There are different names for the same thing.

The longer I exist as a human being, the more I comprehend there are concepts of love we never have the opportunity to express. There are feelings that exist with no words, at least in the English dictionary.

The concept of loving something dependent on our care.

Loving a friend with no romantic inclination.

There is a love I feel for novelty. The new experience, the people who fuel my desire to go deeper and faster without reservation. This will not take long. This love is transient in nature.

There are people who inspire you to kiss their forehead while they sleep even if they won’t look at you in the morning.

Or the love you feel for your family late at night when you are alone. Realizing shared experience bonds you in a way words never could. Because history runs thicker than family but not nearly as fast or far. We are scattered together in our cowardly heredity.

Loving someone casually. Is there a word for experiencing someone else’s Personhood in a way that starts to make sense? How do I express the comfort of familiar hands and shared cigarettes? There’s going to come a time I finally notice the light fixture is pink, and has it always been that way or does sunrise have that effect on perception? Leaving in the morning is harder than I expect.

Then there are the yellow birds, those brief and intense eternities. The people who live underneath your skin; whose heartbeats you feel from hundreds and thousands of miles away. When I dream of lakes they taste like your name.

When a friend asks me about love, I tell her May 2013. I was trying to be a new me; a person who slept at night, and didn’t dream about girls with longdark hair. I wanted to be someone who could move on, but I still slept in her bed. My last night in town, in a city that used to be ours, she had a nightmare. Her hands grasping at mine to escape some fresh hell. Or old hell, or the hell she’d never tell me about existing in a place beyond repair.

She was leaving. But nothing felt real or stable the way we expect things to feel real and stable when they’re the right things. That night in her bed she didn’t know how to say goodbye the way I didn’t know what to say the day I left that town and never looked back. Except I looked back.

Came back. For her, and for them, and for myself because I had no concept of myself outside of that space. And maybe that’s what home is: a concept of yourself that exists beyond you. People know your mother’s name, or the first job you had and hated. People in that place see your scarred lips. They know you never gave up kissing bombs.

But that night there was me, and her, and the idea of leaving. There were six months of distance and history pressing heavy into my bones. The night she walked home alone. The night she wore exhaustion like a badge of honor. We tried to be anybody but ourselves in her kitchen over free soup and crackers.

Here are the facts: she had a nightmare that woke me up. Pressed hard into me like an animal escaping its own skin, curled into my body like salvation. And I held her the way I’ll always hold her. Which is to say like a last breath. Or maybe nothing like that at all.

She didn’t remember it in the morning. But her chest against my chest, me pressing hard into the smell of her. I read once that pheromones are expressed through the scalp and her hair against my face felt like timelessness. That’s the closest I’ve come to salvation. Holding her for the last time, knowing it was the last time; the everything of me converged in the back of my throat demanding acknowledgement.

Months later I retell the story under the purple-orange glow of god and streetlights, feeling small in a way I didn’t know was possible. She doesn’t know what it meant I say. I say My favorite memory will never be remembered.

The longer I exist as a human being, the more I know no loves are the same. The rush I feel when I see your name flash across a screen is not the same as your hand tracing the constellation of my shoulders. There are heartbeats beneath my skin I can’t begin to comprehend. But I keep trying. I keep existing. And if there are words for many types of love, I hope mine resembles patience.   

Angels on your body.

-b

Let's talk about sex, baby.

Sometimes you find yourself sitting in a dark theater with your friends and several hundred strangers watching amateur porn. This is your adult life. Don’t ask questions.

What I mean to say is HUMP! passed through Portland last weekend. In case you aren’t familiar, HUMP! is an annual film festival aired in Portland and Seattle. The festival, which first kicked off in 2005, features submissions by amateur porn actors, directors, and producers. They’re allowed up to five minutes to showcase their talents and audience members vote for their favorites. With a $5,000 cash prize on the line, these movies aren’t fucking around. I mean, technically they are.

I heard about HUMP! several weeks ago through the co-dependent Facebook group chat my friends and I have maintained since January. Listen, sometimes winter is long and you’re all sad vegans and constant communication is the only logical coping mechanism. The group chat also enables lightning speed communication should you need to discuss recent political rulings, socially-relevant Buzzfeed articles, or the existence of this raft:

  

The group chat also helped us develop Pusheen emoji-utilization skillz and coordinate outings, ala HUMP! Having survived a handful of group porn nights in college, I felt pretty confident in My Ability To Handle this event. Nothing could possibly be as daunting as pizza night with Grannies, Fatties, Pregnant Bitches (And a Midget to Boot) running on a loop in the background. Just in case, I pre-gamed with my pal Jose to fortify my courage. When the lights dimmed I was loose around the edges and ready for anything. Well, almost anything.

The three rules of HUMP! per Dan Savage:
               1) No cell phones

               2) Don’t be an asshole (they belong on screen, not in the audience).

               3) Have fun! Because sex!

This particular viewing was the “Best Of” tour, meaning we privileged few witnessed the most popular films from years prior. The featured films included Pie Sluts, Fun with Fire, and D&D Orgy. But the breakaway hit was a little doozy called Mythical Proportions. Imagine pornographic claymation centaurs and improv fetishist interviews. Solid gold. HUMP! also destroyed my childhood memories of E.T. with the animated sequel, Dark Territory. Turns out E.T. and Elliot grew up to be more than friends.

I don’t really know where to go from here. What I do know is I laughed, blushed, and winced through 90 minutes of incredible material. I’ve entered post-HUMP! life with the knowledge that bodies are strange and people are stranger. Sex is a funny thing that can be done about a billion different ways; you’re only limited by your own creativity. Unless you’re a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Then you’re limited by your arm span. Womp womp.

Above all remember: safety first! And don’t ingest motor oil! It might seem like a sexy lubricant, but probably it’s dangerous.

Sex on, kittens.

-b    

A Brief & Incomplete List: #3

Things I’ll Never be When I Grow Up:

A dog owner, probably.

I’ve always considered myself an animal lover. I grew up with a veritable menagerie of critters. My childhood was populated with cats, dogs, horses, chickens, ferrets, rats, fish, and one temperamental cockatiel (who we found scattered across the front lawn after she  “got out of her cage” following a particularly hostile encounter with my father).

I volunteered at the Humane Society. I watched hours of Animal Planet, convinced I would grow up to be an emergency vet. I frequently imagined living on a vast tract of land with my 30+ rescue dogs. We would take long walks, and spend evenings sprawled across various pieces of furniture, basking in the rosy glow of companionship and unconditional love.

As an adult, I have been responsible for the physical and emotional well-being of exactly two dogs. Kenzii, a 45 pound ball of neurosis and skin allergies lives in Colorado with my ex-girlfriend. I follow her on facebook and send tennis balls for Christmas. Deejo now lives with a nice family on a farm [Note: this is not code for euthanasia, he really does live just outside of Hamilton, Montana!].

Deejo came into my life at a strange junction. I had recently graduated college, lived in my first dog-friendly house, and worked at a doggy daycare. I’d managed to keep That Cat alive for over a year, and felt like dog ownership was the next step in my development as an Adult Human. I knew Deejo through the daycare, and when I heard he needed a new home it felt like the stars were aligning. It was fate! Adopting him was the only logical thing to do.

I realized my mistake almost immediately.

First of all, Deejo and That Cat couldn’t be left alone together. Nor could Deejo really be left alone at all. Every time I left the room his hellish wailing would follow me. He’d mastered a particularly heart-wrenching, high pitched death knell. Something akin to a baby seal that has just been bludgeoned. Our second problem: Deejo loved me. Unconditionally. Endlessly and obsessively. This proved to be our undoing.

I hit my breaking point five months in. Waking up before my alarm one morning I could feel Deejo’s adoring gaze boring into me over the edge of the bed. He’d been watching me sleep. He wanted to be the only thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Staring at the ceiling, my first cognizant thought of the day was I would rather kill myself than deal with you right now. Second thought: Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I can’t do this anymore. 

It took a lot to swallow my pride and admit I wasn’t cut out for dog ownership. But re-homing Deejo was one of the more responsible choices I’ve made in my adult life. Someday I may have the emotional capacity to unconditionally love and be loved by another living thing. Until then That Cat and I will continue peripherally respecting each other.

A sea otter, a lemur, or any other carefree, non-human critter.

This notion sneaks up on me with surprising frequency.

Throughout middle school my sister and I spent summers visiting my grandmother in Gilroy, California. Annual traditions included the classic car show, rollercoasters at the Santa Cruz boardwalk, and a day at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I was infatuated by the sea otters. Otters spend the majority of their day sleeping, grooming themselves, and eating. They hold hands while they sleep to keep themselves anchored. If I were an otter I’d have to eat 35-40 pounds of food per day to maintain my body weight. As a bottomless pit, this fact is the most convincing argument for otter-dom anybody could ever present me.

I unearthed my previously hidden desire to be a lemur fairly recently. While scrolling through Tumblr I stumbled across a photoset of these big-eyed, arboreal freaks bounding through the treetops, chowing down on fresh fruit, and sleepily sunbathing the day away. I was distraught enough to text a friend. I’m not sure how I would go about comforting an adult friend after receiving this text on a Tuesday afternoon: “I’ll never be a lemur :(“ Should the opportunity present itself, I hope I handle it with even a fraction of her poise and compassion.

I’ll never leap majestically from tree to tree in the rainforests of Madagascar. I’ll never float languidly in a sheltered ocean harbor, eating shellfish freshly harvested from the ocean floor. I just won’t.

These realizations are predictable, and perfectly devastating.

Source: http://wildlife.ucsc.edu/

A former child star.

I am frequently baffled by the concept that I am a full-grown, adult human being. I work as an administrative professional. I own a car, and pay its registration and insurance. I’ve kept a plant alive for over five years. I have friends with spouses, children, and retirement plans. This probably signifies some sort of accomplishment; the business of keeping myself alive. 25 years and still going strong!  

It also means I’ve successfully managed to dodge certain bullets. For example, I’ll never be a former child star. I’ll never be on a “WhereAre They Now?” top 40 list. Nobody will mindlessly flip through my Before/After pictures wondering what went wrong. They won’t shake their heads and mourn my lost innocence. If I end up in rehab, it will be the regular kind. My recovery won’t be exploited for public consumption.

I’ll also never be a prepubescent millionaire ala Macaulay Culkin… I guess you win some, you lose some.

 I love you, weirdos. 

-b

Come take a trip in my airship and we'll visit the man on the moon.

I breathe and no words come out because they have forgotten what it feels like to human. Coming home at the end of each day, puddling into purple sheets where strangers’ lives unfold strangely. Or not strangers, exactly. Somehow more familiar; so trope. You don’t connect with people because you are creating them she says. She says You use them to propel your story and the words resonate somewhere hidden in the synopsis.

Leaving Seattle for the second time takes too long like I wasn’t meant to leave. The city circles in on itself. Like a labrynth, like the inner ridges of an ear or seashell. I drive successively smaller circles until the hills take my breath away. I migrate closer to the vibration of the center. The interstate plays hideaway games. It stays lost forever if I forget to keep seeking.

There will always be bridges and bridges and water. Lights stretched across liquid like mirrored cities. We could skinny dip if it weren’t for the cold. The blue t-shirt shares my bed when she can’t. For three days I hold it to my face to create her scent. Imagine warm water drenched in pink petals, or the way light tastes at sunset. The cards say Stay the cards say Go. When I go gravity evanesces and shimmers like grease over a hot skillet. In a gas station bathroom neither here nor there my hands look too alive gripping the sink. Outside there is too much sky so I hide and pray for clouds.

When she goes gravity fractures and lodges in my chest. I can’t swallow around the splinters so I stop trying. I am growing new skin beneath the burn. I am giving this time to heal for once without rushing. My fingertips are their own pulse. I can feel your heartbeat she says. She says Vou pensar em você com freqüência. Não. Eu vou pensar em você sempre. The night before. Her bottom lip pulls out and down every time she swallows something important. She means to speak but can’t yet. But ice cream and candles and the people behind us more in love with their own voices than each other. The man in the corner is writing himself. We are all characters. And the wage of sin is death he says. He says Hey do you know what time is it? and we don’t.

There will always be bridges and bridges and water when the city zigs and zags across itself. Seattle all circles, Portland all lines. And yesterday. Rain falling on wind chimes while earthquakes echo through these bones; chemicals leech from the marrow. The body trembles so strangely. I migrate closer to the center of the vibration, sluice sour sweat from sick skin. I show her picture to strangers in bars. I tuck tightly rolled love notes between black bricks, in a café on the other side of water and water and bridges.

These are the adjectives I give her: exquisite, timeless, beautiful. Pulse like a slow river swollen with spring. Everything feels so trite on my tongue. I breathe with no words and remember how to human.

Angels on your body.

-b