well then THAT happened - 2023 Edition

I haven’t done one of these since 2018 and honestly I’m glad. Those seem to be years I’m not ready to look back on. The great big Stay at Home. It has forever changed my relationship with the world and I’m still working my way through it. I don’t like pretending it never happened but I also don’t need to process it online with everyone else. Somethings are just for me.

What a bummer way to start, right? Here’s a palate cleanser.

I put this sweater on Bean once a year for about 10 minutes and try and take pictures while he curses me and tells me he’s writing me out of the will.

2023 started with a quiet rainy January, like most years really. Until we went to Kauai with the Campbells, some of our favorite traveling companions. Then it was a quiet and warm January filled with watching sunsets from the beach 10 steps from our rental, reading by the pool and going down a waterslide for the first time in maybe 25 years.

Existential Crises were cataloged in my notes app.

Sadia was healing up well and most of my favorite moments from this year were from Salon Days at her house with Aaren or running random errands at Target.

I continued working at home and at this point I am no longer suitable for working outside the home.

at some point this happened but I barely remember it. time becomes a weird pudding when you live and work inside and only crawl out of your hobbit hole to go to the gym or to see one of the three friends you have in the city.

what a death trap. a beautiful death trap.

i continued training with Adriana and the gym has taken on a new meaning for me now that it’s been over a year with them. i call out when i don’t have it in me to go and i say it. "I’m sorry I can’t make it, I don’t have it in me.” , “I’m currently trapped under a dog and cannot get up.”, “I have to stay at home because my womb is on fire.” or “the outside world is horrible today” or “my body is telling me to eat mac and cheese instead of lifting heavy things.”

I hit personal records for both my deadlift and bench press this year and I couldn’t have done it without them and the community that lifts with me. I grumble about going and on the way home i’m grateful to the point of tears. My eating disorder was so tied to the gym and workouts and I didn’t really think I’d be able to go back without sinking into the dark hole of tracking metrics and keeping score. I thought the only way to be safe was to just never step foot in a gym again. What a relief to know that there is another way, a different way and a place to go where no one will talk about about what they’re not eating or how much weight they’ve lost.

I’m still planted firmly in the Fuck Cardio Club. That might change. It might not. I’m not concerned about it.

My knees are still a work in progress. The left is so much better than it has been but now the right is angry that it’s been doing all the heavy lifting while the left figured it’s shit out.

But it’s something that I’m actively working on and feeling progress with though girl dinner really does look like this sometimes.

this is my life now.

this year is still the year of the hammock.

we did a whirlwind trip back east for my cousin’s wedding that included a 4 hour delayed red eye the morning of the wedding and an ill timed weed gummy consumption but we still managed to look cute.

how is my dad the shortest member of my immediate family now?

I’m officially now 1000+ days into a Duolingo streak and they are now aware of all my life happenings and it’s totally creepy.

You can’t tell me how to feel Duo.

This year I had some fun summertime Sage hang time.

When summer hits Portland now, it’s a race against time to get another portable AC Unit lest you want to die in your home a perfectly baked basque cheesecake.

I turned 47 this year. I think that’s right. I don’t have the brainpower to do math. I’m at the “Does it really matter?” portion of life. I have one new grey hair and I’m keeping it. I need people to remember that I am closer to 50 than they think I am so they stop inviting me out past 6PM or think that I can tolerate standing room only shows.

yes. i think it’s time for orthopedic shoes.

what does it mean when your local urgent care is your first happy birthday text you receive?

This summer can only be defined by the chaos of my uncle’s quick decline and charlie randomly tearing a ligament in his back knee. june, july and august were a blur of stress, sadness, relief…maybe every emotion possible. I flew back home for the funeral and realized that the times we’re all together now are for weddings or funerals and i want more than that for us.

i hate that this is an instagram story i had to screenshot. i hate phones and my want to document yet i hate being that person with the phone. it’s complicated.

Charlie got a new ride so he could keep off that knee before and after his surgery. We were now those people with a dog in a stroller. Shout out to all the moms who have to do this with an extra little in tow. I learned first hand how hard it is to manage Bean on a leash and Charlie in a stroller when faced with having to open a door or even take on a high curb.

He eventually had surgery. I found him like this the morning after, passed out like an 18 year old after one too many wine coolers.

my poor son.

I got through the chaos in the same way I got through the pandemic.

pick your poison. i am a weed gummy enthusiast.

Charlie was a champ throughout his recovery while I was a hot mess, literally and figuratively. I loved how he enjoyed being the Red Baron on our walks though, not letting anything stop him from being his scamp self.

he loved this thing so much.

i kept writing, whether it was in a class

or the writing group some of my old wild writing friends and teacher started up to keep the practice alive. picking poems for our group got me into actively reading poetry again and that’s been such a balm for all the chaos.

Also sometime this spring I started journaling again in earnest. For most of my life I had been a daily journal-er and at some point, drowning in work and poor life choices or falling in love and being blissfully happy, I stopped. I love that I’ve started again and my journals are now pieces of art. I reserve my worst writing for these pages. It’s what’s real, it’s what’s happening and when I’m 80 I’d like to look back and read about how much i hated flossing and what my skincare routine was in my 40s. (In my 20s it was drugstore face wash if i remembered. In my 30s it was non-existent. Now it is a 10 minute routine with 4-5 products that I am ashamed to say how much they cost.)

My notes app still held my weirdo dreams and thoughts on the go.

Jeff left me love notes when he traveled for work.

he still wears jeans to walk the dogs and when he leaves him on the floor i imagine he’s been raptured.

i am still in soft pants land and i don’t see this changing anytime soon, if ever. my favorite outfit of the year, most of it from Shift + Wheeler

This was the year I became an underwear model.

And a runway model.

This year’s Knockout PDX put on by Copper Union was a blast. I walked for both Teggings (their last show) and Shop Altar.

Despite it all, sometimes I wake up still feeling like trash about my body, what it looks like, what it can and cannot do and how much love and attention it needs. It’s a consistent practice to remember that no matter how I feel about my body, I must care for it, it’s the only one I have, it’s the only one I get, it’s gotten me here, it’s been with me and has never abandoned me no matter how many times I’ve tried to leave it because it was too painful to be in it. We are learning.

please play ‘Night in the Woods'‘, it’s one of the best story focused video games out there.

this was the year i sent my friends completely unhinged birthday cards.

Despite it all, I still managed to keep Bean entertained with memes.

This was the year Bean has decided that we are his people and that he might indeed be a lap dog. It only took 6 years.

i must have photo evidence of this cuddle and my reaction to it,

Sadia and I had some hashbrown dates and decided that the breakfast sandwiches here are ok but the hashbrowns are where it’s at.

this was the year i decided - fuck it, i need bangs again.

nothing is wrong. i just wanted them!

tattoos seem to come in twos. in 2018 I got 2 tattoos within months of each other. same happened this year as i began writing about ghosts and identifying as a houseplant.

by the sweet lemon

by the wonderful Bridget Myers

I’m sure my mom will grab my arm, give a harumph when she sees them and walk away. It’s fine. I’ve accepted my role as the family clown.

I can’t lie. I’m nervous that when I pass that my journals will be read unless I come up with an elaborate plan to have them spontaneously burst into flames upon my demise.

This was the year I learned that video games teach me patience and when I can get over being awful at something it can actually be fun.

Spiritfarer is still one of the most beautiful games I’ve ever played.

I’ve switched out and tried new meds this year that have helped but have also had some unfortunate side effects.

I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to do with the rest of my life and if it’s ok for me to not want more than this little life. I went to an informational about becoming a Death Doula. I’ve contemplated becoming a glorified trip sitter (but the field is so new and expensive with the legalization of psilocybin, there are barriers to entry and to training). I was so sure of these paths at the beginning of the year and then found myself choosing to…not do anything.

As it currently stands. My life is dope and I do dope shit. My life is fueled by a lot of luck, some heavy lifting and learning i did in my 20s and 30s, having an amazing partner and more freedom than I’ve ever had in my entire life to just…exist. It’s so special. I don’t want to jinx it. I want to keep writing and learning and spending time with the people i love and letting go of the people who i don’t. The more grace i give myself, the more i have the capacity to give grace to everyone else. It’s like the lens keeps widening and I am here for it, ready to say yes.

This fall i said yes to dental surgery 2 days before Christmas knowing we weren’t going anywhere or doing anything and I knew I could move the appointment but figured it was the perfect time for quiet recovery.

i didn’t have anything removed, just some gum flap (ewww) stuff.

During this down time we put together the biggest lego set we’ve ever done, complete with electrical.

THE ELEGANCE! THE BEAUTY!!

I started today as I’ve always started, finding pants in the dark, stumbling down the stairs to feed the dogs and laying around for an hour trying to figure out breakfast. Food is still hard sometimes. I’m still seeing Aaron, my dietician, for help in this department, though I’m wondering if I’m ready to manage it on my own. Divesting from diet culture and recovering from my eating disorder is one thing but figuring out how to feed myself after all that mishegoss is a chore. I have hope though. I’ll figure it out because it’s worth it to me to find a way to live in this body that makes room for pleasure and joy.
That’s really what I want for next year. More room for more joy. More pictures of my dogs. Like these.

And I will for sure complain and be dramatic about it all.

The world is full of horrors and awfulness. The world is full of good things like hot fudge, pancakes and sunny days that aren’t too hot and evenings where you hit a 190 lb deadlift and husbands who carry your laundry to the basement for you and mornings where the coffee actually works and makes you feel like a whole complete human.

these two photos are the same.

I want all the good things for me and for you. It’s the same wish I have every year. I want you to have a good one, a better one. There are so many fears as we head into an election year. When all else fails, take off your pants and lay down and breathe. At least that’s what works for me (if i’m even wearing pants to begin with).

i love you. I mean it.

living thing

i am growing a new heart

in a glass jar with water

like last summer, placing the butt of dying celery in a jar and it sprouted newness

it’s a living thing.

i am a simple housepant.

i just need sun and water and a weekly whisper of sweet words

good job.

i love you.

you’re doing great.

and when i start to wilt, when i feel parts of me go limp, my edges curling in on myself, i reach out a tendril to whoever is passing by

psst…don’t forget about me.

sometimes i want to flower and bear fruit but honestly, that drains me, so i keep my family small

i feed the mycelium under my feet and i press my face against the window in the summer and i lose bits and pieces of myself in the winter. each year is a surprise even though the pattern never changes. goldfish brain, i tell people. we forget the tools we use to stay alive. the $100 happy light that stares at me on the desk remains off because i am stubborn. because i’d rahter be in flush in a jungle than bathing in artificial light and it’s all nonsense, these feelings.

but i am a living thing so they are here to stay.

i’ll eventually get over my tantrum and turn on the light and i’ll feel somewhere in between darkness and the jungle and that’s good enough for now. these in between places are where most of life happens. everything else is a funeral or a vacation. places that we aren’t meant to be in for too long.

tattoo by Bridget Meyers "juicyfatworm"

today

today i am metamucil years old

i am ‘is this pain normal or am i dying?’ years old

i am my joints can predict the weather years old

i am too tired to wash the bedsheets as often as the internet tells me i should years old

i am house slippers and merino wool socks i can finally afford years old

i am refusing to dowload tik tok years old

i am watching tik toks in instagram stories only years old

i am no longer standing in general admission at a show years old

i am needing arch support years old

i am high waisted everything years old

i need my SI joint adjusted everyday years old

i am carrying iburpofen and pepto and edibles everywhere years old

i am whole milk in my lattes years old

but oatmilk in my cereal years old

i am just a little treat years old

but like, everyday years old

i am clean and purge the fridge on a saturday night years old

i am uncool in raver pants years old

i am no longer caring about being cool years old

but i do hope you like my vegetarian shepherd’s pie

tiny fist pump

say you didn’t put the check mark in the box

say you didn’t get to everything on the list

say you had to tell her “i didn’t do it because i didn’t want to. i went to the coffee shop instead. i took a bite of every single pastry and brought a box home for later.”

say i was too busy being stoned in the hammock under 4 blankets and 2 dogs, listening to qveen herby on repeat saying “i am the mood of the century” before falling asleep for a little bit before making dinner.

say we’re in the soup of it, a murky thick chowder and it’s blurry and weird in here, but it’s warm and i don’t want to wipe the fog from my glasses because the world is too painful

at least for now

say i need to delete my entire phone and start over

because i don’t know what to say anymore except here is a photo of my breakfast. i ate today. every meal. every pieces of toast, a tiny win. a little fist pump for keeping myself alive for one more hour, one more day, one more week.

say you missed the deadline and no one died but a rich person lost money. again, a tiny fist pump. yes. swoosh. nothing but net. a win. while everyone else scrambles around with excuses for your bad behavior.

say it’s just behavior. they’re the ones calling it bad.

juice (working title)

this is the part where there is no juice left to squeeze.

I am empty and coffee doesn’t count and I’m thinking about donuts and crunchy leaves and hating the rain but wanting the lushness

and when I think about my body and how ripe it is in the summer, wanting to burst through this skin, to feel the sun from the inside, I think about what it does in the winter.

I shrivel a little.

I crawl inside my ribcage and there’s an odd echo and I think about food, about found family, about family family, inviting people inside because I don’t want to waste this space I’ve been keeping bare inside me and maybe if I let people in during these cold wet times I’ll be less prone to loneliness. 

The forever struggle of the introvert.

I want to be loved but not perceived.

It just doesn’t work that way.

It takes guts to have a house party in the fall. 

I will make you leave your house in the rain and you can leave your coats in my appendix, I’m not using it anyway. 

My heart is a natural DJ.

The branches of nerves and its synapses are like traveling fireflies throughout the dome on my body.

I’ll even swallow a disco ball for you.

There will be refreshments and I will say “hey, this is where I live, isn’t it cool? The library is up the steps of the cervical, c4 is a bit wonky so don’t fall but feel free to browse and borrow what you like.  Don’t mind the messy drawers full of song lyrics and movie quotes. I can’t seem to get rid of those.”

Is this how to survive winter?  Open your body up like a circus tent and invite everyone to the show?

Is this how to keep warm?  Say hello, come inside, I’m trying new things. Let’s figure it out together.

crumbs

joy is not meant to be a crumb

maybe if I stow away all my crumbs I’ll eventually have a cake

how long would that take?

100 years?

how about all the crumbs I let my dogs lick off my plate

how charlie knows I’m a messy eater so he’ll search my shirt for stray pieces of rice, remnants of dinner I carelessly let drop

because I’m wasteful and messy and I don’t deserve a cake

because I was reckless with my crumbs

because I gave them away.

how was I supposed to do anything trapped between “there are starving children in china” and “you need to lose weight.”

 Taba!

 they never taught me the language but they taught me that word.

they taught me i had to earn my crumbs.

survival was hording them in a shoe box under my bed, everything packed tightly in stolen saran wrap because I didn’t want ants to give my secret away

that I had more crumbs than my share

because I didn’t trust I’d get enough

the math didn’t math

i saw my share get smaller as my body got bigger

my grades slipped.

i was tired all the time.

they told me I needed more sleep, not more crumbs

less crumbs for you until you look like everyone else

haunted

i am obsessed with little ghosts. little ghosts with little faces cut out in little sheets and i like to imagine if you pull the sheet off it reveals a different colored sheet and a confused little ghost face asking “why did you disrobe me?”

i’m getting a tattoo of a little ghost next week and i’m wondering if they will be staring straight on or wearing a floral bed sheet or holding out a flower, an offering. or maybe they’re holding out a muffin in their two ghost hands, their little ghost eyes saying ‘i made this. i knew you were hungry.’

i want to be haunted. i’d never be lonely. i think of my loved ones who have passed, who didn’t want to go to either place so they stuck around. my uncle, cancer free, in a blue striped sheet, frying spam in the kitchen. my uncle sonny in a bold graphic print putting donna summer on the record player. david, a sheet covered in his tattoos and his ear gauges, with a little red beard, making mint juleps in red plastic solo cups, passing them to dome, who would insist on a black sheet but make it silk because he’s baller like that. we’d still make him call in the delivery order in thai so we could benefit from the family discount and extra spring rolls.

and sweet otis would be in his cow print. nothing more soul crushing than a dog in a ghost sheet. otis, the low rider with silkiest black ears and the saddest eyes, trying to fit himself into tiny chihuahua sized beds. for shame. dogs don’t deserve broken hearts after finding their forever families.

there’s me. simple solid sheet with an impressive thread count because i like a classic white with a crisp but soft hand. i’d embroider flowers around my eyes and vines and marigolds down my arms, maybe some acorns around my wrists like bracelets. i can’t be parading around in a plain white sheet these days. i need to be dressed like the happiest tablecloth surrounded by my most favorite spirits.

want

I want to not want things.

i want to want my mother’s hair, a thin halo of hair around her head, like it’s the idea of hair, like it says “I was hair once. Now I’m clouds.”

but the only part of me that wants to be young forever is my hair. it can be grey, i’d prefer it that way, but i want it to be full and long, shiny and thick with secrets. I want to be able to braid it in long strands down my back. i want it to say something about me. what? i’m still figuring that out.

but everyday it gets the claw because we don’t have time for mystery, intrigue and styling lotions at the crack of dawn. you get the claw so i can get the coffee.

on being good

the thing i wanted most was to be good.

but no one told me that meant different things to different people and that’s a kind of dance i can’t keep up with so i settle for good enough.

i had a boss once who told me at my yearly review that she doesn’t give out ‘excellent’ as a rating because there is always room for improvement and i wondered “who hurt you?” and if she would answer any recognition of reward with “I don’t deserve this.” i bet she’s never eaten a sleeve of crackers in one sitting ir know the joy of calling in sick to work because there is someone cute in bed next to you and there’s a chance it might be magic or at least there can be breakfast and i can inhale an entire order of temple of spuds and drink bad coffee and spend the day smoking cigarettes in the park. which isn’t good. is it? maybe this is bad but it sure felt right at the time.

biscuits and bagels

what is a poem but a dream of opening up a biscuit and bagel food cart that serves breakfast sandwiches all day. not enough dinner and an early bedtime induced by thc and i dreamed of fluffy biscuits and chewy bagels with shiny outsides, honey butter and bacon and sage. food dreams make me think i’m doing something wrong when i’m awake.

the dream about running a restaurant with my mother and the taps were spouting out cheese wiz instead of water. the dream about the pizza oven at the white lady’s airbnb that she said we couldn’t use. the one where paul rudd was my lyft driver and he went on about how the only good thing at mcdonald’s are the hashbrowns. i wasn an hour late to my flight in that one.

my waking world is riddled with choices and i’m convinced i’m always making bad ones. my dreaming world i’m just along for the ride and someone is always telling me i should eat.

big gulp

my attention span is bad is an understatement. I read 3 other poems from 3 different books while Laurie read the poem for the day because my brain believes more is better. more is more and you always want a well stocked pantry. Ultimately that’s the most american thing i’ve ever said. give me the big gulp of poetry please because i need it to be in one giant serving. because i don’t trust i can refill my cup whenever i want to. is this why we’re awful? i need it all now because there might not be enough later and i need to make sure. why does existing feel so unsafe?

i squirrel away pieces of myself. stuff them in other drawers and hidden compartments so what you can see if neat and tidy. then these parts remain hidden so long i forget. they wither and grow brittle without the sun and i i no longer remember what wholeness feels like that i start to believe this is it, right? this is all there is or ever was. this shiny boring incomplete thing. i may go to heaven, but at what cost?

wooder

where i come from we say wooder.

and you can get stromboli at the grocery store and our blood runs thick with cheese wiz and it’s not a secret shame.

then i moved to california where everything is a secret shame.

and my lack of a jersey accent and simply being asian made folks think i was born and raised on california avocados and salads, not tastykakes and cheesesteaks. and the longer i live on this coast the looser my body becomes. i am now the slow walker new yorkers complain about. the one in birkenstocks and a dress that i call my “outside pajamas”.

for a couple of years i dropped my R’s and ate grinders and called things wicked but that was just college where you try things on to see what sticks and my friends were massholes but i was still big hair bon jovi new jersey, philadelphia jersey, not new york jersey, summers in wildwood jersey, a wawa shorti with an iced tea for the drive home jersey.

the other side of the car wash

he doesn’t make my side of the bed in the morning. what is that?

but he washed the linens after talked about night sweats and the smells of being human. being sick all you can imagine is a thin layer of malleable membrane, the essence, all of it boiled down to this very human emotion of disgust,

i am full of germs and tainted fluids.

it’s the grossest thing, being sick just turns me into a giant booger, trapped inside my giant booger cocoon.

maybe this is it. why my side remains unmade.

even though everything has gone through the wash, i want to walk myself through a car wash. i want to be scalded, rubbed down and buffed shiny and new. i want to sparkle with new skin after spending 2 weeks wanting to crawl of it.

surely i’m just metamorphasizing, transitioning to my higher self. or that’s what i tell myself because it’s easier to swallow than “you should have masked at the funeral.” there was so much hugging. so many strangers who i was expected to remember, hugging me, their stranger faces close, their breath close to my breath, meaning well, saying “I’m sorry” but i’m not. i’m not sorry. i’m glad he’s no longer suffering. I'm glad he’s no longer suffering. i’m glad we don’t live forever. i’m glad because there is meaning in it if we don’t stick around passed our expiration dates. we all need to come out of the other side of the car wash to find out what’s next? what happens after?

red light, green light

it’s a real red light green light situation. i want to say it’s been only recently but it’s been my whole life. start and stop and i’m not the caller but i want to be but change is hard and something i’m not good at. having to pivot. changing plane tickets, it was a real cart before the horse situation and there wasn’t a date for the funeral yet, just “he’s gone, he’s gone.” and “i’m coming. i’ll be there.” even though jersey is the last place i want to be in july.

the powers that be don’t want me to go either. there’s only one direct flight to philadelphia and it’s a red eye and the last time i took a red eye back east my stop over flight was two hours delayed at midnight and i had taken all the sleepytime drugs already and the wedding was that night and it was bad. it was all bad. and it’s well documented that i love airports and waiting rooms. i like waiting. i like being early. i like that pocket of time where i have nothing to do and nothing is expected of me. i can just exist for this amount of time with no responsibility. sitting in the doctor’s office this week i almost fell asleep in a paper gown in what can only be described as a medical easy chair, the click of a wall clock keeping me company. how could you not? after very little sleep, after whispering to charlie that we’re going to fix his leg, that he’s not broken forever, something i whispered to myself when i had knee surgery.

tis the season

it’s cancer season. it’s make a surgery consult for your dog season. it’s wear a dress and turn on the ac season. iced tea for breakfast season. quesadilla season. with american cheese season. slack off from work season. fuck homework season. be mad at your mom for her text season. root beer floats are better than you remember season. achy hips and deep squats season. hay fever and sunscreen season. maybe i should revamp my skin care routine season. beer koozy season. bingo wings and chub rub season. it’s sativa season. it’s eating movie theater popcorn while wandering 28th St. stoned season. it’s dog cuddles and frank ocean on repeat season. it’s straight to voicemail season. crab claws unite! time to drown in our watery goodness season. in the summer it tastes like cherry slurpees. it’s say you’re going and then bail later season. it’s bake your friends pies, forehead kisses and afternoon nap season. one for you. one for me. two for bean and charlie asleep on their little round beds.

press your luck

when the bathroom was broken at the gym the next closest one was through a dark open space and adriana described it to someone as a “light at the end of the tunnel situation” and my brain said “aww”.

i want to experience that even though i don’t have to pee. like it would be good exposure therapy for me to experience coming out on the other side of a dark place and see that there’s a functioning toilet and light and relief. a long dark journey into light. something that tells me that it works out in the end. it’s good. it’s fine. things end and it’s ok. and that this newness on the other side might not be what i thought but it’s not bad.

to tell the truth, i don’t want things to change but it doesn’t matter what i want because everything is changing every second. every millisecond i swear i can feel myself actively decaying inside. it’s all mashed potatoes and gravy in there. no sense in white knuckling it or expending the energy to hold on to a present that isn’t mine to keep. the lawn will always need tending to. the foxtails will always come back. there will always be dishes to do and a constant stream of things to do that feel very same-same but move they move the needle forward. this is what the days are. what life is most of the time and i like living in this predictable schedule. no whammies. no whammies. stop.

plans

can we talk about the moon? I need a poem, not a paragraph or dissertation of facts. i used to know the phases but i’ve lost track of it, no longer willing to do the daily horoscope and tarot pull because life is just different now and maybe i don’t want to know what is happening anymore or play guessing games with my future. i pull the hermit card and i’m like “tell me something I don’t know.”

i don’t want to make plans though everyone wants to now. it’s the question i get asked the most often. “any plans for the weekend/summer/rest of the day/year?” and i used to make stuff up but now i just say “no” or “i might finish this book” or “i’ve started this video game about ghost bears that you need to help resolve their past trauma so they can pass on to the afterlife.” or “get a chipotle burrito bowl and rewatch what we do in the shadows and not that show you suggested i start because i don’t have the capacity to commit to a new set of imaginary people i will inevitably care about.” it’s all solitary affairs that may or may not include dogs. i feel bad saying that i miss lockdown because no one asked me if i had plans.

i shake my fist at the moon because you can’t take a good photo of it with your phone, because i have friends who swear by it, recharging their crystals outside in its light, because it pulls at the oceans and all i want to be is in bodies of water these days but this is the furthest i’ve lived from one and i don’t have a car and i can’t drive and that’s all my own fault but i shake my fist anyway because it’s fun, it feels good and if i’m going to be mad at something, maybe it should be the moon and not myself.

i am actively practicing undoing. unraveling. i am taking the rubber band off of and letting things unspool because everything inside is molding and dying under all this pressure. when i take my socks off and see indentations on my ankles i am contemplating my mortality. this can’t be good. i am no longer sproingy and resilient. i’m letting things imprint themselves on me. my uncle is dying. my dog is hopping around on 3 legs because something happened that we didn’t see and my little furry son has joined Bean and i in the bum knee club. i’m the dough that’s been rising on the counter that you poke a finger into that doesn’t bounce back. i’m ready to be baked. i’m taking it all in. put me in the over already before i become overprooofed and collapse.

jeff reminds me i have propranolol and i almost don’t take one because it’s up a set of stairs i don’t have the bandwidth to go get but he gets it for me.

on bad days, he is the one thread tethering me to myself.

i made a playlist and incorrectly named it "untethered”.

on bad days, it brings me back to myself, even if i’m full of grief and ugly things and uncertainty. i forget that my soul is made of songs, so the music is home. it’s the poem i need.

my mom at the hospital with uncle mario, she gives the attendants and techs updates about his urine output that they didn’t ask for. she can’t stop nursing even though she’s retired. my dad sits in a chair with a mask half off his face and a hat that says “Old Guys Rule” and i wonder if someone gave it to him or if he found it himself and said “hell yeaaah”.

we cannot stop being who we are, even in the face of hard things. i cannot stop taking in the world and letting it change me but as i get older i now whisper “softer, softer, softer” because any other way would be damaging. to me. to others. to the fragile whisper that is hope.

body


your body tells you everything

it doesn’t trust that i have our best interests in mind so it’ll shut itself down when i insist i need to water the plants and run errands on 4 hours of sleep.

we argue but she has the upper hand.

we’re doing things my way now and it’s my turn at the wheel.

she still hasn’t forgiven me for all those 6AM spin classes and all that keto-whole-30-hot-yoga-green juice.

well the green juice and the yoga was ok but she’s still angry because i thought i knew better than her.

i am ship and captain, she says and i let her because she’s right and i’m tired and if i say kale salad one more time she’ll remind us what that much roughage will do to a body.

i will make you regret.

when i start to think i want bangs again she’ll show me pictures of the long and tedious grow out phase.

when i start thinking i need a habit tracker she’ll remind me of all the time i’ve lost to tracking metrics instead of doing fun things like having sex, eating burritos and getting stoned in the park.

this is it, she says. this is what we have. what i need is what WE need and we need a nap.

from

my lyft driver blew past me on my street, windows open, blasting music and when he realized he overshot he slowly reversed as i walked towards him and we met in the middle and i got in but he didn’t turn the music down. jefferson airplane. i don’t want somebody to love. i want you to turn it down a little because i’m a fuddy duddy but i wasn’t always like this.

the next song was a country song about how this guy’s head is white, his neck is red and his collar blue and i’ve never jumped out of a moving vehicle before but YOLO! when it ended and a new song started and I recognized the guitar riff I asked/yelled “IS THIS VAN HALEN?” to which he said, “WHAT?!” and we played that game for a couple of rounds as I felt my ears start to bleed until he yelled “Yes! It is Van Halen! What do you know about Van Halen?”

I know David Lee Roth, Sammy Hagar and even Gary Cherone. I know Eddie Van Halen was married to Valerie Bertinelli at one point. I know that they made better music in the 90s than the 80s and i only yelled half of that out loud and not in that order.
”Well look at you,” he said. “Color me impressed.”

“Not the point,” I replied. “You asked so I answered.”

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“New Jersey,” like that would explain everything.

“No, where are you from from?”