turned around and just looked him in the eye silently. Not just a pair of shoes, and he knew it. I made sure my face fully communicated how incredibly moved and grateful I was before I looked back at the box. Electric blue with only the large letters HOKA printed across the side. I'd never heard of the brand. But looking at the box it was clear they were expensive.
"You're standing and walking all day. Those things on your feet make me cry, they're a joke." He gestured at the box on his car seat. "Try them on."
I opened the box and pulled out a pair of lightweight but sturdy sky blue trainers with blue and pink laces. Obviously high quality, with two inches of cushioning that when I put them on, gave me the two inches of height I always wish I had. They fit perfectly. I took a few steps, marveling at how well molded and supportive they were. I couldn't stop shaking my head. "Jude. Jude."
"Alright, alright. Relax. You can put them in the bag, so no one sees. Unless you need the bag to go take a shit or something." I put the sneakers back into their bright blue box, then put the box in the deep paper bag. We walked back to the front of my store, where I stood on the curb to gain a bit of height and be closer to eye level with Jude, who caught me up on the nursing school project he was working on.
"You know," I started, "it's a a really good thing you're going to do that for a living, because your heart is way too big for any other kind of work."
He waved it off, wouldn't meet my eye for more than a second.
Later, I looked up Hoka shoes. This person who was a stranger to me a couple of months ago spent two bills on me. As a student, on a student's budget. I'm not sure why. Sometimes the universe doesn't explain itself. But now all day every day when I am in the throes of being busy, stressed out, and exhausted, I have a constant reminder of this incredible kindness. I have comfort.
Kicker of an epilogue, too: Jude was my mother's favorite saint, the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes. He meant so much to her in fact, that eventually when I get around to dropping my first name and officially becoming Elizabeth—Jude is one of two names I've considered changing my middle name to, in honor of her.
Sometimes the universe doesn't explain itself, but still somehow manages to make perfect sense.
July 6, 2021
Deadmau5 on Sunday night. I have every intention of rolling in later, showing up just in time for his set. But then comments on social media warning attendees to arrive early spook me, so that's what I do. I walk up just past nine, and the line is already around the block.
Once inside, I move quickly through my usual routine. Trip the bathroom—huge tip for the attendant. Bottle of water from the bar—huge tip for the bartender. Then it's into the main room to see how crowded it is, and how soon I'll need to stake out a spot.
It's filling up fast; people have already planted themselves against the stage and others are pressing up close. Normally I don't want to be anywhere this densely packed. But in seven years of going to Deadmau5 shows, I haven't once yet been near enough to see his actual face. And his music means a lot to me. After the past year + of personal, professional, social and romantic hell, tonight is a celebration. Tonight I want to see the face of the person whose music always helps me through. Just for a little bit, then I'll drift back. That's the plan, anyway.
The first opener isn't really my vibe, but I stay put. If I give up my place now, before I've met anyone to anchor myself to, I'll never get it back. But it isn't long before a couple of kids, absolute babies, adopt me. Matt and Nate. Matt looks like he just wandered out of a Kinko's, circa 1998. Long blonde ponytail, light blue oxford, pale, short and slight. Nate, also smaller than me, wears a short sleeve pink button down printed all over with palm trees. Matching my anticipation, Nate makes it his job to update me every few minutes on how much longer we have to wait for the headliner. "Thirty-seven more minutes." "Sixteen more minutes." "Four more minutes." They are friendly and unthreatening, and they are simultaneously fascinated and concerned that I've come alone.
"We'll take care of you," Matt assures me with the confidence of the blissfully high.
Everyone having more or less settled into their real estate for the night, we chat up our neighbors, dancing and laughing. This is the scene I've been missing. The second opener, Morgin Madison, is spectacular, and the visuals for his set are the most beautiful I've ever seen. Psychedelic swirls of color, geometric then organic, endlessly hypnotic. I'm 100% sober, people are jostling me continuously, but I don't care. Matt and Nate drift away and back in their engagements with the crowd.
Then: a booming voice over my right shoulder: "GIVE US THE MOOOOUSE!!" Everyone turns to see the culprit, which is a tall guy in a red soccer jersey. Seems to be with the couple he's standing beside. Early thirties. Athletic build. Brown hair and bright brown eyes. He doesn't look high or drunk. He just looks like he's having a fantastic time, and I smile at his mischievous energy. He sees my smile, smiles back. My heart thumps a little, and I turn back towards the stage, now keenly aware of his presence. Very, very rarely do I pay any attention to dudes at shows or festivals. I'm there for one thing and one thing only: the music. But the reason I very, very rarely pay attention to dudes at shows?
Because very, very rarely do I not have a boyfriend.
Not half a minute later: "WE WANT THE MOUUUUUSEE! BRING OUT THE MOOOUSE!!" This time when I turn back he's waiting for my look. His grin is playful, daring. That one was for me. Our eyes lock and somewhere in some dimension of this occasionally ruthless, occasionally gorgeous universe, something clicks. I hold his gaze long enough to say, wordlessly: yes. Pretending to return my attention to the stage, I can now feel him watching me. He's moved up closer; there's just a single body between us. My movements become deliberate. I straighten my shoulders, arching my back in time to the music. I casually adjust the bottom of my cropped t-shirt to draw his attention to my stomach and lower back.
The musician onstage appears to be winding down, then doesn't. Then does it again. "How many times is he gonna dooo that??" I shoot a look over my shoulder. He's angled such that he could have been speaking to me. So close I could touch him. I decide, Fuck it. I'll go first.
"First time?" I tease.
He laughs. "What, seeing Deadmau5?" I nod. "Second." I scoff and make a face. That's nothing.
"And you?" The stranger that was positioned between us has suddenly moved off.
I hold up my right hand and splay my fingers. "Five times." My expression says I win.
"Well excuse me, Miss...Miss..." He looks down the length of my body for something to make fun of. "...water bottle."
I point my water bottle at him and say with mock seriousness, "Hydration is very important."
"No kidding. I wish I had some of that."
Wordlessly, I offer my bottle to him. A year and a half ago, this gesture would have meant nothing. Sharing water at electronic shows, even among total strangers, is very common. It's a caring community, and everyone knows the dangers of getting locked tight into a crowd without water. But tonight? Less than a month since re-opening, on the heels of a global pandemic that still isn't over? We both know the significance of swapping spit. His eyes don't leave mine as he drinks and hands the bottle back. "Thank you," he mouths.
A tap on my shoulder. Matt has been watching this interaction and is fulfilling his promise to watch over me. "You good?" He gives me a meaningful look and questioning thumbs up, which I return. "You sure?" I nod vigorously. "Okay." And with that I am left unchaperoned for the rest of my evening.
Red jersey and I barely have time to register that yes, we are definitely going to watch this show together, before the show suddenly starts. And it's loud. Really, really loud. He correctly hears my name when he asks but I can't make out his, despite how close his mouth is to my ear. I take out my phone, open the notepad app, and write NAME while he watches, laughing. When I hand him the phone he spaces down a line and then types F - backspace - G - A - B.
"Gab?" He nods, then leans close again. "Gabriel," he says, pronouncing it with a short 'a'.
"Gabriel," I repeat back. The pronunciation throws me off, so I say it again, slowly. "Gaaabriel." We are both smiling way too much. Now that I'm next to him, I can see the way his clothes drape across his body. Mostly, though, I'm noticing that he has the warmest, deepest brown eyes I've ever seen.
I'm pretty sure it's going to be a great night.
- - -
He didn't touch me for what felt like forever. We watched the ridiculous Deadmau5 visuals, we danced, we talked and joked around as best one can, when one can barely hear anything above the live music. He was fascinated with the upper level VIP area, where girls in cocktail dresses and high heels leaned out over the railing. "It looks so boring up there!" He shook his head, disappointed. I saw the girls watching him. He was tall enough and good looking enough to stand out easily.
"Let's get a drink," he said, and took my hand to lead me through the crowd. He held it tight and the mere feeling of being touched, chaste as it was, absolutely sent me. At the perimeter of the dance floor he quasi-introduced me to someone he'd met earlier. I couldn't make out any names, and our proximity to the speakers made for some confusion between us and the bartenders. We ended up being helped by two, who looked annoyed when we all realized what was happening. I paid, tipping heavily.
Back on the dance floor, Gabriel was playful and sociable with everyone around us. I was still completely sober, not a drop or a dose in me, so I was self-aware and a little self-conscious. I didn't know what the rules were. I wanted him to lead, and I was fully prepared to follow. But Deadmau5 wasn't playing the music of his that you can really couple up to. He was playing the bouncy stuff. And it was great. Then he dropped into My Pet Coelacanth and I screamed and jumped, and Gabriel hugged me. That was the shift. He moved behind me, lightly touching my hip or brushing against my lower back. I wanted to make sure he was feeling it, so I looked back over my shoulder to read his face. Up to this point we'd just been endlessly smiling and laughing. But his expression now was serious, and he pulled me sharply against him. I lost my breath and when it came back, I sighed deeply and leaned my head back on his chest.
That's how it played out. We'd be apart for a few minutes, then he would pull me to him, moving my body comfortably. Possessively, even. By the time Deadmau5 played Imaginary Friends I was flirting back, hard. Plucking at his shirt, twisting it in my fingers, barely touching his stomach and then letting go and stepping back. Looking in his eyes the whole time.
It was a lot of fun to say the least.
Before we knew it, it was two am. "Clock's running out."
"Yeah, but you live four blocks from here," he replied, throwing back one of the first facts he'd learned about me, two hours earlier.
"I do live four blocks from here," I confirmed.
"So we could leave and go start a new clock."
"We could start a new clock," I agreed. Knowing, already, that I would never see him again after tonight. Visiting from San Francisco. Much younger. This would be it.
"Let's go do that."
- - -
Outside was depressing. The homeless, the mentally ill, the filthy streets. He assured me that SF isn't much better. We turned on Seventh, walking by bodies passed out on the sidewalk and boarded-up restaurants. I read his thoughts. "Bleak, huh?"
He tilted his head back to look up at the skyscrapers. "I like the buildings."
Halfway there he objected that we'd gone at least four blocks already. "Yeah, but 'twelve blocks' doesn't sound as sexy." I was nervous, and filled the walk with chatter. We had not even kissed, yet here we were on the way to my apartment. I mentioned that he might want to check in with his friends so they wouldn't worry when he didn't show up back at the hotel, then peppered him with questions. Had he and his friends just driven down for the Deadmau5 show? Partly yes, and partly to surf and camp on the coast. Was he from San Francisco originally? No, Atlanta. Had he been to Bonnaroo? Yes, plenty of times.
When I asked what other musicians he liked and he said ODESZA was his favorite, I refrained from telling him they were one of mine, too.
"There might be dishes in the sink," I warned him suddenly.
"I don't care about dishes, but do you have a foam roller?"
"I have multiple foam rollers," I answered triumphantly.
When we got to my place, I immediately dipped into the bathroom to shower. On the way I grabbed a pair of thin black lounge pants and an oversized, cropped, short sleeve sweatshirt. I hadn't eaten in hours and my stomach was as flat as it ever can be. May as well keep up the crop top theme. When I came out, Gabriel was on the floor by the door, working his back out with one of the aforementioned rollers. "Oh my god, at least come over here on the carpet."
It was then I remembered that one entire side of my platform bed's support slats were broken or missing. I'd been sleeping carefully to one side for months.
"Soooo, my bed is kind of broken," I announced. We had not yet touched one another.
"Broken how?" He looked at it.
"The slats under the mattress are fucked up."
Gabriel raised his eyebrows at me. "How did that happen?"
"Someone was trying to be funny and threw themselves on the bed."
"Is it usable?"
I made a face. "Depends on the use."
"Well, we're gonna try." A beat, then: "Do you have an extra towel? I kinda wanna shower, too."
While Gabriel showered, I did a quick once-over of my apartment. In the refrigerator was leftover salmon, some spinach, and an open pack of hot dogs. Gross, but throwing any of that away would just make my place smell bad. I realized my daily work to-do list was posted on the fridge. Embarrassing, but pulling it down after he might have already seen it would be even weirder. Then I remembered that the small dry erase board on the side of the fridge had a motivational message written on it. I grabbed a dish towel and wiped Your future self will thank you for not giving up out of existence.
Knowing there was a very real possibility that Gabriel's weight alone would finish off the bed entirely, I laid down on the shag rug that covers most of my bedroom area floor. Plenty of room for both of us. From the shower Gabriel called out updates. He had figured out which of my unmarked toiletry pumps was shampoo. He liked the drawing of my dog. His back was really tweaked from surfing today.
He emerged shirtless, in his boxers, to find me laying on my back, listening to the ODESZA playlist I had put on during his brief absence. I smiled a sheepish smile. Look! I'm on the floor! Isn't that cute and campy? Who cares that my janky-ass bed is broken!
He smiled back at me and I had a split second to realize his body was even better than I'd expected before he lowered himself down on top of me.
"What's 'Monrow'?" he asked, referencing the graphic on my sweatshirt.
Monrow is an expensive loungewear brand. I had bought the top I was wearing used, off Poshmark. "It's a city," I lied.
"A city?"
"Or a brand or something? I don't know. Would you like me to change?"
"No," he said, moving his hands under my shirt, "but I want you to take it off, because holy shit these are fantastic..."
- - -
The bed did not hold. The bed gave us about seven or eight glorious minutes and then physics got the best of it. There was some comedy in the scene, but underneath I was furious with myself for not having fixed it yet. We clambered around naked, attempting to correctly reposition the incomplete line of wooden boards. But they just kept falling. I went to use the bathroom and Gabriel tried valiantly to replace the massive king mattress without disturbing the precarious boards underneath.
"Fuck!"
I came out of the bathroom to find him standing frustratedly next to a sunken-in bed. "Can we just put the mattress on the floor?" He seemed defeated.
"We absolutely can." We slid the mattress down to the ground directly at the foot of the bed. By now it was well past three am. The vibe had changed. It was bedtime.
- - -
The next hour was my favorite of the entire night. The next hour was what I didn't know I had needed so badly. The next hour was the kind of sweet, fun, uncomplicated but intimate connection I have been missing. Talking, teasing. Silly voices. Cuddling. Gabriel was exhausted from his SoCal adventure but he couldn't sleep. He'd try for a minute then turn back to me for more attention and talking, which I happily provided. He was young and restless and beautiful, and all mine for a few more hours. I ran my fingers through his hair, stroked his back, and listened to him talk. Commercial real estate. Competitive league soccer. Surfing. Wealthy friends. Finance and economics, startups and cryptocurrency. His monologue dropped a lot of clues suggesting a definite avoidance of girlfriends, which I called out.
"You're extremely independent, aren't you? Like...it's just you, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said simply.
I was too hungry to sleep, so I got up to reexamine the fridge contents. I could feel him evaluating my half-dressed body in the half light of the room. His age had come up in conversation—29—but mine had not. The silence around our age difference was not uncomfortable though. It was just a thing, unspoken and neutral.
I microwaved us hot dogs which felt like the most unsexy food I could possibly have made, but it was really the only option. When I handed him his (on a plate; I had no buns), he got excited. "Mustard? Oh hell yes."
"That's just the juice from the hot dog. I don't have any mustard, I'm sorry."
He finished his quickly. "Honestly that was the best hot dog I've ever had in my life." I believed him.
- - -
Neither of us really slept. He blamed his hurting back and being overly exhausted from the day. But I knew the real reason was the same as mine: neither of us are used to sharing a bed with someone. We've both lost that comfort level.
We tossed and turned until ten am, when there was no denying the invasive summer light or the fact that he needed to go back to his hotel, his friends, and his life. He kissed me goodbye, and I fell asleep within minutes of him leaving.
September 29, 2021
Hi! Did you think I died of the R1 N1 NE1 Delta Plus Plus XL California Special variant of COVID? I did not. And in fact on Monday I'm getting the booster, because I work in an industry with High Occupational Exposure, which is to say I am frequently in close contact with West Hollywood woo woo anti-vax nut jobs who scoff out of their smug, entitled, unmasked faces when I politely inquire as to whether they've been vaccinated because, you know, they're endangering my entire team with their smug, entitled, unmasked mouths and noses.
I tried to get the booster yesterday, but I was turned away because I'm still a week shy of the six month mark and Cedars Sinai was not having my rule breaking (and I respect that). But Monday I have a legit appointment and will be all boosted up for another several years months of this shit. LFG.
I have an assortment of adventures and updates to report on, precisely none of which are probably very interesting to anyone but myself, but let's pretend otherwise and plow ahead, shall we? Right.
I went to two festivals. One was an absolute delight and one of my favorites ever, and one was a slightly disastrous comedy of errors I still managed to wrangle a couple of good hours from. Beyond Wonderland was beyond wonderful and had some of the best overall music, production, design, and guest experience of any Insomniac fest I've been to. Just top notch. Then a few weeks later I skipped back up to San Bern for one day of Nocturnal Wonderland and oh boy was that a time. Laugh at me for a few paragraphs, will you?
The venue for Nocturnal is substantially further from the train station than the venue for Beyond. And I knew this. I've known this. I've been half a dozen times; always just grab an Uber off the train and no problem. What I forgot is that Uber and Lyft are no longer affordable, haven't been for months. I very, very rarely use them anymore in LA for this reason. But I had no other option once I landed in SB, and boom. $50 just to get to the festival - and that's on top of my $20 train ticket up, which is on top of my $30 shuttle ride back to the city afterward.
Trying not to think about this, I hop in with Doris, a sixty-something bottle blonde with a voice like sandpaper and predilection for AC/DC (and for keeping the windows open while barreling down the freeway at 75mph). Doris patiently waits in the drop-off queue to get me nice and close to the festival, making small talk I can't really hear over Back in Black. I just smile and nod at her rearview mirror, concentrating on getting festival ready (which means shimmying out of my pants, swiping on some lip gloss, and finger combing my windblown hair).
It isn't until I've launched myself out of her backseat into the streaming masses that I realize two things simultaneously: 1. for some reason, this crowd is dressed a lot less...festively, and in fact, most people are wearing street clothes (which I absolutely am fucking not), and 2. it's a lot colder than the forecast led me to expect.
No problem, I think. Maybe I'm just feeling a little paranoid and chilly because the shrooms are kicking in. Oh did I forget to mention the shrooms I'd taken on the train? Let me now then mention the shrooms. Or shroom, rather, singular, because the thing I grabbed as an afterthought as I was leaving my apartment was the size of a cigarette butt, hardly anything big enough to seem problematical. (Narrator: it would indeed be problematical.)
Anyway, I know once inside I'll be surrounded by thousands of people similarly outfitted, so I'm not much bothered by that. But I am cold, and decide once I'm past security I'm definitely going to throw my pants back on. The fence net tights and dumb little white bikini bottoms I've got on are not gonna cut it once the sun sets.
Well, that was probably the last clearly constructed thought I had for the next four hours, because the tiny little nub of a psychedelic I had snacked on half an hour before was about to reprogram my entire itinerary, plans bedamned.
I pride myself on being someone who can handle her drugs. I can sense immediately when I've overdone it, and I know what to do in those instances: get somewhere safe and comfortable, get some water, sit down, and ride it out. But holy shit. This thing grabbed me by the wrist just as I was walking downhill into the chaos of lights and sound and yanked me through its watery wavelength into a state of melting, staggering disorientation. That's a little intense when you've got 40,000 scampering, screaming ravers bumping into you from every direction.
Dealing with a locker (which I'd paid for) was out of the question. I knew fumbling with a combination lock and trying to keep straight what I was putting in vs. what I was taking out would do me in. Chances were I'd leave my phone and bag on the ground right in front of it. So I resigned to shouldering my backpack until I found my sea legs, getting the lay of the land so I could find my sets, and taking it slow.
But first: pants!
I set my bag (a super lightweight cinch sack made of parachute fabric) down and reached in to pull out my cozy, soft, favorite Monrow sweats. Won't these feel lovely and be so comforting right now, I thought.
Oh fuck. Oh no. My pants. I left my pants in the Uber. Doris has my fucking pants in her backseat.
NO PROBLEM, I think. I got this. I am hardcore. I decide to just rock my hoodie, which totally covers the bikini bottoms, and which combined with the barely-there fence net tights makes it questionable whether I'm even dressed from the waist down at all. I am now essentially Porky Pigging it around the fucking festival, but at least it is dark, and at least, let's be real, I am tripping way too hard to care much anyway.
I find my way to the stage I know I'll be spending most of the night at only to find it faces a small hill. The entire viewing area is raked on a not terribly small slope, meaning there is really no level place to stand unless I want to be sandwiched in close up front - which I definitely do not. It's about this time a couple of negative mental loops kick in, making it impossible for me to get physically or psychologically comfortable:
a) I realized that since I didn't dare mess with a locker, I wouldn't be able to charge my phone (the lockers have hookups for cell phones). And if I couldn't charge my phone, it would be dead by the time I got back to LA and needed an Uber from USC to my apartment. I might very well be stranded and have to hoof it home. Not impossible, but a solid 45 minute walk. With. No. Pants.
b) The hill I was standing on was completely throwing me off. I had no spatial stability and I kept catching myself facing slightly away from the stage, like an insane person. Eventually the shrooms eased up enough that I found this hysterical, but for the first little while I felt trapped in a fun house with 0% fun.
All this being said, the lights and sounds were amplified in a way that was just stunning. I was almost in tears at one point, my senses were so enraptured. But it was hairy, ngl. I briefly considered bailing and eating a $200 Uber just to get back home and crawl into bed. But #adventure. I only have so many of these festivals left in me, and I'll be goddamned if a little forest fungi is gonna ruin one of them.
It leveled out. But I was still cold and overly high, and desperately needed to dance it off. Only that was impossible because of the stupid hill we were situated on. I found a little spot off to the side where I could set my bag down under a big tree-sized glowing mushroom (so meta!), and that worked okay except for the fact that people kept coming up and asking if I'd take their photo under the mushroom. I was like Yo I can barely see this dimension much less your tiny phone screen but let's do this.
After Spencer Brown's set (which was just straight glorious), I explored a little bit, but there wasn't much other music that really did it for me and I couldn't find a groove. I met a few people, but I was underwater and they were on dry land, so I couldn't really connect with them. Eventually I trusted my cognitive abilities enough to go take advantage of my prepaid locker and charge my phone. But I was terrified of missing my ride home, so I left the grounds a full hour before the city shuttle was meant to depart. The nice clipboard lady who checked me in was all "Where were you this morning?" and I had to explain that noon was much too early for me trek up, and sorry if you waited, but I had no way of letting you know I'd be taking the train up instead.
(I'm skipping over the fact that the actual walk from the venue to the shuttles was an insane 30 minute hell hike alongside a freeway and over train tracks in the cold desert night wind. If I hadn't been shuffling along in a caravan of other exhausted revelers I definitely would have gotten lost and died of exposure. Don't forget to picture my sad, huddling walk WITHOUT PANTS.)
ANYWAY, I survived. I miraculously got an Uber at USC, didn't lose any other clothes, and finally made it to a bed I'd never in my life been so happy to curl up in. And I realize now it was probably lucky to start winding down my EDM festival career on a low note, so I'll have less FOMO when I finally do hang it up.
All things happen for a reason, even for unreasonably ridiculous people like me.
photos from Nocturnal Wonderland 2021:
photos from Beyond Wonderland 2021:
November 29, 2021
Ooof, today.
Woke up and had to chase the moving company down to schedule an exact date, since the rep I was dealing with dipped early for Thanksgiving break last week and didn't roll back into the office until noon. Meanwhile I'm stressing because my new place needs a firm date from me, as does my new work.
Found out my moving boxes aren't coming until Friday, so I won't have this week to pack, and will need to get it all done next week after I get back from San Diego (going down for a few days to hang with Steve and have a send-off weekend).
My kitchen sink backed up and held me hostage for an hour while I waited on maintenance, since I was too scared to go shower while the dishwasher was going, lest I return to a flooded floor.
My phone battery finally went kaput, and I had to make three trips to the Apple store. One to go book a Genius Bar appointment, one to actually go to the appointment, and one to go pick up my repaired phone.
Went to my new work to get onboarded, but they don't like the look of my birth certificate, because despite it being the original copy with a seal and everything, I'm so ancient it comes from a time before Social Security numbers were printed on them.
But since I don't have a Social Security card anymore, I need to get a replacement in order to fulfill my I9 requirements. Naturally, all the offices are closed to visits, and when I tried to do it online I was sent in unproductive circles.
Tried to sign my apartment lease digitally, since I finally confirmed movers and booked my flight, but the interface the apartment building uses is a mess, and I couldn't navigate through all the pages.
All of the above was eventually resolved, but goddamn was today a mission.
So now I'm all set. Just need to pack. But everything is confirmed and paid for, and I am absolutely not dreaming. I can exhale because I really am getting the fuck out of California.
It was a glorious 78 degrees today, by which I mean it was absolutely horrific and I hated every minute of it. I was sweating in just the lightest hoodie. But it was perfect, because it's just going to make getting out of this heat that much more incredible. I'm looking at a 40 degree drop in temp. FORTY DEGREES. Ask me how hard that makes me smile. I am so ready. Today I hit Uniqlo for some of their awesome HeatTech tops and leggings, which I used to wear at the market in winter (which was essentially like working outside).
New job in a
New industry in a
New city with an endless number of
New possibilities.
11 days til liftoff.
December 6, 2021
Coming to you live from FEELS CENTRAL over here, sitting on the floor in a partially packed-up apartment, trying to stay focused and not get overwhelmed by all the thinks I'm thoughting about 12 years in LA. The good, the bad. The friends, the boyfriends. The wins, the losses. Every experience that has been so formative and added up to Ellie circa 2021.
There've been some snags. My work doesn't like my birth certificate (original with the seal and everything), so the backup plan for that would be to use my SS card for onboarding. Don't have one, and the Social Security administration doesn't want to issue me a replacement without me sending them my driver's license, because they won't grant me an in-person appointment. But I need the license to get on the plane Friday night, because my passport expired last year, and the passport office is only granting expedited renewals in cases of immediate international travel.
Originally my work had given me a start date of December 31st, but when I let them know I'd be in Chicago by Saturday, they asked if I could come in Tuesday, because my boss (who's based on the east coast) can only spare three days to train me before he has other stuff to do. I was totally down and ready, but now it's questionable if they'll even let me start without the proper docs.
Social Security sent me a printout pairing my name to my social, which they say should be sufficient for my work--but my work is saying no to that. They want either the actual card or at least a tracking number verifying it's on the way. But again: I can't submit for a replacement without surrendering my license for a week or so. I've also sent off for a certified version of my birth certificate that will show as a government-issued (mine just has the hospital on it), but that's a 4-5 week turnaround.
All this to say that I may have more time to get settled and explore before starting my new job. Which would be just fine by me (though yes, I should probably get to earning again ASAP).
In the meantime, I'm having a blast doing fun errands and tasks like getting knit cuffs sewn into my favorite puffer for better warmth, having some dress pants I've never had an opportunity to wear hemmed, and picking out superwarm lined winter boots and office-appropriate work tops in what is undeniably a justifiable wee shopping spree.
- - -
I went down to San Diego for a night to see Steve and it was an insanely fun time of nonstop laughs as always. At one point we were absolutely untethered on shrooms, sitting streetside at an Irish bar downtown, people watching and gulping air and trying to stay in the correct dimension but also feeling safe to peace out of it as necessary. Steve was messing around on my Insta looking at my stories, and he noticed a follower of mine who a) only follows me, and b) has never posted a single photo.
Now, I don't really pay attention my IG stuff, I gave up looking to see if any of my ex's were watching months ago, because they weren't, and who cares anyway. So I don't really give a shit if someone wants to creep on my account with a fake name or whatever is happening there. It doesn't affect me, and that's their time and energy. That's on them. But Steve lost it. Maybe it was the shrooms, but he simultaneously found it highly disturbing and incredibly hilarious.
So he conceives this genius idea (granted, all ideas are genius on shrooms) for me to screenshot this rando's account, showing myself as their only follow, caption it just "Who dis?", and add it to my story. Just straight up call this person out. And since this person watches all of my stories, we would then get to see, in real time, this person seeing themselves called out. We'd then get to see what they decided to do next: unfollow, maybe? Delete their account? DM me and come clean? It was a whole digital adventure we could undertake, and when I say it struck us as the funniest thing that we have ever done, I mean it was the funniest goddamn thing we have ever done.
And oh god is that a high bar.
We nearly fell out of our seats. I couldn't breathe. I just kept falling onto him laughing. Far and away the hardest I have ever laughed in my life has been on shrooms. The two hardest times prior were both on St. Patrick's Day: once with Terence and once with Costa.
This surpassed those, even.
So I posted it, and we carried on with the night. But every few minutes Steve would yell "WHO DIS!" and we would bust up all over again, then check the views under that story. The idea of this person's face when they finally saw it—I cannot tell you how funny this struck us. Maybe the moment doesn't translate. Or maybe you can kind of get it it. Either way, holy shit. Funnest night ever.
Eventually toward the end of my trip I started to feel a little uncomfortable about it, and I pulled the story board. For one thing, I don't want to give the incorrect impression that I really look at that stuff much, because I rarely do. For another, I don't care if someone wants to lurk. Lurk away. It doesn't affect me in any way. Flattered to think someone finds me that interesting, or needs to keep tabs on me secretly. Big whatever.
Anyway. San Diego was everything I could hope for in a send off and more. Fucking love that guy.
December 8, 2021
Well, tonight just kicked me in the teeth. Didn't plan on any more posts before I leave but the feels are absolutely throttling me, so I need to write.
Went for a last dinner with Kenny and Alfie, and even though we decided that I will actually stay there Thursday night before I fly out Friday, I am already feeling it so hard. Oof.
I've known Kenny a couple years longer than I've known Alfie. I was with them on one of their earliest dates, which fell on a Halloween (the year I was Susie Bishop, and our friend Ben made me that amazing costume), and I got to watch Kenny buy his first house which Alfie eventually moved into--and then they finally got married.
They are both my dear friends, but I'm closer to Kenny and have a few dozen more memories on the books with him. He is special to me in a way no one else is. Kenny is the most exquisitely gentle hearted soul I have ever known. Fuck. I am crying trying to get this out. And I will be channeling all of this into a letter just for him, that I will give him before I go. But you should know, too, because a heart like his needs to be celebrated.
My very first interaction with Kenny was while I was still married. Mike and I kept hearing a dog crying in the apartment below us, all day. We left a very polite note on his door saying we were sympathetic dog owners/lovers, and that he might not be aware that his pup was in distress. In return we got a very lovely long and immaculately printed letter explaining that he was temporarily dogsitting, and he was so terribly sorry for the noise etc etc. Along with the note was a bottle of wine. Suffice to say I was smitten before I even met him, which I did at a party in the building a few weeks later.
At this party, Kenny came up to me to compliment my hair. A girlfriend who was my stylist back then had asked if she could practice applying, maintaining, and ultimately removing extensions on me--for free. (That's about $1200 worth of product and service I got to enjoy for a few years. It was amazing.) I immediately confessed they were extensions, at which he exclaimed and politely asked if he could touch them.
So began an eleven year best friendship with someone who also happened to be a Beverly Hills hair stylist, and who would take over doing my cuts, color, and Brazilian blowouts for the next decade usually free and dirt cheap on those occasions he would actually let me pay.
I have never claimed to deserve my blessings.
The wild and crazy adventures I have had with Kenny rival those I've had with anyone--and that's saying a lot. So many stupidly fun nights out dancing at the gay bars; one time I even won a dance contest, at MJ's (before it closed down). Foam parties. Costume parties. Ice skating in costumes. Trespassing on the roof to hoist a pair of my underwear up the building's flagpole (seriously). Akbar in Los Feliz, the night I learned my limitations with tequila. Gorgeous dinner after gorgeous dinner. Summertramp. Disneyland (on shrooms). Drag shows. House (apartment) parties. Concerts. And oh god, all the nights in West Hollywood. The Abbey. Mickey's. The annual Red Dress Party. Day drinking at The Standard. Themed holiday parties at his house.
And housed inside that wild, spontaneous, fun-loving soul is a kindness and a sense of compassion you can't imagine. Kenny is the one I can always trust to *get it*. He always says the right thing, when I am hurting and low. He always understands. He is just as sensitive as me, and I can tell him any experience of mine--romantic, social, professional--and he'll come to the exact same conclusions about it as me. He's always in my corner, and is the most fiercely loyal friend I have. The minute a guy hurts me, to Kenny they are dead. He tolerates absolutely no bullshit from the men in my life. Loyalty like that, a protective, brotherly spirit like that? To me it is gold.
And we have never, ever, not once had any kind of disagreement or tension over anything. Never. He is the only close friend I can say that about. That's an incredible thing, and it's all him. He's just so grounded and effortlessly chill, has his head and his values so straight. He is so authentic and genuine, and those qualities have made him such a treasured touchstone in my life all these years.
So, why this big essay for him, and not for Steve the other day? Well, Steve travels a lot for his work. I know I will see Steve. But Kenny is pretty well planted here in LA. And though the other night at Brazilian BBQ we all pledged that since we're grownups, we can make the effort to fly out and visit one another--I don't know how often that will happen. Kenny is a true homebody.
Anyway. I love him so much. It's punching a hole in me to think of not seeing his happy smile and hearing his laughter every few weeks.
January 3, 2022
The salon I have chosen for my first Chicago hair cut is four blocks from my apartment. It's on Dearborn, a street name that dings the little Midwestern memory bell in my head—the one that hasn't stopped ringing since I got here. My dad traveled to Dearborn, Michigan often for work. I grew up hearing the word without ever thinking how curious a compound it really is. Dearborn. A sobriquet for another time.
It's on Dearborn, but in a direction I haven't walked yet on that particular street. I have so barely scratched the surface here. The first thing I notice is there's no doormat. Not in the tiny anteroom, nor at the salon's entrance. It's 9am and they've just opened. I'm the first appointment of the day, rescheduled by them last minute from a later slot. "Do you mind coming in earlier? We have a huge gap, it would really help us out." Of course I say yes, but I do so quelling a tinge of annoyance that I'll have to wake up early on my day off.
However, my days off are Saturday and Sunday, every single week. That is a triumph I can lean on, if I am a little sleepy.
I step into the space and lightly stamp my boots to shake off the snow. A man enters from the salon's back room and begins readying one of the stations for the day. He smiles my way, but remains quiet. I feel the need to say something. "There's no doormat!" I exclaim, trying to excuse the puddle of water I'm creating. He smiles bigger and walks toward me. He doesn't introduce himself, but it's clear from his dress and comportment that this is his salon. When he takes my coat I take in coffee-black eyes and a deep sense of mansuetude. A calmness that matches the empty salon and the blanketed sidewalks outside.
"I'm not used to the snow," I continue, ridiculously. "I just moved here from LA." Where is this non-sequitur coming from? What am I doing?
"Ah," he says softly. "That explains it." Explains what? I suddenly feel sharply self-conscious in my hoodie and jeans. Have my clothes given me away? Is it that obvious I'm an invasive species?
Once situated in the seat furthest from the door, I announce I'm going to be his easiest client ever. While I enumerate my very short list of very basic desires, he gently plays with my hair. I want the same two things I ever want: cut what you have to so it's healthy and try to get the red out without darkening it. This second item is my long-running fantasy. I have been assured by anyone licensed to bear scissors that red is my destiny. Something about the undertones in my hair, I don't know. But I was born a redhead and I am doomed to die one, apparently. Ash-less to ash-less, dust to dust.
Mish (whose name I learn from the girl that steps in to apply my color) tells me he can get me to the cooler shade I want. "I'll use ash to tone down the red. We'll see how it comes out today, but within another visit or so you should be good." The assured way he says this gives me hope. Also: I'm on a program! A program to de-redify my hair!
My color is applied by a girl whose expertly waved, cascading locks remind me how boring a client I must be. As she paints on chemicals that make my scalp itch furiously, I stare at her light blue Converse. She definitely changes shoes at work, like me. Her perfectly worn in sneakers are nowhere near as try hard as my squeaky new boots. I feel devastatingly uncool.
Color girl and I talk about my recent move. She has a friend who just came back to Chicago from LA, and we compare notes. Her friend has told her that Los Angeles is nothing like it's portrayed in the movies. I confirm this, and many of her friend's other criticisms. Yes, it really is that dirty. Yes, it really is that crowded. Yes, it really is that hot. She wants to know if people in LA really are all narcissists. Here I tread lightly. "No..." I start without conviction. "But it's influencer central out there. And it's not a really good place to be, unless you have a lot of money. Or you're in the industry. But most people that think they're in the industry are just extras, or comedians, or, like, used up actors who eventually give up and get real jobs, but they stay because their friends are there. It's a weird place." She nods, absorbing.
When I learn she has an hour commute I turn in the chair to face her. "You must love working here," I say, amazed. She laughs. Further to my amazement (and delight): she doesn't drive. It's an hour train ride. Public transportation in Chicago really is all that. Confirmed. I sit up straighter, gloating to myself. I knew it. I remember something Costa said about cheaper rents, further out from downtown. I wonder just how cheap it would be if I was willing to take on a twenty, thirty minute commute...
By the time I am handed back to Mish I have narrowed my Pinterest haircut selections down to one favorite. The model has fine reddish hair, like me. A side part, like me. Her hair dusts the tops of her shoulders, mostly one length, in a wave so slight it looks accidental. Bed head, but a really lucky bout of bed head. "Ignore her color," I say unnecessarily, "but the cut and style. That would work, right?" I peer up at the man I have already decided I will entrust my hair to, for however long I remain in Chicago. He's perfect. Relaxed, soft-spoken, a countervail to my awkward energy. Studying the picture, he asks several questions to further clarify exactly what I want. I appreciate and respect this thoroughness very much. Measure twice, cut once indeed.
And for the next thirty minutes I am treated to the gentlest hair cut and styling of my life. No one, not even my best friend, has even been so delicate with my (delicate) strands. Hair stylists have schedules to keep like everyone else; not their problem my fine hair will beak easily under their hurried combs.
But not Mish. Mish tenderly separates the tiniest sections of my hair, using his hands more than the rough bristled brush. I sit quietly and still as can be. Mish on the other hand grows talkative as he twists soft spirals in my hair. Telling me how much I'm going to love Chicago. Telling me to just wait until Spring. And then Summer. And oh, Fall. He looks at me in the mirror and makes promises of Chicago's beauty and wonder. And I believe all of them.
It feels less like a treatment than a ceremony. He is so exquisitely gentle I never once feel the tug of his brush on my scalp. And my hair, which has been drying this whole time in a victoriously cool shade of light brown, responds with shine and bounce. I am ecstatic. The woman in the mirror smiles back at me, from under her mask. She beams at the man whose dark eyes flash in mirth at her obvious delight. He told me he could get the red out. Did I not believe him?
I did, of course. Never doubted him.
Paid up and with a pledge to return, I shimmy back into my coat. In my excitement, I forget to put my gloves on before getting outside. That's a big no no; the cold will lock into my fingers and not let go. But today I don't notice it. My squeaky new boots crunch the snow underneath and the wind whips delicious smelling hair all around my face. I'm buoyed by the successful new connection.
Life can change. One of my newest, most powerful mantras floats up, like a snowflake falling in reverse. Life can change. In with the new and out with the red—I mean old.
January 22, 2022
There is something about me that makes men want to dig up my bones long after they have buried me. It has always been this way. Sooner or later, whatever the circumstance of the breakup, they come find me. An unbroken track record, as I tell my friends. See? I told you. All of them. Every last one, without fail. My friends listen with careful neutrality. They don't want to get roped back in, either.
It's taken as little as a month and as long as three years. Eventually they come find me, for one reason or another. Rarely do they want a relationship revividus. They're just looking to fill whatever hole has opened up within them, in that moment of their lives. The guilt-laden want absolution. The players want more play. The covert narcissists want a hit of supply. The good guys want their good guy cards stamped and renewed.
Never is it to offer me anything that I might want or need. Maybe it's not really about me after all.
- - -
On a frigid bank holiday in January, because I have promised myself an adventure, I walk the hallowed grounds of Chicago's most famous cemetery. Later, I'm going to get a hot dog, at another landmark destination. I am a tourist in my own town, with a two-item itinerary. Look out, Chicago.
Graceland is gloriously empty this winter's day. No doubt in spring the verdant hills and birdsong make it parklike and lush. And fall will be sight to behold, when trees drop shimmering leaves that bedazzle the impassive grey tombstones. But it's a graveyard. Spare, cold, and bleak only enhance the effect.
There is no noise other than the regular rumbling of the train a few blocks over. No other visitors besides one solitary, puffing jogger. Headstones, obelisks, and sarcophagi stretch as far as I can see, across gently sloping land where patches of grass break up the snow. I'm looking for the bridge I saw on the cemetery's website. I'm also listening to a self-guided tour, which turns out to be less a comprehensive deep dive and more a series of quick dips. Thirty seconds about this baron. Forty seconds about that magnate. Chicago's legendary captains of industry. In case you forgot who had money and power, kindly direct your gaze to the towering pillared pavilion on your left. Potter Palmer and wife Bertha (nee Honore), at your service.
I turn off the audio tour. I'd rather hear stories about the everyday folk anyway. The ones whose graves are marked with modest slabs of quartz, some inlaid flat into the ground. In winter, they disappear under a blanket of white. I bet they like that seasonal break from public view. I bet they worked damn hard in life, and haven't much use for the likes of my curious eyes. When people ask me what dead person I'd most like to meet, I always say my great-great-great-great grandmother. Wouldn't that be a dose of eye-widening perspective.
Their names delight. Wendell. Esther. Horace. Atticus. Expectant mothers could get the jump on the next baby name trend, they're all right here for the taking. I wonder how many Mabels this Mabel went to school with. If she even did. Mabel would probably scoff at my problems. Mabel probably had to heat water up on the stove, itself a modern luxury. I tell myself that any one of the souls buried here would trade places with me in a minute, just for the treasure of another single day of life. But would they?
I pass a headstone engraved with a list of five Johns. John the Fifth sleeps forever beneath a Celtic cross close to the road. The indignity of being a fifth already stings, and here he is with this terrible real estate on top of it. A row of headstones crumbles besides. How can they be crumbling? They're just a couple hundred years old at most. What must it take to wear down a gravestone?
You can live all your life in the same house, but your bones will still spend longer in a cemetery. How long do you have to be somewhere before you can call it home? How long do bones have to rest before you shouldn't disturb them anymore?
Imagination seizes. I picture every single previously living person suddenly sitting atop their grave. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Men in black flannel waistcoats and pressed wool trousers, doffing their derby hats at women in sweeping brocade dresses, who discreetly check their hair pins after so long a sleep. They make no sound. Some look around, taking in their surroundings. Others look down at their bodies, getting oriented to their post-corporeal forms. A sea of ghosts from another era. Can you see them? Can you see the twisted ends of the men's mustaches, and the pointed toes of the women's buckled shoes? Each of them is the age they were when they died—when they left their loved ones behind.
I will remember you how I last saw you, for better or for worse. How will you remember me?
On the steps of a shed-sized mausoleum, one natty phantom leans against the stately columns of his eternal home. Chin high and proud as a peacock, he observes the scene. He holds a top hat: rich black silk signaling all that he was and all that he had. But my hand would pass through him just as easily as it would his poorer counterparts, if I dared. Not that I would dare.
I'm less afraid of MacDougal. Lanky, soigne, with a lopsided smile and posture to match. His legs are crossed in studied insouciance and a shock of blond hair needs the constant attention of his fingers to rake it back. His top coat is perfectly cut to his figure, but ripped across the chest. Something about the rip--and about him generally--suggests last minute foul play. A bar tussle. Some lady's honor on the line. Or maybe he was just drunk.
MacDougal watches me from one of the more interesting graves in this place. A bench with a semi-circle structure behind it. Four slender, grooved columns support a curved mantel that bears his name. He's watching me from the bench where he sits, suppressing a smile, clearly amused by something. His grave seems to have been designed with this exact moment in mind. A throne from which to watch passerby, forever and ever. And here he is watching me.
He can't speak—none of them can—but he nods at something behind me.
What? What is he looking—oh. I turn and see that the portable phone charger I have brought from home is being dragged through the snow, still plugged into the phone that, thankfully, is safe and dry in my pocket. Six feet of cord extend from my coat to the small black device, which trails behind me like a dog on a leash. Ruined, I assume, but when I pull it out of the snow I see the indicator light still glowing green. When I turn back to MacDougal, ready to face his mockery, he has vanished. They all have. It's just me again, in this quiet expanse of cold stone and bare trees.
Later at home, I'll find that to my amazement both the charger and cord have survived the mishap. I wonder if MacDougal had something to do with it.
- - -
Ellie, I'm sorry for everything. Are you in Michigan? I'm moving to Ohio. Please text me.
Here we go again, I think. I've woken up to yet another shovel slamming into the frozen earth above me. Trying to get at my bones. Trying to exhume what has been laying peacefully.
I stare at my phone, unmoved. There is no sense of vindication, or validation. I had to validate myself, after months of silence told me I had no choice. I waited and waited and was left to wonder for an entire year. An entire year, it took me to move on. But I did.
Setting my phone aside, I slip back into dreams.
- - -
I find the bridge. It crosses the stream that runs the grounds and connects to a tiny island where a handful of plots are marked by simple, rough-hewn boulders. The stream is frozen, and I resist the urge to drop a rock and see just how frozen. Instead I cross the bridge and walk the perimeter of the island. This is where I'd want to be buried. I bet ducks call this home in warmer months. I wouldn't mind ducks waddling over my grave. We all have to live somewhere.
My destination found, I am free to go get a hot dog. I have successfully completed Graceland Cemetery. I am happy with what I have gotten out of it. I am happy with what I am leaving in it.
- - -
Time was, I ached for one more day with him, to get my questions answered and bewildered heart calmed. What the fuck just happened? How are you gone so fast, and ignoring me? What did I do? Why won't you answer me? Is this a punishment? Did you not feel the same? Did I dream this whole thing? Are you coming back when you get better?
Now, though, enough snow has fallen on that grave. Several seasons of it, in fact. I can't really hear what's going on up there, and I don't care to know. I'm safe and warm down here where I am. Mabel just put water on to boil. She's been saving some cocoa for a special occasion, and we both have the day off.
My bones are fine, right where they are.
February 5, 2022
In a single story Scottsdale Spanish Colonial, on a sunny, seventy-five degree day in December 1987, a woman and her daughter are making it snow.
They are in the family room, not the living room—a distinction still not entirely clear to the girl, even after two years. As best she can tell, it has something to do with the furniture. The living room sofa is new and expensive, off white and off limits. Patterned across its smooth linen are watercolor swipes of pastel teal, peach, and mauve. Colors the girl will come to know as a familiar Southwestern palette, echoed in near daily sunsets of staggering polychromy. The family room couch, on the other hand, is old and worn, one of the few pieces moved down from Michigan. A solid cream chenille, scattered with pea-sized cigarette burns and clumps of accumulated pet hair, it is the locus of household leisure. One look and it's obvious which is the real living room.
Regardless, they are the only family in the family room today. They'll be the only family in the family room come Christmas, too. In fact, they have been the only family in the entire house all year. The girl's older brother has been in Durango Juvenile Detention Facility since January, and her father moved out not long after. It's just her, her mother, and their growing collection of dogs (two) and cats (three).
The cats love the snow. They sit watching, tails flicking with anticipatory mischief, as the girl and her mother sprinkle it by the handful over the ceramic holiday-themed village assembled across three end tables covered by a sheet. The snow must be purchased new each year. It's too difficult to repackage. By January, the cats will have batted most of it to the floor, spreading it to every corner of the house where it will mix with their fur and the detritus of seldom vacuumed carpet. Easier to just buy more of the stuff. Fine by the girl, since that means a trip to the craft store, where she can gaze at rainbow row after rainbow row of art supplies. Soft bricks of modeling clay, begging to be molded into a zoo full of animals. Furry pipe cleaners, silky-soft and full of silly promise. She knows if she asks, her mother will buy her anything she wants. It's how her mother shows love, though it will be decades before the girl will make that connection. Before she sees that it was easier—simpler and cleaner—for her mother to open her purse than her heart.
But right now, they must ration the Department 56 Non-flammable Real Plastic Snow in order to adequately cover the village grounds. This year the girl, who arranged the pieces while her mother looked on with a glass of wine, has spread things out. The village center is a cozy cluster of commerce as usual—bakery, diner, gas station, post office, city hall—but the homes have been spaced out in an exurb at the outskirts of the tables. Plenty of room between each piece. Room enough for a yard, to be precise. That houses should have wide, grassy yards is a religious certainty the girl didn't know she held until she moved to the desert. But now she understands how lucky she'd been all her life, just to have a thing as basic as a yard. Baseball games with her brother and his friends. Getting dragged around in a sled by her dad. Raking piles of leaves into mounds just for the joy of stomping them. Laying on her stomach in the summer, combing through patches of clover in search of good luck.
None of that is possible at her new home, where there is only jagged landscaping rock and prickly cactus outside her front door, no matter the season. And so she has invested into the little ceramic village this year all her memories of Michigan winters past. Her mother helps her set the weather, but once the snow has been dropped it will be up to her to outfit the town with accessories. Stop signs and street lights with tiny, blinking bulbs. Mailboxes and cars, comically out of proportion to one another. A paperboy on his bicycle, riding down imaginary streets she has lined with real bottle brush trees. It is a magical scene she can escape into for one month a year, while outside there is nothing to indicate winter except a slightly sharper chill at night.
It will have to do for now.
- - -
On a downtown Chicago sidewalk in January 2022, a woman in a wool coat adjusts her earmuffs and peers up at the blue hour skyline. She has come to recognize the exact shade of luminous, ominous grey the sky turns when snow is coming. Sure enough, the first dry flurries begin to dust her face. She feels it breaking across her again—the sense of wonder and enchantment that hasn't loosened its grip since she got to the city. Snow. I'm in snow.
She has to squint for much of the walk home; the wind is against her and the swirling white flakes fly straight in her eyes. But she has the sights memorized, anyway. The street lamps, already amber in the five o'clock hour. The brass plaques fitted to the stone walls of buildings. The cheerful blue mailboxes and elegant sidewalk benches. The awning-covered stairwells leading up to the train stops. All of it blanketed with snow. Real snow. Crystallized water dropped in gentle clouds or spitting swarms. Snow that builds quiet into the city, dampening sound in a way she didn't expect, because she forgot. She knew once, that she's sure of. But now is a time of remembering some things and forgetting others, and she likes to think that deep inside her is a reawakening of knowledge, of familiarity with deep, real winter.
It is like Narnia to her. Just as magical, just as secret. Because who could understand? Who could ever understand the history of this moment? The snow is a signifier of things she barely realizes herself. It is purifying and redemptive in ways she's almost afraid to consider. Winter has stolen her heart; at some point she will have to break the news to autumn.
But for now, it's time to get home. She walks through the city center—the coffee shops, banks, and restaurants—to her cozy high rise apartment on the edge of the downtown loop. Not for the first time, not for the last, she cries with happiness. She can't help it. It's just too beautiful. It means so much. Gelid droplets run frozen streaks down her face, and she can't tell which are tears and which are melting snowflakes.
February 18, 2022
It continues to blow my mind that just four months ago, I was lamenting another 90-degree October in LA, while today this was my walk home. Nothing will ever feel to me like walking outside on a snowy day. I will never tire of this.
February 26, 2022
I took the lake way home on Thursday, after it snowed. My brain had been telling me lies all day, and I knew the cold and white would shut it up. I have been assured that come summer, the lakefront will be abuzz with music and crowds. But it's a haven to me right now. In the spareness of bare trees, in the quiet expanse of a park waiting for warmer days, my mind goes similarly still. Spellbound by the steel and pearl of winter, I feel nothing but the beauty of its soft, frozen palette. The right colors, I am learning, will mute the wrong sounds.
The lies are nothing new. Now and again throughout my life, they worm their way up from the depths of my depression where they only lay dormant—never dead. They find a toehold in my heart, lately made vulnerable by months of increasing social isolation. From there they launch an assault, climbing up my spine and dropping dread, heavy as lead, into my shoulders. A nameless, sourceless sadness I haven't asked for and don't deserve comes over me. Shimmering whispers become voices with form and cruel purpose, and then there is no refusing the message.
- - -
The grounds south of Millennium Park were devoid of everyone except a trio of teenagers sheltering on the back side of an empty stage. They huddled close, and though I was curious, I limited myself to a single glance their way. They wore blankets and recent enough haircuts that I decided I didn't need to worry. I told myself they probably had more than just blankets to keep them warm, anyway.
More troubling were the geese, which blocked every path to the water. They had fanned out across the field and sidewalks, preening their feathers with a proprietary air. A few stretched their wings and honked. They're south for the winter, I realized. This twenty-degree Midwestern February is their tropical vacation. All the more reason to steer clear. These were not the same lazy, overgrown ducks tormenting dogs from the ponds of Whittier Narrows. These creatures could commit crimes.
The pathway that runs alongside the lake was vacant. No one else wanted the view, the fresh air, or the exercise badly enough to fight the wind—which was formidable. Wind that bit my fingertips every time I shed my gloves to take a photo. Wind that dared me to walk close to the water's edge and see if my luck held. Wind that blew every awful thought out of my head.
- - -
Some of my boyfriends have teased me, in varying degrees of kindness, about the lack of color in my life. About my white furniture, my strictly neutral bedding, the washed-out hues of my wardrobe. I take the ribbing passively; they wouldn't understand. Too much color is too much. It overloads my senses, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Brights can feel unpredictable, uncontained, aggressive. It is the legacy of my LSD usage, and one I accept gratefully, since along with that heightened sensitivity has come an enhanced awareness of the games color plays. I can be mesmerized by the simplest tableaus anytime and anywhere, natural or manmade. Differing shades of the same color—or differing colors in the same shade and intensity—will call out to me and I will stare, dumbstruck, at the way they have conspired to come together in that moment. Acid kicked open a new door in my brain, and behind it was a rainbow bigger than life itself. Time has closed the door to all but a narrow crack. What pours through that crack is beautiful—but loud.
Pale colors are a respite from all this noise. I can slip into their subtlety and feel safe. Muted, faded tones are where the volume is turned down low. And when the volume is turned down low, it's hard to hear the lies my brain tells me. Like:
You're too broken to be loved.
There are others, but that is the poison into which they all distill. COVID was the primary alembic. A confusing, messy breakup the secondary. And after a year and a half of little messaging to the contrary, I am all but defenseless to my lying brain's attack.
- - -
I stayed at the lake as long as I could, as close to the edge as I felt comfortable. Lakes don't get angry. Lakes are indifferent. But in the turbulent, viridian water I thought I heard an accusation. You wanted this. You knew you wouldn't know a soul. You knew it would be hard, and take time. Far in the offing, baby blue sky teased, reminding me of sunnier times. I wasn't interested. Blue sky is an ex-boyfriend I would never take back.
The wind eventually battered me back from the water, westward into the park. Further inland, the spindly trees had as much to say as the slapping waves. They held up their snowy limbs in example. Be patient, they urged. Look at us. Look how long we must wait, every year. For the company of leaves. For the joy of birdsong. For the sweetness of spring.
This is a season of waiting, they said. This is a season of patience. Listen to the colors all around you, and let the quiet be enough for now.
I left before dusk could chill me beyond repair for the night. But the colors and the quiet stayed with me long past dark, and I decided I would take the lake way home again soon.
April 22, 2022
To quiet the buzz of you is an impossible task. Shoving you out of my mind takes a strength I haven't found. Turning my phone off only silences the external signals. The internal ones just keep banging around my head, bright and insistent and all too happy to distract me.
My imagination is not under contract here. It never needed to be. But now you come along with your big ideas and my brain is saying, Whoa whoa whoa. We have much more important things to think about than your dumb blog.
It's going to take a minute to find a quiet place to keep you, so I can keep doing the things that keep me...me.
April 24, 2022
There is something weird happening in this city. Some kind of...transition? I pointed it out to someone and they said Yes, Chicago has sessions. I think that's what they called it. Whatever it is, it's a trip. Just a couple weeks ago the trees were bare, and now there are little tiny flowers all over them.
The birds are going to lose their shit.
April 26, 2022
My company does a $75/month wellness reimbursement, for a gym membership, fitness classes, yoga studio - anything along those lines. Super cool, but my building has a great gym and there aren't really any classes that interest me. So I haven't taken advantage of it, since I couldn't think of anything I wanted it for.
Today I was poking around online trying to find, like, a super luxe gym that has a nice spa / pool set up I could use. No dice. Super nice gyms with are way more than $75/month. But in my research I saw one place that had this beautiful studio space for classes, and that rang a bell in my mind.
If you haven't seen The Silver Linings Playbook you should. It's fantastic and one of my favorites for onscreen chemistry. If you have, you'll remember her little dance studio, and you see where this is going.
Once at a gym in LA, when I was stretching out in the class studio, a guy came in late in the evening and just used a portion of the space in front of the mirror to dance. Just dance with his earphones in. That was his workout. I was blown away. Of course I guess I always knew you could use a gym for that, but I'd never dare. This guy didn't care at all that people were around. I would care.
But you've seen my videos. The Insta is disabled, but I'm sure you remember. All those times I cleared space in my lofts to dance, or set up my speaker out by the John Ferraro Building, with the skyline in the background. I love doing shit like that, so much. But even when you have a ton of room, like I did in my last apartment, it's not the same. You have neighbors, for one thing. And you really don't have that much clear space.
Just for the hell of it, I started looking for studios to rent. The first site I found had some amazing spaces, but insanely expensive. Hundreds of dollars an hour. Almost gave up. Then I found Dance Center Chicago. Found their Rent a Room page. Saw that I can rent a private studio in Boystown for TWENTY DOLLARS AN HOUR. Shall I repeat that? Twenty bucks an hour for a gorgeous, roomy space all my own with audio already set up. Plug and play, baby.
I called them to find out what the catch was. No catch. It's just a super cool spot that holds a huge variety of classes during the week and also rents out each of their rooms to creatives. Dancers, photographers, whatever. As their website says, We welcome artists of all forms to use our space for their creative outlets.
The guy I spoke to on the phone was lovely. He answered all my dumb questions. It's really private? Like totally mine for the whole time? (yes!) Is there a deposit or huge credit card hold? (no!) Can anyone see in? (no!) Is it booked until, like next year? (no!)
Then he asked me what kind of dance I do and I was like "Uhhhh, I just like to dance? It's kind of shuffling, but not really?? Freestyle electronic? I don't know!" and he was like "Oh, awesome! Well the studio you're asking about has four feet of brick wall between it and the next one, so girl, go off."
Soooooo, you guys, next weekend, all 1400 square feet of this beauty is mine for two hours:
April 27, 2022
You guys. I just closed my first deal. As a reminder, my job changed completely in February, when our big fish enterprise member backed out of their two-year agreement and decided to just take part of the space, and on a month-to-month basis instead. Filling the rest of the space became my new responsibility. All very exciting, because it’s the job I applied for and wanted so badly. Because we are new to the Chicago market, it’s been excruciatingly slow. Every time I got to take another step in the process and learn something it was like Yessss thank you GOD. MORE PLZ.
For a minute there I didn’t think I’d ever get anything. It’s so much teasing and waiting and getting blown off. But finally today, we are signed and sealed. New member moves in the first week of May. My next check will be 23% higher than usual, which is just so rad and lights a massive fire for me. LFG.
Me being me, the best part is the kudos from my company, and the excitement from some others who knew I was working towards this moment.
Just need to do it another twenty or thirty times, and I will be in a pretty damn sweet place here in this new life o’ mine.
May 12, 2022
He reminded me of a benevolent boy king.
Slight jutting of the chin. An almost imperceptible swagger. Wore collared sweaters in country club colors, but you could imagine him with a fur mantel and scepter. Pink cheeks with the baby fat still on them, and blonde hair he styled with a little too much care.
Always smiling, always lingering through our conversations as if assured of the next delightful thing I would say. As if assured of his own delightfulness. And you just knew he'd been hearing it all his life. The kind of kid the other mothers would gush over. Such a thoughtful boy. And he was.
Came to my desk one day looking for chocolate, strolling up with that self-assured grin. I knew I didn't have any, but I made a performance of opening my secret treat drawer, just to see his face when he learned I had a secret treat drawer. He'd never had dried mango, so I tore off a slice and handed it to him. "Just like being in the Thai jungle," I said, watching his eyes go wide with pleasure. For weeks afterward he would bring in new snacks for us both to try. Dried, spiced peas. Banana chips. We'd chew slowly, watching one another's reaction, then declare our verdicts. If I liked whatever it was, he'd insist I keep the bag.
On his last day, he personally returned his key to me--the only one so far to do that. He sat behind my desk with me and we stepped carefully through the trap of saying a professional goodbye when what you really want to say is Thank you for this small friendship or Our chats were a bright spot in my day. And though he'd left his position willingly for another job, I found myself assuring him of his very bright future, like a great, wise, dried fruit-dispensing guidance counselor.
Always that smile. Just once I would have liked to see him without it, seen a glimpse of whatever was heavy or painful underneath. Possibly nothing. I hope nothing.
April 30, 2022
Ten years ago today a hospice nurse whose name I don't remember came to the spare bedroom in my father's house to tell me he had died. Or maybe not. Maybe she told my boyfriend first. Maybe she told him in the kitchen, keeping her voice low, so he could come break the news to me himself. Maybe he woke me up to tell me, gently stroking my leg until I opened my eyes and waited for him to find the words. Or maybe I was already awake, and bracing for it. Maybe I looked at him pleadingly, secretly hoping it was over.
I don't remember.
Ten years ago today I sat in that spare bedroom, hugging my knees to my chest, humming to myself to block out the sound of the body bag zipping shut, because my father had died ten feet from where I was still alive. Or maybe I didn't. Maybe I lingered in the doorway, morbidly fascinated by the whole scene, numb enough to watch the collapsible gurney get wheeled out into the Florida sunshine.
Maybe it was both. I don't remember.
Ten years ago today I texted Mason, whose own father had died a few years before, one single word: fin. His own one word reply came quickly: triste.
That I do remember. That definitely happened, just like that.
I don't remember much of what happened the day my dad died. I remember other things instead, like the incredible love my boyfriend and friends showed me, from the minute I found out he was sick until he was gone thirteen days later, rolling onward for months after I went back home to LA and dealt with the fallout. I am endlessly grateful to myself for writing it all down. If you go back to my posts from April 2012 to fall of that year, you'll see. You'll see how deeply I was loved, and how many magical moments I experienced in all of that love.
But back to my dad.
I remember things about my dad that I've never written down or talked to anyone about, because the only people who would nod and laugh, well, they're gone too. So it's just me left to remember the random, weird shit about my dad that pops up out of nowhere, like when I do laundry.
My dad was a laundry guy. Me, I'm not a laundry person. I will wear the same thing five times before I wash it, and even then I do so unwillingly, sure I am degrading the precious, expensive fibers of my favorite pieces. But my dad fucking loved doing laundry. He kept his washing machine and dryer in the garage, and kept them immaculate—just like the garage. And he did laundry all the goddamn time. Washed his clothes seemingly daily. Didn't care about shrinking them. And they were already pretty tight to begin with, because despite his best efforts towards staying fit, my father put on a few pounds every year. That can happen when you slam nom M&Ms during Soprano binge sessions.
And my dad's wardrobe stop evolving sometime around 1989, so we're talking corduroy short-shorts and polos in colors that haven't been fashionable since the Reagan administration. Lots of banana yellow. Oh, and no fabric softener. My dad was anti-fabric softener. Not an allergy issue. Possibly a cheapskate issue? I'm not sure. But there he was, with his stupid, shrunken polos keeping no secrets for his sixty-something belly, and the ridiculous shorts that crept alarmingly high when he sat down. He was an absolute clown in this regard and I would give anything, just anything to run the stupid fucking rough fabric of one of those stupid fucking canary yellow polo shirts between my fingers, because maybe it would help me remember whether I was even in the room when they took my father's body, because I should have been.
I should have been.
Ten years is a long time. You get a lot of scar tissue built up in ten years. But life is ever armed with a scalpel, and it can cut you back open in an instant, and nothing you can do about it.
If the only day I could have with him again was the day he died, I would take it. I wouldn't have left the room, selfishly, childishly, to go nurse my own heartbreak. I would have stayed by his side and not averted my gaze once, even though his own eyes were glazed over and elsewhere already. I would have kept telling him things that he wouldn't have heard, about what his love had meant to me, and all the ways his personality had shaped mine. And if I could go back to April 30, 2012 but take April 30, 2022 with me, I would lean close and whisper all my news. Dad, guess what? My company is sending me to a gala. They're sending me to big fancy black tie party because they believe in me, and think I can make good things happen.
And I would tell him that after the gala, I'm going to go spend the weekend with someone special in this new city I've made home. And Dad, get this, I would whisper. He's an engineer, just like you. But much better looking. And here I would pause, for laughter that wouldn't come. Then I'd continue:
And yes, Dad, sometimes I am sad like mom and sometimes I am lost like Matt. But I am doing the best I can out here for all of you, and I'm sorry you're not here to see it.
That's some of what I would say. And then I would be quiet and still and let him fall asleep, and I wouldn't leave for anything.
May 13, 2022
I went to the dance studio on Saturday. I haven't mentioned it because it was exactly as I expected. No surprises and not a lot to tell. It was a blast. The room I rented is the only one down a long hallway, so it's as private as can be. I was so amped up, I just swung the barn door close, skipped over to the stereo, and went to town.
My cheapo shoes are perfect; that was the one thing I was concerned about. But they're great. I don't need anything else. Their system is decently loud, though this weekend (because I am going back every weekend that I can) I'm trying a different, smaller room just to change it up. Sound might be better there, we'll see.
I was also unsure how I was going to run my music but just hitting shuffle was great. I skipped ahead when necessary. Don't need anything more complicated than a Spotify playlist. Don't need it to progressively build. Don't need to overthink it.
Also, I learned that an hour is plenty. Not trying to marathon my workouts here. It's a gorgeous ride up on the brown line, through really pretty neighborhoods like Belmont and Addison, and I don't mind it at all. Lovely sightseeing from the train the whole way.
Their bluetooth is kinda iffy, so I hardwire in using my phone. That means unless I take another device with me I won't be able to get video. But I did take a couple selfies at the end, all sweaty and happy.
I decided not to post them.
July 8, 2022
When I was in my 20s, I was a huge fan of Loveline. I even called in once, though now I can't remember why. I think it was a dare from a boyfriend, and we made something up just to get on air. What I wouldn't give to know now, what we considered scandalous enough to be radio-worthy back then.
Anyway, one night I heard a call from a girl not much older than I was at the time, and it made a huge impression on me. To this day it's stayed deep in my thoughts, like a note from a best friend I've kept stashed away all these years. A note I've read so many times I know it by heart.
The girl who called wanted to know whether it was a problem that she felt perfectly fulfilled by having a dog, and she felt no compulsion whatsoever to go out and find a mate, much less someone to procreate with. She was straight and cisgendered, and had all the standard sexual impulses of a woman her age. No trauma to speak of, and she had solid relationships with her family and friends.
She just didn't really care about getting into a human romantic relationship. She was happy just doing her thing, living alone with her dog.
Drew's reply was what I expected. Something along the lines of Oh well that's all fine and good, but to be a fully functioning adult you really need blah blah blah...
Thing is, what really struck me about this girl was how totally balanced and healthy she sounded. I didn't hear anxiety or shame in her voice at all. I really don't think she thought for a second there was anything wrong with her. I think she just wanted to verbalize and share her experience. Hear herself say out loud what she was starting to realize. Maybe some part of her was seeking validation, but this girl's self-esteem was strong.
- - -
A few months ago, I found myself in conversation with someone I barely knew, talking quite openly about the big picture of my life. Past, present, future. We'd gotten to this point on the strength of a quick, natural connection. One of those rare, instant clicks that the universe occasionally slips into your pocket. But we were truly just acquaintances. We still are.
I gave a ten minute summary of my life to date, hitting quite frankly on even those formative experiences that I tend to hide from people I don't know very well. I just opened up. And I told him about where I was now. A bit breathless from the move. A bit bewildered by a job I didn't quite understand yet. Loaded up with unresolved emotional challenges. Freshly stepping into a developing relationship the terms of which ran massively counter to anything I'd been expecting at this point in my life.
Then he asked what I wanted. I knew what he meant, but I dodged and played dumb because I didn't want to answer him. Finally he outright pinned me down. "No, what do you want for yourself? What do you want, Ellie?"
I equivocated. I said I could be happy with Plan X, if Plan X worked out, or I could be happy with Plan Y, if it didn't. "I know how to be happy no matter what," I lied.
He smiled at me, his arms crossed across his chest, and called me out even harder. "That's fear talking. You're afraid. You don't know what you want. And you need to figure that out."
Me being me, I dug in. And I dug in so hard I almost believed myself, though the conversation stayed stubbornly front of mind for months after. Because he was right. I was making decisions from a scarcity mindset, the very thing I swore to myself I'd never do.
- - -
There is a mental exercise I devised a few years ago, for when I start to get serious with a guy. It's a test of sorts. I call it the Heiress Test, and it goes like this:
If I was a rich heiress from a powerful family, resourced for the rest of my life with everything I'd ever need -- all money, time, and freedom that comes with those things -- would I choose to share my life with this man?
When I met Nick (guy from KY that I got involved with here in Chicag0), I hadn't even caught my breath from the move. I was lonely and broke and all I knew was that I was ecstatic to be out of LA. I hadn't given any thought to what was next. How I was going to put down roots. How I was going to make friends. What my life in Chicago was going to look like. I'm still a bit lost and feeling my way, but now at least I have a plan. In March I didn't know what the fuck was going on any given day, much less what I was going to do for the next fifty years. I felt identity-less.
Meanwhile, here's this young, sweet, handsome, successful guy acting like I'm the greatest thing he's found since sliced bread, potentially offering a path that would solve that whole problematical lack of an identity issue. The compliment of his affection is no small thing - Nick is utterly amazing. But if I had been in a more stable and secure mindset (emotionally, financially), right off the bat the fact that he wants kids and lives where he does -- those would have been immediate deal breakers.
Nick did not pass the heiress test, because we don't have likemindedness about what we want the rest of our lives to look like. We just had an incredible connection that I threw myself onto, like a life raft, because he has so much to offer.
But that's not an heiress move. That's not someone clear on the difference between Plan X and Plan Y. That's not someone who calls in to a radio show because she can't quite believe how simple happiness really can be.
- - -
In the scope of things, I have virtually nothing figured out. Not compared to most people my age. Most people my age have their futures on lock. They are trees, and here I am, still a tumbleweed.
But I will be goddamned if the next time someone asks me, "What do you want, Ellie?" I don't have at least a rough draft of an answer ready to go.
July 26, 2022
All I can do in this moment is curl up around the faintest flame of possibility. Wrap my whole body around it, protecting it.
the possibility of circumstances lining up
the possibility of there being enough time
the possibility of everyone I love and want to love catching up
the possibility of the pieces fitting together
I'm not sad today. I am so calm, and I see so clearly. The quiet in my mind pervades every chaotic street, every pointless conversation.
August 4, 2022
The watchmaker's shop is tucked away in a six story building on Wabash, nestled among the old and new architecture of Jeweler's Row. A worker is hosing down the sidewalk, and the water steams, streaming across patches of noonday sun that filter through the rumbling steel network of the L above. In a lobby that hasn't enjoyed the attentions of an interior designer since the seventies, I find a security guard with sartorial taste to match the decor. He asks my destination, then tips his trilby in the direction of the elevators.
"Fourth floor. Out to the left when you exit the elevator. End of the hall."
The shop is smaller than my studio apartment, but the front room manages to hold a deep burgundy leather sofa, a cluttered desk with a pair of chairs for customers, and an elevated work station covered with the spilled guts of various timepieces. As I walk up, the watchmaker is emerging from an inner room. He sees me smiling through the glass door, which I am unsure about opening without some kind of invitation. Pandemics change all the rules.
He pushes the door open, nodding toward the large white plastic doorbell mounted in plain sight. "There's a doorbell, you know."
"Yeah," I say dumbly, smiling harder. "Sorry."
We take up our positions across the desk from one another, and I hold out my wrist to show him the minimalist Danish watch I only just started wearing this year. Simple, featureless, with a plain white analog face and an embedded second hand dial. The band is a smooth black leather, thin but not daintily so.
"The thing came off. The little holder band."
He tilts his head back to peer through the lower half of his glasses, and I wonder how someone doomed to progressive lenses manages to perform such finely detailed work.
"The keeper." He nods.
"Is that what it's called? Yes. That. I lost my keeper." I glance at his face to gauge his sense of humor. Craftsmen fascinate me. Cobblers. Woodworkers. Tailors. Men who've devoted their lives, minds, and hands to the fixing, mending and rescuing of things we'd otherwise have to abandon. I find any excuse to bring them my broken, torn, overpriced material treasures. To befriend them and patronize their cozy, antiquated shops. To flirt and charm and invite their gentle mockery for overspending on cheaply made things. To be in the presence of patient, dedicated experts.
I can't see his expression, however. So instead I take in his Hawaiian print shirt, floppy blond surfer's hair, and tanned forearms. The framed certificates lining the wall above the sofa attest to an advanced education in horology, and I don't doubt him for a minute. But Chicago's foremost authority on Swiss watch repair looks for all the world like he just stepped off a Caribbean cruise ship.
"It's the floating keeper," he continues. "I'm pretty sure I have some extras around here somewhere..." While he rummages in a drawer I absorb the surround sound of gentle ticking that seems to come from every corner of the office. I scan the desk for the closest source and realize what I'm hearing aren't watches at all. Two plastic kinetic dancing toys - a hula dancer and a flying pig - wiggle underneath the green umbrella of a banker's lamp, softly clicking as they waggle and wave. The watchmaker empties a plastic freezer bag full of broken watch bands onto the desktop.
"Wow," I say. "It's like harvesting organs." This wins me a toothy, yellow grin. The assortment looks promising at first; I see plenty of black among the mix of colors. But as he picks through the lot, he rejects one after another for being the wrong size. Mine is apparently the Goldilocks of the watch world. This keeper is too big. This keeper is too small. Eventually, he finds a keeper that is just right...sort of. It's black, and the perfect width. But it's crocodile skin.
I balk. The watchmaker waits.
"What's the alternative? A totally new band?" He nods. That's exactly the alternative.
"Okay," I say slowly. "Let's do it. But if my OCD gets to be too much and I hate it, how much for a new band?"
"I have bands exactly like yours for, oh, twenty-five bucks?"
He takes my watch and the detached limb of the transplant watch and turns to his work station, switching on the lighted ring of the jeweler's lamp. Finally, I think, excited to see him in action. But a moment later, the jangling of the door opening behind me pulls my attention away. An older couple tentatively steps in, taking seats on the sofa at the watchmaker's direction. When I turn back, he hands over my repaired watch. The deed is already done. It took him less than ten seconds.
"Amazing," I say. "How much?" But he just shakes his head, signaling with a dismissive wave of his hand that he's not going to charge me.
"Oh no, please let me pay you for your time..." I look around his desk for some kind of credit card reader, but there's only a small calculator and an invoice form pad. "Then can I at least buy you a cup of coffee?" I feel uncomfortable that the couple behind me is overhearing this generosity. I'm afraid, somehow, that they'll use it against him when it comes time to settle their own bill.
But he just holds up his hands, feigning palsy, finally sending back a joke of his own. "Too much caffeine. Can't have a watchmaker with the jitters, you know." He winks.
I pull a business card from the holder on his desk and brandish it meaningfully. "Yelp review," I promise. "If that sort of thing helps you?"
"It does help," he replies. The couple who've been waiting are already moving into the chairs I've just vacated.
The security guard hails me on my way out. "Find it okay?" I triumphantly hold up my wrist in response.
Back on the muggy sidewalk, I step into the sun to examine the tiny loop of embossed leather I've just been gifted. It's terribly ugly, and though it does fit the band, it's noticeably larger than its sister half an inch away. But it's okay. In fact, it's a good lesson in embracing imperfection, in detaching from expectation and desire. I'm going to keep my orphan, mismatched, crocodile skin floating keeper until it falls off. And when it does, I know where to go for a new band.
November 24, 2022
Ten years ago this past August, on the second Saturday of the month, I stood on a hill in Golden Gate Park with a plastic cup of wine in my hand. It was cheap red concession stand wine, and it was my second glass in an hour. I was trying to get drunk. I was trying to get drunk so I didn't feel so self-conscious about being at a music festival by myself. I wanted to join the crowd down below, where dozens of people were about to watch a set I had carefully chosen from a lineup of several possible choices. It was a group I'd never heard of until just a few months prior, but something about their music made me put them on my schedule. I wanted to join the growing group of fans, but I wasn't ready yet.
It was a cloudy-cool summer day, in a painful but also wonderfully memorable year. My dad had died a few months prior, and I'd been in a state of semi-mania ever since. Parties and bars, dancing and drugs, nonstop nights out with friends. All the while a three-inch thick binder of paperwork shoved to the back of my kitchen cabinet, haunting every minute of my fun: my dad's will, estate papers, and everything I needed to do to get his affairs settled and my inheritance safely administered. I was simultaneously terrified of it and thrilled by it. I knew it meant financial security and a fresh start for me. All I had to do was pull myself together and get a job, any job, and I would be okay. The depression and anxiety of being shiftless, of having no direction—none of that mattered now. I would be okay, if I could just face down the panic-inducing task of sorting all the legalities out and taking my first, belated steps towards real independence.
The binder sat and waited. It waited for me to catch my breath after his death. To fly home to LA from Florida and accept reality: Mom and Dad both gone now. On my own for real this time. The binder sat and waited while my friends swooped in with love and laughter to be a short term surrogate family. The binder waited while my boyfriend took me to Bonnaroo. And the binder was there listening when we broke up soon afterward, the terrible weight of my grief flattening us beyond repair. The binder knew it was a bad idea to go to Outside Lands, but we'd already bought the tickets. We figured we could travel separately, maybe meet up for a few hours as friends, catch a little music together.
Cut to day two of the festival. There I was with my wine, my mixed feelings of loss and gain, and all the insecurities that were keeping me from walking down the hill to be less alone than I needed to be. I felt, somehow, both broken and invincible. A difficult past, a family full of trauma and conflict, all the arguments and unresolved anger between my father and I—it was finally gone, gone, gone. No one to frown with silent disappointment at my mistakes anymore. No one to offer criticism but never help. My every choice going forward would be weightless, free from judgment. I could do and be whatever I wanted...if I could only figure out what that was. And in the meantime, music.
The band started up. My heart began pounding, hearing that unmistakable synth-pop sound. Taking the microphone from its stand, you addressed the crowd. And something about what you said or maybe just how you said it—it was like a key turning in a lock. There was a gentleness to it. A humbleness. A recognition of the gravity of the moment. Yours wasn't the biggest band on the lineup, and didn't command the biggest crowd. It was just exactly what I needed, to feel safe enough to lose myself in sound and celebration, to remember what could be beautiful so I could start to forget what had been ugly.
"Alright, you guys ready?" A tremor of excitement as bodies started to move. "Let's do this."
That's all you said. But it was the invitation I couldn't resist. I tossed back the rest of my wine and took deep, quick steps down the hill to come listen to you, alone but not.
- - -
No one ever warns us to keep some music to ourselves. So we share it, to amplify its meaning. To get even higher on it with another than we can get when we are alone. We draw a triangle between ourselves, the one we love, and the song that we've come to believe belongs to us both. With great consideration and ceremony, we place a piece of our heart inside that triangle. We need to. And it's every bit as intoxicating as we knew it would be.
What they don't tell us is that we'll never get that piece of our heart back. Forever after, the association is galvanized. Good luck separating those songs from the ghosts that cling to them. It's impossible.
But I never shared your music with anyone. It's mine alone. After the festival, I revisited your songs again and again over the years. But I never played Geographer for anyone. It became a signifier of a kind of solo inner life that began that shimmering summer ten years ago. Every time I hear Verona, I can reconstruct the moment exactly. The slight chill on my underdressed arms. Hellman Hollow filling up with day two attendees. Laughter and chatter and music everywhere. My indecision about whether to plant myself on the hill and watch from a distance, or get lost in the mix of welcoming strangers. Then you spoke, and my decision was made. And ever since, the sound of your voice reminds me of my independence and strength. Of my ability to crawl through difficult days, to face down binders and breakups, to break down and bounce back without anyone else's help. Your songs are my selfish, secret strength.
People worry about me on Thanksgiving, but they do so for the wrong reasons. They worry because I am alone, but really they should worry because I am not. The table is set for one but there are uninvited guests everywhere. My parents are here. My brother, too. They all want me to remember the simple happiness of sitting down to a meal surrounded by the ones that mean you must be home, safe. I don't want to remember that. It's too wonderful and it's too far gone.
On a day when there is always so much to be thankful for, today I am thankful for you. To my left and to my right, memories surge that threaten to pull me down into a deadly well of sadness. But your voice is a through line, a bright, beautiful wire on a cloudy day—again. Ten years I've been listening, without realizing until now just how much it means to me.
October 31, 2022
I had this past Friday off, so I took the train to the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. It's an absolute wonderland, with sixteen miles of trails for long, wandering walks. Some sections are more densely wooded than others, and by far the most magical area is the maple preserve. It's like stepping into a fairy tale. Just the most enchanting place I've been in recent memory, with slender, gold-covered trees as far as you can see in every direction.
February 27, 2026
For Ann, who shook something loose.
Someone has been building an igloo, in the field beside my building. I watched him from the warmth of my sofa for a little while, the day he started. The field is situated between two high-rises, and it was mid-morning on a Saturday. I have to imagine there were at least a few others like me, who’d gone to their windows to check the weather, then stayed there to watch the scene unfolding below.
Shuffling around on his knees, he gathered snow by the armful and packed it into a black plastic wastebasket, which he then flipped and carefully flexed the sides of, until a smooth, white block appeared. His placement was impeccable: once deposited, none of the bricks needed adjusting. Experienced architect or geometry genius, he knew what he was doing.
I’ve caught the sight of him working at it twice more. Once, I watched as a woman walked her dachshund over to the construction site. I was terrified the dog was going to piss on the igloo, but it just sniffed around a little bit. The woman and the builder (who didn’t stand up) had an animated exchange. Laughter, big hand gestures. She was no doubt complimenting his work—maybe his work ethic, too. It’s been about a week, and I’d estimate it’s less than halfway done. I had no idea igloos were so labor intensive.
The problem is, it’s getting warm. Tomorrow is the last day it’ll be below freezing. If he doesn’t finish it quickly, there’ll be nothing but a circle of slush to prove he’d ever tried. I don’t think it’s going to happen.
And I want so badly to tell him it’s okay. I want so badly to leave a note that says, “This was delightful to see, if only for a few days. Thank you for creating something charming in our backyard.” But snow doesn’t make for a very good bulletin board, and I’m probably projecting, anyway.
Most people like when the sun comes out.
March 7, 2026
I got a pedicure today. As the nail technician was filling the bath, she tapped my foot and asked, “Okay if I take?”
I looked down in horror to see a Band-Aid I’d completely forgotten about, clinging determinedly to my second toe. I’d sliced my foot open on my own door the day before, rushing to meet a grocery delivery driver and tripping on the ridiculous, too-large folding cart I fight with each time.
“Oh god, yes, of course. I’m so sorry about that.” Carefully, she peeled off the fraying brown plastic, revealing a small but nasty gash she would have been well within her rights to refuse to touch. She held up the bandage, and without an ounce of revulsion or judgment asked if I wanted to keep it.
“No, no! Gosh, no. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I gushed, mortified that her interaction with my medical detritus was still ongoing.
She threw it away and the pedicure continued. I was glued to my phone all the while, and when I finally looked up to make sure I’d given her my polish, I saw that she’d applied a fresh bandage to my toe.
I hadn’t felt it. She hadn’t asked if I wanted one, or announced that she was going to give me one. She’d just quietly, kindly attended to my still-tender wound. I’d come to her a bit bloodier and more torn up than really is appropriate for a setting where scrubs are not involved. And she’d just navigated around my hurt so gently I’d not even noticed her leaving it in better shape than she’d found it.
If that’s not a philosophy of life, I don’t know what is.
March 16, 2026
I was just getting some Clostridium botulinum shot into my face, as you do, when my doctor asked how work was today.
And I guess I made kind of a funny noise, because she started laughing. And then I started laughing. And we could not stop. And you have to understand—I love this woman. I’ve been going to her since I moved to Chicago, and we have the kind of relationship where when she walks into the room and sees it’s me, she does this cry of recognition that just makes my day. For three years now, I’ve been regaling her with my inappropriate stories, because our running joke is that she makes me look so young that I’m able to trawl skate parks for a good two weeks post-injection. She’s cool as hell and I take it as a huge compliment that I’m simpatico with a board certified surgeon.
Anyway, there she was, trying to stop laughing long enough to load her syringe, and I was like, “You don’t understand. I actually sat down and did the math this weekend. This is my first job, Lorri. I got my first job at forty-seven, and it’s haaaaard.”
Still laughing, she turned and looked me. “What on earth are you talking about?” So I broke it down for her. She already knew about the dancing.
“Well, I danced from age twenty-one to thirty-two, remember?” She nodded. “Okay, well I don’t know about you, but I don’t count that as real work. That was a couple days a week, and often off for weeks at a time. Then I got married. Rich husband. Didn’t work for a few more years. Did some passion projects, but nothing full time. Mom died. Inheritance. Dad died. Bigger inheritance. Didn’t run out of money until I was 40 years old. Worked as a personal assistant for a few months. That was just riding around in his car keeping him company. Not work, not even close. Finally got a go-to-the-job type job. Restaurant counter service. I eventually managed the place, but it never really felt like work. Some long hours for sure, but mentally extremely easy. On my feet all day, so tired in a good way—you know? I was never, ever too tired on those work days to work out, or go out, or write. Plus it was working with hilarious fun people, who were some of my best friends.”
“Put your head back. Hold still. Go on.”
“Okay, well that company went under, so I moved to Chicago to manage that coworking place.”
“Wait, what coworking place?”
“Just this place on LaSalle that went under. Doesn’t matter. But all I did at that job was sit around and work on building my website all day. And study French.”
“What do you mean? What were you supposed to do?”
“I didn’t have to do anything, because there was nothing to do. I just had to make sure the tenants had coffee. I just had to be onsite to turn the damn lights on and off and make sure the temperature was good. It was a joke. Easiest job ever. But then that place shut down, and that’s when I met the people I work with now. They invited me to come work with them in an admin role, so that’s what I did. And it’s full time in an office, and not super hard, but it can be kind of stressful, and it’s a full eight hours a day of actual working.”
I looked at her and started laughing again. She started laughing again.
“So you didn’t take this job until you were forty-seven?” she asked.
“Correct. I basically had a reverse retirement. This is the first time in my life I’ve had to have the kind of 9-to-5 grind most people do, for decades. And I’m not handling it well, Lorri.”
(We are practically in tears at this point.)
The conversation went on, and I filled her in a little bit on what those years were like. The travel, the festivals, the writing, Chaucer—I gave her the broad strokes. And I’m kind of holding my breath, because this is a highly successful woman with years and years of education and work experience under her belt. I’m thinking she must think I’m an absolute twit. But she just leans back against the counter with her arms crossed, and shakes her head.
“I think that’s amazing. I love that so much. Good for you. You got to do all that stuff and enjoy it, at the right time in your life.”
I exhaled. “Really? Because I was trying to blog it this weekend, and I don’t know if I was explaining myself well at all, but that’s what I wanted to say. I think I’ve been so unbelievably lucky. But I don’t know if it just sounds crazy to someone else.”
“No,” she said. “I think that’s amazing.” And she just kind of held her smile then, for a few extra seconds, in a way that made me think she understood I’d needed to hear that.
When I checked out, my bill was almost $250 less than usual. I have no idea if it was an accounting error on the part of the receptionist or because I made my doctor laugh, but a win’s a win.
May 10, 2026
What if in hell, all the rich assholes who in life owned boats the size of which they so desperately wished reflected something they absolutely did not, have to sail around a tiny little port for all eternity, but instead of at least getting the satisfaction of showing off their doucheyachts to the other damned, all anyone can see is the smeared, watery reflections, as if hell is a never ending bad acid trip, so they could actually just be big, shitty tugboats for all anyone can tell? And every once in a while, a gorgeous mermaid pops up out of the water and ooohs and ahhhhs over their oversized bath toy, and they get all excited, but then every time the mermaid morphs into a demon who continues to torture them with memories of the four decades of 80-hour work weeks they had to put in to afford the boat? Anyway I took a walk to Burnham Harbor today.
May 29, 2026
I did the Penguin Encounter at Shedd today. This is Dolores. And I’m not going to say Dolores was obsessed with me, but I’m not going to not say it, either. What I will say is that Dolores had her choice of ten humans she could bless with her proximity during the encounter, and well, I think we can all see how that went.
In all seriousness, I could absolutely not believe my luck. The room wasn’t big, but it wasn’t tiny, and this little queen had free roam. I sat there in utter disbelief and delight that for whatever reason (maybe it was the canned tuna water I anointed myself with beforehand*), she stayed right in front of me the whole hour. All I can conclude is that my millions of questions for the trainer earned me her affection.
Anyway, we’re off to share the surf ‘n’ turf at Gibson’s.
* I did not actually do this, but only because I didn’t think of it in time.
July 4, 2026
A few weeks ago, I did a thing that millions of people fantasize about doing themselves. I quit my job with no notice.
I let myself into the office on a Sunday night, packed up all my shit, and left my laptop and keycard on the desk. I sent my resignation at 9am the next morning, effective immediately. It was just one single line, with no explanation or elaboration.
Admittedly there was a bit of flounce involved. Nothing crazy. Three small elements of flounce.
1. I sent the resignation email above the heads of my local supervisors, to my actual out of state boss (who I almost never interacted with), with the head of HR cc’d. This not only embarrassed my local de facto bosses; it also raised questions as to why I’d do so. Not a good look for them.
2. I left a single printed page pinned up in my cubicle that said: I have learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel - Maya Angelou
It was all I needed to say to the people who knew exactly what I meant by it.
3. I left goodbye letters under the keyboards of the coworkers I liked, and nothing under the keyboards of those I did not. When word spread about this, apparently it was a whole scene. Everyone in the office was checking and re-checking under and around their keyboards. People were calling out “Did you get a letter? I didn’t get a letter!” or “I got a letter!”
Apparently someone even checked under the keyboard of another employee who was out that day, because she was so butt hurt she didn’t get a letter, and presumably wanted to make sure she wasn’t the only one who got snubbed. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed the visual of this.
- - -
I lasted three years. I could write volumes about why I quit, but in the end it was very simple and clear. I had to pretend to respect people I did not. I had to feign interest in things which I found mind-numbingly boring. I had to participate in culture that was pure theater.
That is not living free, and I won’t do it again.
I won’t demean the incredible life I have already lived, filled with fierce independence and creativity and adventure and passion, by diluting it with one more minute of that garbage.
I just fucking won’t.
Charles Bukowski told us to find what we love and let it kill us. Turns out what might kill me is being my father’s daughter, down to my bones.
Because I will do this shit on my terms, beginning to end.
July 5, 2026
The planet will be just fine.
This knowledge more than anything else is what gives me peace. We’re nothing but a head cold for the earth, which has been through several extinction events already.
Every single thing we have built will be swallowed up, washed away, degraded into dust. Even the nuclear reactors. It will all disappear.
New life forms will emerge. Amazing, unimaginable creatures. Blue skies, healthy oceans, climate in perfect support of the planet’s ecosystems.
The Holocene Era will end. As it should.
We are so silly and vain with our absurdly trivial lives. But the earth will not remember a single thing about us. That makes me smile.
I have some predictions about the future.
1. Very soon, Americans will come to be so hated by the international community that they won’t even want to leave the country. I predict people in other countries will literally spit on Americans when they see them in public. Europe especially. This will be about more than the collateral damage of Trump’s economic and military policies. All of that has seeded anti-American sentiment, but how it’s really going to catch fire is in climate impact.
Americans have contributed more to climate change than any other country, and everyone knows this. As Europe continues to experience the fallout with increasingly deadly heat, wet bulb events, and catastrophic weather that they aren’t prepared for, they’re going to direct their rage at Americans. It’ll catch on in the UK eventually, too.
2. The new culture war will be those who are pro-AI vs. those who are anti-AI. This will be another wonderfully convenient distraction, as far as the owner class is concerned. The working class will continue to misdirect their anger at one or another groups among themselves, rather than channeling it where it should go.
3. Children born after a certain year will be very, very, very, very angry at their parents. There’ll be a name for them, though I can’t imagine what. Not in terms of a generational cohort—something that instead refers to the fact that, past a certain year, anyone who had children knew about climate change, about wealth inequality and wage slavery, and about the breakdown of education, culture, and society itself—and still chose to bring new life into all of it. I predict the angriest of those kids will cut their parents off and clan up amongst themselves instead. By that time shit will have really hit the fan, so resources will be scarce, and those elderly parents will be screwed. They will be pariahs.
If I had to guess, I’d say that year is 2020.
I had no idea how much quitting my job would transform my body and my improve my health. Absolutely no idea. Sure, you realize intellectually that work is stressful, and that dumping a toxic job is going to alleviate that stress.
But I was utterly unprepared for the changes I have experienced in the past few weeks. Walk with me.
The initial elation itself is worth remarking upon. I’m talking utter fucking glee, that first morning. Bliss. Just unadulterated joy and laughter, as I enumerated to my own four walls all the ways in which I was forever free. One after another, I named aloud all the stupid, pointless, annoying, demeaning, confusing, boring things and awful people I’d never have to worry about, ever again. The databases. The applications. The software. The meetings. The emails. The unclear expectations. The contradictory directives. The comically poor communication. The utterly batshit insane behavior of grown adults. The nepotism. The hypocrisy. The performative culture. The passive aggression. The conflict avoidance. The egos. Oh god, the egos.
I made a big fat list, and every day since I’ve quit, I mentally run through all the dumb things I had to deal with every day. All the ugly human behavior I had to wade through for eight hours, five days a week, just to keep myself alive. The relief of this freedom is a self-renewing spring, and I let it wash over me again and again and again. It does not diminish. Three years is a very long time to be in a state of permanent stress and dysregulation. I’m going to spend the rest of my life celebrating my escape.
The extreme high of quitting lasted about two days, and then I crashed hard. It all caught up with me. Three years of suppressing and masking took their toll, and I was suddenly exhausted. But that phase didn’t last long. Maybe three days? I didn’t feel sick or anything. Just very, very tired.
But the wonderful thing about being a free human being just existing in the world, naturally, with no demands, expectations, or restraints, is that you get to sleep whenever you want, for as long as you want.
Everyone knows what it’s like to sleep in on a day off. Everyone knows what it’s like to go on vacation. But with this job, that was a very shallow and short-lived pleasure. There was always the knowledge that I’d have to go back the next day, or in a few days. There would always been that stress of catching up, picking through the emails, making sure I was up to speed on new developments. The sense of relaxation was never complete.
Sleeping and then waking up without a single worry or looming deadline is restorative on a level that every human should get to enjoy. Gosh, now that I say it, didn’t we—didn’t we have that at one point? I feel like I read somewhere that humans have not always lived as we do now. IDK. Could be an urban myth. Anyway. It’s pretty fucking amazing.
On day three is when I noticed that the knots in my shoulders were gone. Just fucking gone. Poof. This is a miracle in and of itself. I have not had knot-free shoulders since, I don’t know, I’d have to guess 2016, which was when I finally went to work for real. And the past three years, they have been absolutely horrific. I have a Rollga (highly recommend), and for the last couple of weeks at my job I had set alarms for every 1.5 hours reminding me to stretch and drink water—but there is no unknotting the knots when you work a full time 9 to 5 with a regular, adult-sized dose of stress.
Day three, though? Gone.
Let’s talk about food and cravings, and digestion, and weight.
When I was at the office, it was a constant jump from comfort snack to caffeine boost to treat and back again, just to get through the day. I brought healthy food every day, and most days I ate it—but it was always rushed, or under that general sense of workplace, like, discomfort. Do you know what I mean? No one should have to eat on the fly, ever. No one should have to eat sooner or later than they want because their dingbat manager threw a surprise meeting on their calendar, or because some control freak shareholder insists people have their fucking cameras on during a noon Teams call. Fuck. That. Noise.
I craved junk all the time at work, because of course we had so much of it. I hated it. I think it’s insane that people consider it a kindness to provide junk food, or bring donuts or bagels to work as a treat. You are damaging the health of your coworkers, you idiot. But whatever. Point is, it’s very hard to resist those things when you just need a boost to get through the next hour. And then of course you’re dealing with the fallout of that, of the fat and salt and sugar and bloat, while chained to your desk for several more hours.
Since I quit, though? Oh my god. It’s like my entire system has righted itself. No interest in that junk whatsoever. No need for the extra caffeine. Almost zero desire for sweets. I used to treat myself SO MUCH after work and on the weekends, and I know now it was less a real, actual craving arising from my body naturally as it was a coping mechanism. A distraction. These days I glide right past all the treats at the store. (It also helps knowing I can just walk over and get what I want at any time, if the craving arises later, because I’m not on some artificial work schedule anymore.)
I cannot remember the last time I felt this good. Sleeping when my body needs it. Working out whenever, for as long as I want. Eating when I want. My stomach is so flat, oh my god, it’s the best feeling ever. I used to get up at 4:30 am, to get a workout in before work, because I was just too mentally drained afterward—from just sitting there, for eight hours. But it was so, so, so hard to get up some days. And my body did not always cooperate. My digestion was so fucked from such crazy hours. I ended up hitting about 3/5 days, max, of working out. It sucked.
And here’s a wild one: I am literally moving through the world differently. A few days in, I caught myself walking to the grocery store with a slower, more relaxed gait than I can ever remember having in my life. Like my body was acting in a truly unrecognizable way. So, so chill.
And here’s a truly incredible one: I am looking at people again, as I walk past them. I had stopped doing that in the fall of 2024, because I was so angry about the election, so bewildered by the realization that I am neurodivergent, and so overwhelmed by trying to stay sane in a world that had become completely unrecognizable to me, all while spending the majority of my time at a job that was destroying my soul. I withdrew in every way possible.
About a week after I quit, I started meeting the eyes of people I walked by—on the sidewalk, in the store, wherever. It’s like I have the mental bandwidth for it now. I have the energy to send out. I have the capacity to take energy in.
It is really nice.
And I know that I look different, too. I must, because I’m getting more attention and glances than I can remember getting in a very long time. Randoms striking up conversations. I must look relaxed, and happy, and open to it or something.
And they’re right. I am.
I will not be sacrificing my health or my humanity again, ever.
July 6, 2026
Before I forget, I wanted to wish you luck.
Good luck with the AMOC collapse.
Good luck with the Thwaites glacier.
Good luck with the permafrost melt.
Good luck with the Amazon flipping from a carbon sink to a deforested wasteland.
Good luck with losing the albedo effect.
Good luck with the boreal forests, which are all going to burn.
Good luck with crop failures and mass starvation.
Good luck watching your favorite foods become unavailable or unaffordable.
Good luck with the flooding and heat domes and wildfires.
Good luck getting forever chemicals out of your water, your soil, and your bodies.
Good luck with for-profit healthcare.
Good luck with the broken, useless, joyless, mass-surveilled, dead internet.
Good luck with AI being shoved down your throat in every aspect of life, with no option to opt out.
Good luck with whatever replaced true human connection and friendship. I guess that was social media?
Good luck to the generations who will never be able to retire.
Good luck spending another 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, 40 years working.
Good luck with reaching retirement in an environmental, social, cultural, and economic dystopia. I’m sure it’ll be a very enjoyable time to be alive.
Good luck with the emotional reckoning of realizing you traded decades of your life for shareholder value.
Good luck with the realization that you never created anything, that you barely had time for joy and passion and adventure. Good luck with that existential crisis.
Good luck enjoying international travel, now that you know what it costs the environment.
Good luck to the children “learning” on Chromebooks, with no pen and paper required.
Good luck with Christofascism. Good luck with Project 2025.
Good luck to Gen Alpha and beyond. You never had a shot, and I for one am so fucking sorry for how horrifically bad we failed you.
Good luck with iPad kids in the workforce. I’m sure they’ll do fine.
Good luck with mass migration.
Good luck with wet bulb events.
Good luck with 2027’s catastrophic weather, now on deck courtesy of this year’s El Nino.
Good luck with the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
Good luck with urban heat islands.
Good luck to Europe, warming faster than anywhere else. Good luck retrofitting your beautiful, historic buildings with AC.
Good luck with 2.5 degrees warming. Good luck with 3.
Good luck with LinkedIn. Jesus christ, good luck with that cringe fucking cesspool of performative self-humiliation.
Good luck surviving General AI. I’m sure they’ll figure out the alignment problem. LOL
Good luck with the surveillance state.
Good luck with drones and robot dogs and flock cameras and data brokers.
Good luck submitting to a subscription-based life.
Good luck with plastic and aluminum cars, loaded with all the latest surveillance software.
Good luck with refrigerators and washing machines and office printers that require apps just to operate them.
Good luck with software features and updates that only ever make things worse, and that you can never opt out of. Good luck with enshittification.
Good luck with AI music and movies that you don’t have the option to filter from your selection menus.
Good luck with entertainment that has been dumbed down to account for the new attention span.
Good luck with with those No Kings rallies. They sure seem to be working great.
Good luck organizing a revolution in the surveillance state, under economic conditions so dire you can’t even miss a day of work, must less strike.
Good luck to the young women growing up alongside the most conservative cohort of young men in decades.
Good luck finding arable, affordable land for homesteading.
Good luck building ecovillages with the government’s restrictions on property use.
Good luck growing food when nothing will grow. Good luck with pollination when all the insects are gone. Maybe ticks can be retrained.
Good luck keeping livestock alive during wet bulb events.
Good luck with data centers.
Good luck in the water wars.
Good luck selling your homes in desert and coastal states.
Good luck with the inevitable grid collapses.
Good luck trying insure your homes.
Good luck with the attention economy.
Good luck with social media. Good luck with influencers and celebrity worship. Keep your eyes on those shiny distractions while every freedom you have is systematically dismantled.
Good luck with authoritarianism. Good luck with fascism.
Good luck with wealth inequality.
Good luck with rigged elections. Good luck with the illusion of choice. Good luck believing you just need x bill or y candidate or z policy, and everything will be okay again.
Good luck with the housing crisis.
Good luck with whatever scraps of sustenance UBI provides.
Good luck to never again living off an electronic leash.
Good luck convincing yourself that in spite of all of the above circumstances which you cannot escape, you are still free.
Good luck with the sudden, severe, and irreversible lifestyle downgrade coming for every single human on the planet that is not part of the owner class.
Good luck!
Just in case it is not obvious, I am trying to make you mad. Or scared. Or inspired?
I’m just trying to trigger you into seeing things differently, so you will change your life in whatever ways you can, so that you do not have to suffer in all the ways you are being made to—or will, soon.
I’m well aware that most people cannot quit their jobs. But short of doing that, there are things you can do to fight back, opt out, protect your one precious soul, and prevent future suffering.
But if you can quit your soul-crushing job, do it. There is nothing at the top of the ladder other than a bigger stress load from more responsibilities, and a very heavy, very thick set of chains to the expensive lifestyle you will have walked yourself into, because creature comforts are all we have left in this fucked up world. There was a time when nice things and exciting experiences made working for them worthwhile. Not anymore. Not to me, anyway. Not when we have no agency, no power, no choice, no voice, and no control over our future. If you want to feel like your one precious life is actually yours, get out from under the boot of the system. That means living as small and light as possible. I walked away from six figures, because I’d literally rather die with my soul intact than spend one more minute enslaved to a system that doesn’t give a shit about me.
Don’t wait like I did. Start making moves now.
If you can’t quit, at least quiet quit. Take every possible second of your time and energy back. I was amazed at how little I could actually get away with doing at my corporate job. The truth is, everyone is just trying to survive, and most people are just too busy making sure they are okay to really examine anyone else. Take as long as possible to complete your work. Never, ever volunteer for extra work. All that will do is burn you out faster.
If you’re creative, be creative. It doesn’t have to be profitable. No one even has to see it. But take it from me, please—it will save your life. It will give you so much joy and pride at the end of your life. Along with your relationships, it will be what matters most in the end. Not your resume. The fucking memes I made mean more to me than anything I ever did at any job.
For god’s sake, don’t have kids. Open your eyes, I am begging you. Please, please, please stop the cycle of suffering. Future generations are going to have a horrible quality of life. Educate yourself on climate change and what 2050 will be like. If you truly believe everything will be okay, then at least stand down and leave it to future generations to bring kids into a safer, saner, world, if they manage to create one. Now is not the time.
Right now is all you have. Right fucking now. Find joy and love and maximize it, today. Whatever that looks like for you.
I think one of the most horrifying things about all of this is that I had completely forgotten what it’s like to have a calm, regulated nervous system. For years on end, I was robbed of that most basic of human needs. It’s genuinely sick, what people are putting themselves through these days.
I didn’t realize the extent of the damage until all of sudden I realized I was re-regulated, almost immediately after I’d quit. I was calm. My mind wasn’t constantly racing, constantly running an inventory of what I needed to do or fix or attend to or worry about. I was laughing more easily. I had the capacity to handle something like, oh, hitting the wrong elevator button. I mean I’m laughing right now at how dumb that sounds, but that’s how bad it had gotten. I had absolutely no wiggle room left, because the job was so mind-wrenchingly destructive to my poor fucking nervous system that any tiny ripple was catastrophic.
The things that I now understand are required by my body to just, you know, regulate itself as intended, are completely incompatible with most versions of modern life.
I need downtime. Real downtime. Not pretend downtown. Not go-do-some-deep-breaths-then-get-back-to-it downtime. Not medicated downtime. Not dopamine dump downtime. Just stare out the window with nothing in my head downtime. Who the fuck has time for that now? Who can even relax to the point of getting an empty mind?
I need walks. Long, long, long walks. Daily. Honestly probably multiple times a day. My best life no doubt would have been as a shepherdess. Here’s hoping non-linear reincarnation is a thing.
I need co-regulation, which I have found in the most incredible source, which is the third place I’ve been enjoying, and which I will write more about shortly.
I have been learning about how nervous systems interact with one another, whether human or animal. And when I think of how all of my daily interactions at the office were completely shredding my nervous system, because those people stressed me the fuck out constantly with their hysteria, their unhelpfulness, their mind games, their utter inability to communicate clearly, or just how much fucking noise they made? I mean I just want to weep, that I put myself through it for so long. It’s like I broke my body out of some kind of biological prison.
Anyway, right now me and my already wonderfully calm nervous system are going to head back out for another walk. Get some dopamine from the waves and the leaves and the trees and the clouds and the stone boulder under my back.
There’s no coming back from this. I will never ever ever drag my poor nervous system back into hell. That is no way to treat a human life. That is not living.
By the way—I had said I would mention when I’d moved over everything and my Journal pages were complete. That’s done. They are as complete as they’re going to be, anyway.
It was a doozy of a project. I had some 1300 posts to go through. At a certain point I just had to Marie Kondo it and go with my gut. Make a quick call. Move on to the next. There was just no way I could have re-read every single one. I tell myself I’m still going to read back through it all to clean it up, but I just don’t know if I’ll make the time for it. Might just have to let it be, flawed as it is.
There are gaps in the record. I didn’t include every last twist and turn about every relationship or situationship, or every single event with friends. I dumped a lot of truly awful navel-gazing, cringe shit. Very embarrassing stuff, especially in instances where I made it sound like I’d learned some big deep lesson. Nope. I’d go on to make the same mistake again. C’est la vie.
Most posts related to work didn’t make it either. They were just too boring. It just goes to show you how little the jobs I have had have meant to me, how little work enriched my life. That’s why there’s a huge hole for my time in Chicago. It was just me working one or another job, and that’s all there really was. Very little human connection because all the good stuff in life has been slowly crowded out as it’s gotten harder and harder to just live how we used to. All the systems are broken, and everyone is too fucking tired just trying to stay afloat. I’m sure you know what I mean.
Anyway, the good stuff is everything else. Pages and pages of love and lust and laughter and music and mischief.
I have been so fucking lucky.
July 7, 2026
But Ellie, what are you going to do now?
I’m going to continue healing. I’m going to relish waking up naturally, with no one to report to. I’m going to laugh at the thought of the abusive, unkind, insincere people I left behind still having years and years and years more ahead of them. I’m going to enjoy the thought of them hurrying to work right now, because they need to generate shareholder value.
I’m going to nourish my body with whatever I feel like eating, whenever I feel like eating it. I’m going to run and stretch and lift and stay strong and limber and healthy. I’m going to immerse myself in nature and marvel at animals. I’m going to sleep when I’m tired, read things that bring me peace, and watch things that make me laugh.
I’m going to say everything I want to say, utterly uncensored, without a care as to who reads it. I’m going to reflect on the amazing, gloriously unconventional life I have lived. I’m going to tell as many more stories as I can. I’m going to leave this humble little record of mine as complete as I can.
And then when I’ve said all I want to, I’m going to wish everyone well, say goodbye, and live the rest of my life offline.
Probably while listening to lots of 80s tunes.
July 8, 2026
I had only barely explored Substack until a few weeks ago, when I accidentally stumbled into the community of those speaking on neurodivergence. It absolutely breaks my brain that the information I’ve linked to below has arrived in my life at the exact moment I needed it. All I can do is laugh. It’s validating on a cosmic level. Everything comes full circle in the end.
If you, too, are blessed with irrepressible authenticity, pattern recognition, and an utter inability to conform to the rules of a sick society, you might appreciate these pieces. For me anyway, they perfectly capture what was so disgusting about my corporate job and why I generally feel like I’m in a Twilight Zone episode when I observe the way most people behave in this world.
Oh, and um, apologies to any ex-boyfriends who thought how badly I spiraled after the breakup meant it was because you were just that special. You’re not.
What if neurodivergence isn’t the deviation?
A. E. Larsson
The office didn’t break us. We were never built for it.
The tribe had a job for people like you.
Charlotte Del Signore
Being highly sensitive gets looked down upon because we are the ones left holding the charge, the energetic shock absorbers for a culture that has lost its connection to the living world. We feel the rot in the foundation and sense the storm coming, while the environment demands we ignore our gut and keep on producing.
The sensitive, perceptive ones who once gave us direction and heart are now burned out, labelled with mental illness, medicated and often punished for being who they are. Meanwhile, the linear-brained are lost in a never-ending search for enough. They hope that by following the rules and building a bigger, more sterile fortress, they will finally feel safe. But the safety they're chasing keeps moving further away.
Moral Injury: Why neurodivergent adults can be so deeply injured by betrayal, hypocrisy, injustice, and forced self-abandonment.
The Gifted Experience
Moral injury often begins at precisely the moment reality splits – the moment a person realises the system doesn’t actually operate according to the values it claims to hold.
The hidden cost of “culture fit”
Eva Redford
The cruelty of the current system is that it penalizes the most authentic version of a person, rewards a performance that is costly and unsustainable, and calls the result good judgment.
Everyone struggles with that.
The Neurodivergent Uprising
“Everyone struggles.”
Sure.
The question is not whether the struggle exists. The question is scale. How often. How intensely. At what cost. With what recovery time. Under what conditions. With what consequences when support is denied.
The Misnaming Archive is a record of the phrases systems use when they want their failures to sound like someone else’s character flaw. Each entry takes one common phrase and follows the route: who it protects, who it burdens, and what responsibility it quietly moves off the system and onto the person.
Heartbreak: Why some relationship endings impact neurodivergent nervous systems so hard, and what might help.
Dr. Lil
We’re not just losing a person. We’re losing thousands of interlocking predictions at once, and the entire landscape has to be redrawn from almost nothing.
Other creators sharing incredible insights:
Nate Postlethwait
Debra King
Cody Taymore
Justine
Workplace Bullying Project
There’s no beating the third space I had as a kid, growing up in Michigan. It was just, simply, outside. Outside the house, whether in my or another’s back or front yard. Outside in the forested area back behind our house. Outside in one of the neighborhood’s vacant lots. We went out and we stayed out, and we kept ourselves busy with our bikes, our balls, our curiosity about the world and one another, and the trouble that curiosity sometimes got us into. We had all the room in the world to grow into ourselves.
Then we moved to Arizona, and my third space became the neighborhood rec center. Then the local suburban strip mall. Then the regular mall. Then somewhere around the age of sixteen, I began withdrawing from my group of girlfriends, because I was starting to develop an intolerance of performative behavior. That’s about the age that girls learn the importance of performing. Performing femininity, performing beauty, and most importantly, performing status. I watched cliques form, seeing clearly how crucial they were for social inclusion—and I couldn’t do it. I just could not. Not then, and not ever.
But there was a silver lining. This alienation pushed me into two different spaces that became lifelong sources of fulfillment, joy, and personal power: creativity & athleticism. My third spaces became the theater department (which was not a single place but a collection of rag-tag misfit kids who migrated from classroom to auditorium to various homes to Denny’s to wherever we could just be ourselves for a few hours) and the Scottsdale green belt, where I rollerbladed for hours almost every day after school. I fell in love with how writing (because for me it all started with the plays I contributed to student productions) made me feel. I fell in love with the endorphins I got from exercising to the point of exhaustion.
But back to third spaces. I don’t know that I could identify one that I had in college, either at Hanover or University of Arizona. Does the library count? Probably not.
It’s hard to say what my third space was, in my twenties through early thirties. That’s a big chunk of time to lump together, but I do so because I was dancing all that while, so to my mind, it’s one single chapter. I will say that living was so much cheaper back then, that you could just randomly go out to dinner, or the mall, or a movie, or even out to a bar, and it was an enjoyable, rewarding experience. You could just go blow off steam, get some food, hear some music, and you didn’t feel enormous stress or guilt about the expenditure. Entertainment itself was still a third space people could afford.
I’ve thought about this a lot, and I think I’m willing to say that DTLA itself was a third space, when I lived there. Again, life was still affordable. People went out all the time, and we didn’t think twice about it. It was just part of the experience of being alive—part of the social contract. I had multiple friend groups who hung out at different bars, or different neighborhoods entirely. It felt safe and reassuring and comfortable and wonderful. This is our playground. We work, then we go play.
All of that has gone away now. I’ve heard a lot of discussion about this fact, and I agree with what seems to be the consensus: 2016. That’s when it started to die.
Ten years without a third space is a long time. Far too long. And I wouldn’t even have one again now, if I hadn’t made the radical decision I did—if I hadn’t reached my absolute breaking point and quit it all. But I did. And I’m here now. And one of the things I get to enjoy, at least for a little while, is a third space.
Maybe you’ve guessed? It’s Shedd Aquarium. And it has been absolutely life-affirming. I cannot conceive of a place that would be more healing or bring me more joy during this moment in my life.
I go at least four or five times a week. I got a membership immediately after my first visit (well, first visit since being a little kid living in Michigan), when I did the penguin encounter, thinking I’d just go on the weekends. And now I basically live there. It’s fucking heaven.
I’ve learned every inch of it by heart, obviously. Every stairwell, every elevator, every semi-secret path. I know the quickest routes to each area, which comes in handy for maximizing my time between animal chats and animal spotlights. I never miss an animal spotlight, even if it’s dolphins three times in a row (though I’m rarely there that long). I’ve sat in on almost every animal chat multiple times. I can’t get enough of the chats. My favorite is the shark chat, where I sit up front, cross-legged, close to the glass along with all the little kids. I greatly enjoy the looks this gets me from their parents. I have terrorized about every educator on staff with my millions of questions. I can’t help it. I get so excited to talk to them and get my questions answered. I can tell at least a few of them recognize me by now.
Yesterday was by far my best day there—and every day there is great, mind you. I decided to get there at opening, because I wanted to get some nice photos without the crowd. You’d have laughed so hard to see me. I was first in line, and even after they let me in, I was zipping around like I worked there, because I knew exactly what tanks to go to in what order, before the place filled up. I was such a fucking dork.
But here is the thing I did not realize—if you get there before the crowds, you can actually hear the animals. I wear my amazing Momentum 3 headphones when I’m there, so the noise doesn’t bother me. But I never thought about the fact that all the screaming and shrieking kids are actually also drowning out the animals. Yesterday for the first time outside of the actual beluga show, I heard them. The clicks and the squeaks and the whistles—several of them at once, because the other thing I did know is that they feed the belugas at ~9:30am, and you can stand right there next to them and watch it all.
The baby beluga, Opus, was maybe three feet from me. I saw every detail of his face, his melon, his teeth, and his tongue. I heard all of his vocalizations. It was one of the most incredible animal encounters of my life. When I say I can die happy now, I am not exaggerating. It was an out of body experience. A rocket could have hit the aquarium and I wouldn’t have budged from where I stood. Someone could have come on the loudspeaker and announced that Trump had died, and my trance wouldn’t have been broken.
On top of that, when I went downstairs to get some photos from below, one of the volunteer educators came over to chat me up. And this guy was 65 if he was a day, and he’s been at Shedd for fourteen years. FUCKING JACKPOT. I was like a kid in a candy store, with all the questions I’ve been storing up about the baby moon jellies, the baby pot belly seahorses, the belugas (he was impressed I knew their names), the starfish, etc.
THEN, I fed the stingrays for the first time. Which was amazing, and now I know that’s another perk of getting there in the morning. But the best part of that was actually sharing the feed with a couple of kids next to me. I’d bought two cups’ worth (honestly next time I will probably buy five), but since they sell it inside vs. at the actual pool, people get to the pool without realizing that’s a thing they can do. So I offered my shrimp to two different families standing nearby, and the way their kids scream-laughed when the rays took the food from them. So great.
Absolute banner day.
And of course—the co-regulation. I’d had no idea. I’d had no clue until I read it recently, that neurodivergent individuals find so much comfort from animals because of how they co-regulate our nervous systems. They’re predictable and calm, and we can just enjoy them without fear that they’ll do something erratic or mean-spirited or disruptive or stressful. It makes so much sense of course, but I’d never known that’s why I am so deeply drawn to them. All of them.
But especially the belugas. And the weedy sea dragons. And the moon jellies. And the cuttlefish. And the giant catfish. And and and
July 9, 2026
Penguins are incredible. Every year they undergo a catastrophic molt. They shed all their feathers, and for two to four weeks they’re trapped on land, unable to eat. In anticipation of this, they must double their body weight ahead of time to survive.
They go through this ordeal every single year.
They all go through it together, though. They have the entire colony around them, for protection in the cold. The process of fattening up beforehand is programmed into their DNA. And the rewards for withstanding this yearly trial never change. The food will be there waiting for them, again and again. The process is is structured and predictable.
Imagine if the world of penguins underwent the same kind of disruptions that ours has, in the past few decades. Imagine if the penguins were getting it from all angles, like we’ve been. Some kind of shock to their social structure comes along, and instead of nesting, feeding, and breeding together they started peeling off and isolating. Staring at a rock on the ground for hours a day. Ignoring the cries of nearby penguins so they could just watch their little rock. It would look to scientists like some kind of psychosis.
Imagine if instead of having a guaranteed food supply, they had to queue up for some kind of restricted dispensation of fish. Only the strongest, fastest, hardiest penguins make it to the front of the line. Only they get enough to survive.
Imagine if all the icebergs turned into whatever the penguin world equivalent would be of data centers. I can’t think that what would be, but you get the point.
I wonder, if existential threats like this kept piling up for those poor penguins, how enthusiastic they would be about catastrophically molting for the fifth, sixth, seventh time.
I feel like some of the older ones might say Fuck this shit. I’m all molted out, motherfuckers.