a 2 rat day

I saw two rats on Saturday. 

It was a dreamy kind of day; I had an appointment that I was dreading, and was also deep in thought about a project. Rat One was dead. It lay belly up on a sidewalk among a bunch of strewn trash, little rat hands and feet frozen in an upward rictus, as though it was being mugged. 

Sorry, little rat, I said into my mask, as I hurried by, side-stepping into the street.

A half an hour later I sat in the back of a mostly empty Metro bus, idling at a light. I looked out and to my right and saw Rat Two scurry across a sidewalk and into the manicured bushes beside an apartment building. Rat Two appeared to be browsing for food, until two women approached, and it scurried back across to the safety of the ivy ground cover next to the street. Then the light changed and the bus accelerated down 15th.

Just before boarding that bus, I watched a persistent crow hopping around in the fresh cedar mulch around newly-planted trees, diligently sorting out smaller, thinner strands. For building a nest, I wondered? A pedestrian approached and the crow swooped up to a nearby utility wire, perched for a moment, and then flew off to a neighboring tree.  

*

The rat sightings made me think of Project Runway winner Kentaro and his story about being inspired by a dead rat that he later buried. But, upon googling, it seems it was a dead cat. Not a rat. But the story and Tim Gunn's deadpan reaction stay with me.

the thing of it is

As a published but mostly unknown writer, no one is clamoring for my work.
I get zero e-mails asking when my next piece will be coming out.
No tweets begging for content.
Occasionally a friend will hire me for a project, but mostly I'm on the hustle, sending pieces out, filing the rejections, revising and sending them out again.
I sit down in my writing space a few times a week, and work on short stories, blog posts, videos, bits of a memoir and I wonder--yes sometimes I do wonder--
why.
*
It's for myself, broadly. I write to understand.
To noodle through things.
To find some truth.
It's because I have something to say--
that only I can say.
*
Today though, I question--
why.

smug alert

It feels like a daily battle not to be smug.
I have a lot going for me, you know.
I'm a white American.
Educated.
Relatively well-nourished.
I have decent housing and enough food and access to all kinds of culture--music, movies, performances.
In a world of mostly have-nots, I'm a have. I have the stars upon thars (or was it the other way around?).
It's easy to get comfortable, to laze into the routine of work, home, boyfren time, me time, play time Netflix, a good book, sleep--it's easy to forget to remember to create.
How do I remind myself to push myself, to think different, read differently, try to learn to see differently and experience the world fresh and unarmored?
*
I must add, big big ups to one of my favorite artists, Kendrick Lamar, on his Pulitzer win this week.
Here's a video and song I think about often.

machen wir jetzt eine Pause

After all of the running around this month--shows and parties and events and good times--I finally had a couple of days to slow down, get out of town and hang out with some sweet little dogs. I detached from social media and writing and the news. I took naps. I went for chilly walks and runs with the pups.
This has been a shit year in many ways--SO MANY.
Will 2018 be better or worse?
Who can say.
In the last few days of 2017 I hope to keep writing (started a new story today), stay healthy (cover your mouths, people!) and enjoy life. And some whiskey.

oh I'm havin' a good one

Customer service.
Don't those words evoke some kind of feeling for you?
This week I spent a good length of time talking to my internet provider. My bill had gone up 25% and being that my rent just went up and my wages are staying essentially the same, I wasn't having it.
One live chat (28 minutes) and two phone calls (18 minutes) later, my rate was restored, including credit for the upcoming month.
"Do me a favor," the retention specialist (a guy) snapped in defeat, "and have a wonderful day."
Wellsir. I will. And thank yew.
*
Today I rented a car. Renting a car always leaves me wanting a stiff drink and a shower. Where do they find these smarmy bro's? Last time I rented, the very condescending bro showed me how to use the windshield wipers and the lights. Today, as I waited to get my keys, broski demanded a second phone number, a friend or family member's, "just in case." When I enquired why I would wish to give him the phone number of someone who wasn't even coming with me on my road trip, he pressed. I said absolutely not. Eventually, he resignedly entered my e-mail address. The entire transaction felt like I was interacting with a robot. In the least possible exciting way.
*
Then there are the actually pleasant interactions, the woman at Green Home who helped me find a few non-toxic items for upcoming projects. Cheerful and brisk and no kind of pressure. My bank also has some pretty friendly employees, at least when I go in person. What does it all mean? I have no idea. I worked customer service and there were good days, where I felt like I was truly helping people, and there were the not-so-good days, where every caller was either a perv or a shrieker, and I was only doing time.

new construction

I've been reading memoirs in preparation for--well, I don't like to say what for, so suffice to say I'm delving deep into the world of memoir. It's a genre I've mostly avoided, in part because the form reminds me of testimony time at church, back when I was a kid, and as a born-and-raised p.k. let me tell you, I've heard puh-lenty of maudlin tales. I'm also no fan of sappy endings, everything has a reason narratives, or true-love-conquers-all kind of quatsch.
Exceptions to my strict no-memoir rule have been: Katharine Hepburn's Me, and Agatha Christie's An Autobiography, both life stories related by iconoclastic females who succeeded by being themselves, ignoring or subverting the male gaze, and looking, as far as I can tell, to impress no one. So I'll definitely re-read those.
In service to research I've read, mainly courtesy of the SPL in the past couple of weeks:

• Autobiography of a Face
• All Over But the Shoutin'
• Boy
• The Year of Magical Thinking

The first three books had forewords, which I usually skip but in light of this being a research effort, I read. I still don't get the point. Why write a foreword to say: "I wrote this book." I mean, obvs! Let's get on with it! Skip.
I couldn't finish the Rick Bragg book. The dialect, or more precisely, the good-old-boy prose rhythms, really bothered me. His mom sounded courageous but a whole book? Not for me.
Boy I've read many times, and it's more a collection of anecdotes, than a proper memoir, but I enjoyed Dahl's easy prose and vivid scenes. For me it added up to a tale of a European childhood no longer possible, the genesis of so many classic and beloved books. And yet I remembered as I read that, per his daughter and ex-wife, Roald Dahl grew up to be a less than kind and generous human being.
Didion's book is a real gut punch, beautifully written of course and a perhaps unintended window into the Writerly Classes I've always feared and yet somehow envied their LA/Upper East Side/Hawaii circuit.
So, the reading continues.
*
Also, keep an eye here for fiction news in a couple of weeks. A story I've loved and been shopping around has finally found a home.

superfluous children

Hilary Mantel's piece in the Guardian on Princess Diana ruthlessly lays bare deep truths about the blushing blond princess. In doing so, Mantel also has a lot to say about the public's--our combined--ok my own!--projections and fantasies. Without quite knowing why, I examined every page, pored over every deliciously airbrushed photo in the 1997 Vanity Fair cover story, Diana Reborn. I wasn't a romantic, I didn't believe in fairtales or happyily-ever-afters. And yet, I was dazzled too. I too could not look away. "Was she complicit," Mantel writes, "or was she an innocent, garlanded for the slab and the knife?"
*
As the third daughter, was she, a third girl child, a disappointment to her aristocratic parents, desperate for an heir? I hadn't known that Diana's older brother died as a child, or that her mother deserted the family. Quoting a Jungian: "Unwanted or superfluous children have difficulty in becoming embodied; they remain airy, available to fate, as if no one has signed them out of the soul store."
*
And the real kicker:

When people described Diana as a “fairytale princess," were they thinking of the cleaned-up versions? Fairytales are not about gauzy frocks and ego gratification. They are about child murder, cannibalism, starvation, deformity, desperate human creatures cast into the form of beasts, or chained by spells, or immured alive in thorns. The caged child is milk-fed, finger felt for plumpness by the witch, and if there is a happy-ever-after, it is usually written on someone’s skin.

 Read the entire piece, if you dare.

so what do I?

My CEO shrink has been talking to me about acceptance.
In theory, I agree with her.
I had the pleasure to meet a wise person named Subhan a couple of years ago, and he writes often about acceptance and being and now.
Recently: The mind is only interested in the past and the future. And both of these are illusions, that don't exist THIS moment.
*
And then, I read something like this: I never lose. I either win or I learn.
(variously attributed, to Nelson Mandela, or Tupac, or anon.)
*
How to balance accepting with striving and learning?
It's a conundrum to me.

the struggle it is real

Last week's Free Will Astrology brought me to tears. I read it in the back of The Stranger, on the bus home. What do my heart and soul have to tell me? I'm doing a pretty good job of tuning them out.
*
Right next to my keyboard at work, I keep 3 things: an acorn, a tiny gold buddha, and a paper on which I wrote, "is it true? is it necessary? is it kind?"

beyond

 A friend told me this week that they have been communicating with "the other side." Confused, I asked who exactly they meant--Republicans? People on the East coast?
This friend had consulted a pet communicator to say some things to a beloved dog about to undergo surgery. In addition to clearing some things up with both of the household's dogs, the communicator also had some messages from relatives of friend. Deceased relatives. And, from my friend's spirit guides.
The communication was part verbal and part experience and even as my friend kept saying "I know this sounds crazy" I couldn't help but notice that their demeanor was supercharged, glowing, ecstatic almost.
My friend asked if I wanted to talk to my momash and I'll be honest, it scared the shit out of me. I didn't sleep much that night.
My friend definitely heard some things that might make life easier. I'm not sure I can say the same for myself.
*

Then I dreamed of momash two nights ago. In the dream, I was lying on the floor of a bedroom, sobbing, "I miss her so much." I woke up in tears.
Yesterday, news that a friend's father suffered a fatal heart attack while hiking in Arizona. Two weeks ago, a bunch of us met up for dumplings and laughs with this friend and his parents. He was an active, smart, hilarious and generous man and I can scarcely believe he is gone. My heart aches.
*
Last night, the much-anticipated Lady Gaga show with good friends and a new one. I wore towering gold sandals just because, and I'm hungover and my feet are killing me. It was a glorious night.
*
photos are reflections in the window of the Union 76 on 45th.

that voice

I struggle with anger and resentment. Does everyone? This much? I'm not sure.
It's like realizing you'll never see yourself as others do--you'll also never know exactly how anyone else feels.
Some work situations have changed and I find myself so confused.
I find myself actively disliking a person or two.
One person I've known only a few weeks. It feels like plenty. Like we could never ever meet again and I'd feel like we'd gotten as far as we ever would. Some days I feel like if I have to hear that loud cackle just one more second I will punch out my eardrum with a dull pencil.
What I should remember is that some of my best friends are people I loathed originally.
I think my default setting is a reflexive "get the fuck away from me."(With exceptions for dogs and kids.)
When I'm fighting with my fella--and we fight, oh my god we go at it--the words I hear myself yelling sometimes are the words I am telling myself. The inner monologue, the super critical voice that says I'll never be skinny enough or nice enough or a good enough writer or friend or sister, and that everyone knows what a hypocritical fraud I am. Man, that's scary.
I know, on an intellectual level, that I can't love anyone else until I love myself.
That just feels like a whole lot of homework. And I laid off my shrink back in January.

April in the rearview mirror

A good month. A wet one and it started off with my favorite holiday, April 1st! I pulled a couple of minor pranks. Did not get fired. Win. First Thursday, I made it to Spoken Word open mic up at the Couth Buzzard. I felt pretty good about the piece I read until this itinerant slam poet couple got up after me to perform intense pieces about sexual abuse and--well, mostly abuse. But they were young and beautiful and had self-published 'zines to sell. My friend and her visiting Norwegian writer-biker bf bought their work. So then I felt like a big old square. The same friend had a bunch of us over for games the following night--pizza, beer, brownies, and cards. Cards. And later, whiskey. Then, Dina Martina that Saturday with my sis, a creative pal and her filmmaker sister. I enjoyed Ms Martina's video show but I have to say I prefer the live performances. One of my besties from early divorce days held a going-away party that Sunday the 6th at his art space, and it was poignant to see him and his Mom and the gang from back in the day, realizing that none of us had seen him in a long while. That week was laid back, drinks with a pal in Fremont, a co-workers going away party. A final farewell dinner that Saturday for the moving bestie--baked ziti and wine and heavenly angel pie and lots of laughs. I managed to look dead on at things I've previously glanced past--the odd habit, or way of catching me off balance. Even so..I miss this guy and probably always will. Sunday the 13th was my mom's birthday (66!), and an Odesza show later on. Unfortunately, it was a sold out, underage, pissy crowd. The music was good but the vibe was not, so we left earlyish (midnight) to get cabs. A few days later, a friend going on vacay and in need of a housesitter hosted me and my fella for dinner--spinach lasagna and wine and getting to know the menagerie. Later, a pitcher of beer and pool at Viking Lounge, and plans for karaoke some night when tequila is not out of the question. I met up with my old homeskillets for trivia a few days later--a cocktail before with a good pal, then a middling trivia performance later, although we killed it on the picture round! My knowledge of 1940's film stars finally paid off. A good buddy couldn't join as his dad is seriously ill and has either been in hospital or assisted care the past few weeks. Salut. I've already written about the last Saturday in April. A strange event which continues to ripple in my mind. April closed out with a dogsitting assist--Wiley and Jack are seriously cute even with dried out dingleberries. And a jewelry party at a friend's down in Renton--I'm too broke to buy expensive gems but it was a delight to sip wine and catch up with old friends.
*
One other revelation: a pal seems to be heterophobic. Specifically, stops hanging out with hetero friends when they get into relationships. Is this a thing? None of my other friends make a big deal about me bringing my fella along on occasion to group events. But this one wants to control it. I'm sad. But, resigned.

peace may not be our natural state

I'm realizing more and more that peace may not be the natural state. Yes: war, conflict, fighting; natural disasters, storms, earthquakes, decay, disease. We human animals delude ourselves with illusions of safety, even as the evidence mounts that we really are anything but safe.
Dark thoughts for a brilliantly sunny Sunday, no?
The suicide of a few weeks ago still percolates in my brain. And my neighbor's domestic violence. On Tuesday, a friend and I, en route to a meeting, came across the scene of an accident. A woman lay on paved tiles, curled up and sobbing. Another woman knelt beside her, bike helmet in hand, bike parked nearby. She had just struck the prone woman with her bike. Blood dripped from the crying woman's head. The cops had been called, also the struck woman's husband. We could do nothing but stand there, apologetic. By the time we left our meeting an hour later, paramedics had come and gone, with nothing left but a damp spot on the tiles.
On Friday, I met another friend for coffee at 9am. When we left the coffee shop about 9.25, a cop car sat outside the Wells Fargo bank next door, lights flashing. Bank robbery, haha, we said. Back at the office, an alert had gone out. Bank robbery at the Wells Fargo. I e-mailed my friend. Holy shit, he e-mailed back. I saw the guy when I was walking to meet you right before 9.
Today on the bus, as we waited for the Fremont Bridge to rise and fall, a young blond guy said loudly, Has anyone been to the Space Needle recently?
No, a few of us murmured.
I was just there. A guy set himself on fire, the young guy said, his voice flat. He didn't die, but--his face. I was right there.
Gasps.
Why'd he do it? I said.
He was saying political stuff, about the government.
Are you okay? another rider said.
He hesitated. I'm okay.
And yet, an hour later, looking at the news--nothing. It seemed believable, but apparently it wasn't true.
*
A good friend has "paci-fist" tattooed on his knuckles, four letters each hand in typewriter font. I love how he plays with the notion of peace through ink violently incorporated into his skin.

cleanup

The odd proud domestic moment: my brass candle holders, before and after a quick rub with some salt + lemon juice.

restless

I'm getting restless, keep finding myself daydreaming about getting in a car and hitting the road for awhile.
A friend mentioned that she and her husband wanted to take six months and volunteer their way around the country and it made me happy and sad all at once, thinking I want that too.
There are big changes brewing and I keep weighing pros and cons. I feel scared, uncertain, anxious, curious.
Change keeps my mind fresh, I ride that adrenaline high and forgo eating and live on bourbon and bubble gum. Am I running away? Taking a blind leap?
Or maybe there is no big picture, certainly my story is small and unimportant, and what I decide has little to do with anything but geography and libido and the kind sideways glance of fate.

don't be a

The secret of life, as determined over martinis last night.
Don't be a dick.
So simple and so strangely hard to achieve.

intersection

I walked past this intersection the other night.
It was dark and cold and even though it wasn't quite nine p.m., I looked over my shoulder frequently, remembering another night.
This night though, I looked up, at a streetlight glowing like some kind of fantastical sun.
*
I'm still scared a lot. I worry, I trip, I agonize.
Sometimes I talk about it, and see recognition in a friend's nod.
The sinister awaits us everywhere.
What makes us valiant and courageous is that we walk past this intersection and continue on, and we create, we laugh, we make bets, we tell each other bad jokes, we masturbate, we howl, we eat and drink and we snooze.

no words only love

Well another February 14th has been survived, gotten through, endured.
Sorry Hallmark, but this is probably my least favorite day: we lost my mom on this day, eight years ago. I still miss her a lot. You'd think it gets easier, but you think wrong. The hurt just becomes more familiar.
*
So much heart stuff going on.
Some big losses suffered by people I love--an aged grandpa and a young man. There are no words, are there. Only love.
And: marriage equality in my state--wilkommen to wedded misery, my lovely gay friends!

work ethic

Two fellow writers (poets and artists, both) told me recently they've been working more consistently because of me, how seriously I take my writing. A musician pal said he admired me.
Nice, right? (I say, embarrassed.)
Sure. Yes. Yep.
Hearing those things feels good, and reciprocal, because whenever I hear a friend's beats or read a killer sonnet, I feel inspired to go a little nuts, create something fresh, so original and frighteningly lovely that it might make you cry.
And yet, part of me wants something else.
Not admiration, so much, as passion.
I want someone to be crazy about me.
Someone to swoon over me. To think that I'm the shit.
Corny. Maybe.
You can't help what you want.

i go on i rock on

Man, life has been lobbing lemons my way. I mean it. L-E-M-O-N-S. A cornucopia of them. A festering nest of squeeze-resistant lemons.
Okay, maybe I exaggerate. But, bottom line it's been a hard couple of weeks and I've puzzled over what to do about it.
How much of this was self-inflicted? Am I really so stupid? Why so much rejection right now?
My shrink was no help. I've never seen you this sad, he said, adding in all seriousness, When can you leave the country?
So, I thought a lot. Then tried not to think. Talked, and then stopped talking.
*
But gradually, the fog lifted a little and I looked around.
There was motivational graffiti in an alley: grow past your misery.
A yoga instructor, talking nakedly about acceptance instead of struggle.
I listen to Zion I ("Coasting") and ask myself if I can yield a little, and live in peace.