If You're the Devil, then it Isn't Me Telling this Story

Tonight the rain sounds like tidal waves, like I could be in the ocean but not drowning. It reminds me of packed dirt trails, or running so fast and so far, surf swirling around my bare feet. I don’t remember if we swam naked that night. I just remember throwing up behind a garbage can and belly button piercings and Brakes, Susie! Brakes! Keep your hands on the wheel. I just remember how the ocean felt like bath water; how it made me lonely for lakes. I’m always craving clear, still water.  

My co-worker almost smiles when she tells me about her hearing loss. Says 98% of the time there are no complications. Says the surgery should have been routine. She misses the sound of the rain the most. Sometimes I can almost remember how rain smells. I’m always thinking fresh cut grass and 6am when I think rain. Or sometimes it smells like summer camp circa 1997. Don’t ask me why.

I’m thinking about you tonight, but not in the hurting way. Remembering when you left poetry folded just-so on my pillow, annotated with your thoughts. I imagine you studying or drinking whiskey or kissing her and it doesn’t matter. She might be a killdeer game, or your soulmate; what we’re doing is never what we think we’re doing. We are all the human being stories we’re telling ourselves. I’ve started leaving poetry (folded just-so) on my pillow. I’ve started taping it to the wall above my bed, painting it on the insides of my eyelids.

Daphne Gottlieb, Tyler Knott, Jean Gallagher, Eileen Myles.

I’d like to memorize them like my life depends on it, because maybe it does. Don’t kiss trainwrecks. Don’t kiss knives. Don’t kiss. I want to write you a letter but I’m afraid. I want to hold onto this quiet.

Pablo Neruda, Doc Luben, Margaret Atwood, e.e. cummings.

Pretend there was no wreck—you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing. You do not need trains. You can fly. You are a superhero. And there is no kryptonite.

My kitten thinks I’m a superhero. My stomach thinks I should eat more often, says my face will start to look gaunt. Do I look like an AIDS victim? My room says I need to open a window. I didn’t realize my room knew the meaning of the word “metaphor”, but I’m not surprised. No you look like you cry too much. I’m always choosing the rain, and tonight that seems ok. The rain sounds like waves breaking on my window pane, feels like looking up from the bottom of a bathtub.

Forget her name.

But I can’t because sometimes your name feels like the only thing I have to hold onto. I imagine you smell like the rain, but in reality everything smells like scar tissue to me.

-b

Narwhals, Narwhals Swimming in the Ocean.

Causing a commotion, because they are so awesome…

Hello kittens! I’ve returned safely from my Missoula foray, and tucked myself into my bed. Things I am currently grateful for: clean clothes, That Cat, my amazing friends and fruit snacks (not the 100% juice kind, but the weird gummy cartoon shapes kind). I hope you all take time to notice the full moon tonight. I got to admire it at eye level while flying over Mount Hood. You guys, it’s been an incredible and exhausting six days.

I flew back to Missoula for a whole heap of reasons, including but not limited to missing my family, running an 8K and craving a Taco del Sol burrito. Also, it was my birthday. Also, I hadn’t seen my family since July, which is a crazy long time considering children grow faster than chia pets. They’re closer to becoming real human beings every day! Anyhow, this particular trip was full of ups and downs, per usual. For your reading enjoyment I’ve compiled a helpful list of holiday faux pas based on recent experiences.

Things to avoid:

·         Chewing so vigorously that you chip a tooth. Seriously, nobody enjoys celery enough to cause permanent dental damage.

·         Consuming back-to-back Thanksgiving dinners (unless you are spiritually and mentally prepared for extreme agony).

·         Sleeping on a leather couch. You will sweat, and it will be disconcertingly sticky.

·         Attempting to equally divide your time and attention between three siblings. Just don’t. You will fail.

·         Laughing when one little brother sprints across the room to throw an elbow into another little brother’s face for calling him a “poopy”. I know I shouldn’t condone sibling-to-sibling violence, but holy shit guys.

·         Crying during Twilight: Breaking Dawn, Pt 2. Not once, but several times.

·         Blaming aforementioned tears on K-Stew’s face rather than admitting you wish your ex-girlfriend was holding your hand. Except replace “holding your hand” with “being in love with you” and you’re closer to the truth.

·         Expecting your friends to be enthralled by any story containing the words “Netflix”, “kale” or “obese dachshund”.

·         Planning a 10am breakfast the night after your friends get tanked in celebration of your birth (and also pursuit of throbbing man parts. Gross). Should you fail to observe this suggestion, you will probably spend three or more hours at Uptown Diner.

[Sidenote: pineapple milkshake equals breakfast. Always]

Let’s get real for a minute, ok? I want to thank you all for an incredible week. Thank you for Nertz and homemade stuffing and Baby it’s cold outside… Thank you for leaving the proof out of the pudding. Thank you for hitting the high notes, and reminding me sometimes it’s necessary to dance crazy around the living room. Any living room. Thank you for laughing at my puns, and listening to my boring stories and holding me or not holding me while I cried, or didn’t cry but wanted to. Thank you for extra jackets. Thank you for elephant love medley and three rounds of pool. Thank you for macaroni and cheese. Thank you for the Worst Day Ever and the knowledge that today is not That Day and tomorrow probably won’t be either.

Today I turned twenty-four and last night (between serenading me and complimenting my muscles) my friend asked what my birthday poem would look like. This is what I came up with.

Lessons from my 24^th Birthday

(A Poem for Magingo)

1. Don’t ask questions, just dance. When the music is playing, it’s playing just for you. Close your eyes. Feel the sound pound through your outstretched fingertips. Join the spinning of the world like a double dutch champion. Don’t be afraid. Jump in. The music is playing just for you.

2. Let yourself be loved. Cover yourself in layers of love like thick winter coats. Drape it across the holes in your self-esteem. Let it sink in: there will always be people to love you. Let them.

3. Sometimes the spotlight will just be the flash on a camera. Embrace it like the sun. Let it warm you from the inside. The pictures may be blurry, but they are lovely in the way only true things are lovely. You are lovely in a way that makes me believe in Truth.

4. Etch memories into your mind like names and dates scrawled across the tabletop of your favorite booth in your hometown bar. Carry the scars of your pleasure as proudly as your pain. Both are a badge of honor.

5. Sing every song in your repertoire. Sing with every muscle in your body, even when there’s no music. Especially when there’s no music. You are the music. There are symphonies in your bloodstream. There is a percussionist in your chest. Life only has a musical finale when you open your mouth to sing. Always sing.

This time last year I considered sleeping in the snowbank because I didn't think you'd miss me. This time last year I chased three beers with two Bloody Mary’s, chased two Bloody Mary’s with a bottle of blackberry brandy and met my family for a matinee I wouldn’t remember. This time last year I was lying in my bed, afraid to fall asleep because my heart was doing somersaults and I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking.

365 days of learning later I am in my bed, in my city and for the first time in a long time I feel fully present in this imperfect skin. And I know in three or 30 or 365 days I will be able to come home again; to love and be loved in a way that makes the heavies disappear for a little while. Even if it is at Deejo's expense...

I adore you all so much I could burst! Sleep well, dreamweavers.

-b

noone and a star stand, am to am

(life to life;breathing to breathing
flaming dream to dreaming flame)
united by perfect nothing:

I told you I loved you before my conscious mind knew it was true. That summer smelled like cigarettes and cheap beer; like sweat and sun and loneliness. I had been drunk every day for six months the night we strapped your mattress to the top of Casey’s jeep. You stood in my doorway in your pajamas, your Rabbit tucked under one arm. You were sad and brave and lovely in a way that made me want to invent new words. I loved you before my conscious mind knew how to love.

Three days or three weeks later: you tequila drunk in the passenger seat of your silly clown car, singing.

If you’ll be my star, I’ll be your sky.

Singing.

I need you so much closer.

You, dearest, were never meant to be anybody’s backdrop.

Last winter, through Ju’s kitchen window, you showed me the place you smoked cigarettes in your underwear. I imagined your winterpale skin, smoke pooling in cold pockets of air. Or maybe it was summer and the sun raised a layer of sweat across your exposed body, and the breeze shouldered some of your sadness. Sometimes late at night I smoke cigarettes on my roof, feeling lonely for that girl I never knew. I want to tell her everything will be fine. I want to believe everything will be fine.

When I was younger, I slept with my feet uncovered so I could run through my dreams. I clung to my bedpost so I could find my way back. Now I hold onto the pieces of myself I’m most afraid of losing, dig my fingers into my own ribcage as if I could hold myself together. You told me you’ll always be there when I come looking, but you are not mine to look for anymore.

I have been single for a year now. You are the first thing I think about every morning. Some days I wake slowly, imagine the fingers on my hipbone are yours.  Other days I wake up to the vacuum of your absence. I’m not delusional, just defined by the spaces you are not.

Two nights ago the lights stretched out below us, slow cars moving like sticky platelets through Missoula’s veins. We seared solar flares into our lungs. I let the smoke stun the swarm of words trapped inside my mouth. I didn’t mean to laugh, but we’re constantly straddling the line between tragedy and comedy.

And we laughed, you know, because sometimes you’d rather cry.

Yesterday, holding me like a baby knees to chest and my face pressed into the crook of your neck, I could have cried forever. You asked me why I’ll always choose the rain, and I don’t have an answer except I keep hoping it will make me appreciate the sun. You call me best friend and I call you home but in the end they’re all just different words for “never”. You told me agape. If nothing had ever changed we could still be in this place, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches. Or I’d be dead, or you’d be gone or everything would be wrong. Or nothing would be wrong. Parallel worlds are easier to get lost in than we suppose.

Yesterday, singing “happy birthday” and blowing out the candles in two breaths and wishing for I-don’t-know what. Yesterday, cutting into a cloud of pistachio pudding and chocolate cake. Nothing so sweet could ever be good for you. Nothing has changed, and that will probably always be problematic.

Tomorrow I will leave this town.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it

Imagine me somewhere: on a bus, at my desk, on a bus, in my bed. Reduce me to the essentials of existing, imagine me peaceful. Don’t check in. I’m tired of disappointing you. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the places that gravity feels lightest, where I don’t have to crawl. I’ll remember how to sleep again, remember dreams without you in them. I used to laugh when you talked about going back to Real Life, like somehow we could slip in and out of reality the way you put on a winter jacket to survive the worst of the cold.

I’m not laughing anymore.

-b

If You're Bored Then You're Boring...

You guys. It’s 7 o’clock on a Saturday night and I’m realizing I’ve become a poor self-entertainer. My activities today included oversleeping, drinking too much coffee, donating plasma and eating everything I own. In retrospect that last one was a bad idea. I’m still not sure how commuters manage to grocery shop. Do I make multiple trips? Bring a bigger backpack? Learn how to live primarily on powdered foods? All I know is somehow I need to transport one week’s worth of groceries from the store to my cupboard, or risk starvation.

This weekend ULOL drove to Boise, and Friend is working one of her many, many jobs. Which means I’ve got free reign of the house. What am I doing with my freedom? I could choreograph a nude interpretive dance routine, practice singing Celine Dion tunes for my next karaoke outing or testing how many marshmallows I can fit in my mouth at one time. Instead I’m obvs sitting on the couch, watching Buffy and stalking the grumpy cat.

Although Buffy and grumpy cat are two of my favorite things, I’m suffering through a debilitating case of FOMO (or “fear of missing out”) with a side serving of “decision fatigue”. You guys, it’s a real thing! With a proper label and people researching causes and symptoms! I’d lump FOMO into the same category as babies refusing to sleep and drunk people insisting they need to buy more beer after bar hour.

Build-your-own FOMO:
            1. Compile a list of potential activities.

            2. Add a dash of indecision.

            3. Become overwhelmed

 4. Wish you could be three or more places simultaneously.

            5. While weighing your options, open your laptop and scroll through Tumblr.

            6. Avoid all activities, succumbing to guilt and distress.

            7. Go to bed early, wondering if you’ve missed the best experience of your life.

This is the face of FOMO.

My current lack of transportation aggravates the FOMO. Sure I could pay $5 for a bus pass and spend an hour commuting across town for a poetry reading. Or I could eat an entire pound of ground beef in my sweatpants and watch My Drunk Kitchen until I get sleepy. Am I wasting my youth? Maybe. Should I be out there drinking too much and smoking too much, meeting all the people and having all the feelings? That’s open for interpretation. Maybe where I am is exactly where I’m meant to be, but I still feel uneasy.

What happens next? I mean, what happens next in our lives? When do we get a car? And a boat. No, wait, I don't mean a boat. I mean a puppy, or a child. I have a list somewhere…Just, we have to get going. I don't have time just to let these things happen…There's a hurry, Xander. I'm dying... I may have as few as fifty years left!

                                    --Anya, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I think FOMO runs rampant in the twenty-somethings because for the first time our lives are unstructured. Listen, self-determination is daunting as fuck. We could do anything, be anyone. The decisions we make now could impact the rest of our lives. Afraid of making the wrong choice, we just avoid choosing. I feel caught in the in-between, waiting for some indication of what comes next. And in the meantime I work my 40 hour weeks, read good books, watch bad television. I sleep too much or too little, eat whenever I get the chance. I internalize obscure quotes, walk my roommates’ dogs in the rain, spend too much time on the internet.

So here I am. It’s now 9:30 on a Saturday night, and I’m no closer to leaving this couch. But you know what? I think for now that’s just fine.

Many miles of love. I adore you all.

-b

The City Bus is Swimming Past...

I’m happy just because. I found out I am really no one.

Hello creeps! Welcome to another week. I have a bad case of the Mondays. I also have a dead car, a crusty computer and soup in my shoe.

As you know, last week I was stalwartly avoiding conversations about politics and pregnancy. Tuesday, while taking a lunchtime nap in my car I noticed my fuse box making menacing clicking noises. That night leaving work there was a delay when I tried to start the Biscuit. But obvs since it started nothing could possibly be wrong. Then my stereo started shorting out. Mostly this was troubling because I was trying to enjoy my first birthday present of the year: the original soundtrack for “Once More with Feeling”. Every time we hit a climactic musical peak the stereo cut out, ruining Anya’s bunny-ranting momentum.

[Note: “Once More with Feeling” is the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I would appreciate if you watched it immediately so our friendship can resume. Please and thank you]

I’ve had alternator issues before, so I know the slow fade and fizzle of a car. I also know the excruciating agony of limping said car home at dusk with a police escort while the headlights get dimmer and dimmer. Fact: the Biscuit is the first car I’ve owned that’s younger than I am. Trust me, I’ve had a junker or two

This issue was not that issue.

Listen. I have zero car sense. This March I had to ask the fella at O’Reilly’s how to put oil in my engine. So instead of addressing the fact that my car was having issues, I did what I usually do with problems I can’t solve and completely ignored it. The Biscuit got progressively harder to start. By Wednesday I had to turn on my dome light, crank the engine twice, toggle the battery on and crank a third time for the car to start. By Thursday morning my battery light was on and my gauges surged on and off every other minute. 6pm Thursday, Biscuit wouldn’t start without a jump.

This is about when I started admitting something might be wrong.

Luckily I have amazing roommates willing to schlep me to and from work despite whiskey hangovers, terrible weather and rush hour traffic. I resolved to troubleshoot my car troubles Saturday. I even recruited a gaggle of knowledgeable queers to peer under the hood and diagnose my issue. You guys, you’re not living until you’ve stood in the street in your slippers while five lesbians look at your car. After some battery terminal scraping Biscuit started without a problem, and everything seemed ok.

Until this morning. Luckily, I left the house early planning write before work. Unluckily, Biscuit tapped out after the first attempt to start him. Thus begins my first hellish experience with commuting. I’m going to share some valuable life lessons I learned today.

Commuting 101:

1. Don’t spill soup in your backpack, especially if the soup happens to be precariously perched atop your work clothes and laptop. While in panic-mode you may decide that shoving a Tupperware of soup into your backpack is a good idea. It’s not. Carrying a container of soup is preferable to wearing a container of soup.

2. If you disregard the advice from #1, you’ll be forced to make a terrible decision: salvage what’s left of your lunch, or leave the half-full soup container at the bus stop? I sacrificed a quality Tupperware today. I’m still not sure it was the right decision.

3. Don’t miss your bus, or you will most likely be late for work. Also, you’ll have to stand outside longer, covered in soup and probably freezing your ass off because you underdressed.

4. Don’t make eye contact with the probable heroin junkie sitting across from you at 8 o’clock in the morning. Or do. I’m torn on this one, because I think she probably had some good stories to tell.

Somehow I made it to work almost on time, despite my complete lack of public transportation know-how. God bless you, google maps.

Once I got in the building, my coworkers swamped me with kindness. You guys, I’m blown away by how great everybody was. They helped me mop bits of potato out of my backpack and get it in the washer. They helped me daub soup out of my computer speakers, and called me too skinny and shared their lunches. They even kicked me out early so I could catch the 6pm bus, instead of the 6:12. You guys, despite the aspects of my job that make me want to punch myself in the face, I think I’ve found a community of people that genuinely care about me and each other. Yes they bicker like siblings, but that commitment to rivalry is impressive in its own right.

Riding the bus home I let myself bask in the novelty. Even while it was happening I realized that soon commuting will just be another thing I do, just another part of my day. But today it was new; today it got to be fantastically chaotic. I saw two kids sprawl across the seat using their dad as a pillow, all three sleeping while mom watched for their stop. There were people getting off of work or going to work, going to parties, going home with their groceries… Just people, everybody out there living their separate lives existing momentarily in the same space. We were all just people with places to go, and in that moment the act of simply moving forward was enough.

So I’m officially a commuter, at least for now. Tomorrow I’ll pack a more sensible lunch, leave the house 10 minutes earlier and actually know how to get where I’m going. Today started hellishly, but it also showed me I’m not as alone as I feel sometimes. None of us are, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

All my love, you weirdos.

-b

P.S. After a week of success, I broke my sugar fast on Sunday. But you guys, pumpkin pie waffles! I’m back on the wagon, with no regrets. YOLO, bitches. 

Sugar, We're Going Down Swinging

Hello kittens! 

Tonight was election night. I hope you were all good citizens and actively participated in the electoral process. I failed, mostly because I’ve been supremely apathetic the last month or so. I barely mustered the energy to clip my toenails. Registering to vote was out of the question. As a result of my non-participation I had to buy Lucy lunch. I’m not complaining though, things appear to have turned out just fine without me.

Recently, the hot topics at the Boulevard have been politics and pregnancy, both of which I try to avoid. So I obvs spent 6 hours researching kale in an attempt to avoid all conversation. You guys, kale is a super food! Did you know it’s full of Vitamin K and iron? Did you know it only costs $1.39 per bunch and is super filling? I want to eat it for every meal. I also learned that hemp hearts are an excellent source of Omega-3 fatty acids, and I might live to be one million years old if I start eating more broccoli.

This healthy food kick stems from an article I read last week discussing sugar consumption, alcoholism and depression. As most of you know, I’m currently a desk surfer. The beginning of October meant staring down a tub of bite-sized chocolate bars eight hours a day, five days a week. Keep in mind I’m not generally a sweets person. I’ll eat a bag of potato chips in approximately one minute, but candy has never held the same appeal. Until the phones start ringing off the hook and the doctors are yelling about missing charts and the clients somehow believe you personally caused their dog to consume an entire box of allergy medication. Then those candy bars start to look like little bites of straight dopamine.

Just one more Milky Way...

I’m not proud of my actions, but I’d say I’ve been averaging about five butterfingers and three snickers a day. Plus the random sliver of ice cream cake, or pumpkin spice cupcake with my lunch. So I decided to cold turkey refined sugars.

You guys, this shit is hard! Today was my second full sugar-free day, and I was a basket case. I felt rundown, cranky and battled some wicked cravings. Before today I’ve never felt the urge to shove at least ten candy bars into my mouth at one time. But the fact that this is all so hard confirms my suspicions: I’m an addict. Only my addiction is socially acceptable, which makes it even harder to kick. Please bear with me. I’m hoping by the one week mark the desire to tear my own face off will subside.

On a completely unrelated note: I’ve spent a lot of time recently trying to decide how I’ll wrap up my recaps. A-Camp happened almost two months ago, and I’m still trying to organize my thoughts. All I have left to say is this: I left that mountain feeling capable of achieving. I felt quiet and capable, like I’d just survived a particularly grueling yoga session; I was centered. My problems were still the same, I was still the same me with the same regrets, but they seemed somehow more manageable. And I guess that’s really all there is to say about it.

A-Camp didn’t change my life, but it showed me my life isn’t beyond changing. I met my heroes, and they turned out to be real human beings, which only makes them that much more heroic. I made new friends and remembered that I’m capable of being a social creature even if that’s not my default setting. Better yet, I learned it’s ok that social isn’t my default setting. I’m not the only introverted weirdo who would rather ogle cat pictures than go clubbing. Most importantly, I found other people who understand my obscure Buffy references. 

Speaking of Buffy, did you know this is a thing that happened? Aren’t you glad?

So here I am. Everything has changed and everything is the same and I still have no idea what I’m doing. But I think that’s ok. I can feed myself and pay my bills and I’ve kept a kitten alive for two years now. I read books and smoke cigars and watch too much Netflix. In the end I just need to remember--

I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.

It’s raining in Portland, and somewhere someone is celebrating the election results with fireworks. Tomorrow at the Boulevard the hot topics will still be politics and pregnancy, and I’ll do my best to avoid chocolate and confrontation. Please be kind to yourselves, I need each and every one of you.

Sweet dreams, you lovable weirdos.

-b