Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Girlfriends, good dogs, growing pains, and the gold I've stashed away.

Em and I have a dog named Buster. He's not our first.

After a brief and admittedly ill-advised trial period with a three-legged pup named Elmore—who, let the record show, I still miss dearly and would write letters to if he had a second front leg with which to open them—we took the three-wheeler back to the Humane Society. That is, Em took him back to the Humane Society, since my three separate attempts at his return culminated with me breaking down in sobbing fits, hysterically weeping into the brindle of a dog too sweet and too stupid to think that anything but a backhand to his perma-grin was praise for good behavior.

This is Elmore:

Buster's Humane Society portrait. Please adopt.

He's gone now. Not gone gone, just gone to another family. Some clan for whom he is a much better fit, some motley gang of familial misfits having scooped him up like a bowl of mint chocolate chip and who is now giving him the life that his energy level necessitates, and that a heart as as his—seriously, look at those eyes—deserves.

I imagine him with a big yard, green grass catching the pads of three feet, a durable (but long) leash giving him freedom to frolic and room to breathe. There are kids there somewhere: a set of rough-and-tumble eight-year-old twins who wrestle with him. Maybe there's a cynical, brooding fifteen year old who at first scolds Elmore for scuffing his prized leather jacket but soon has his heart softened by the wide eyes and tender trust of a creature that solely to love and be loved.

This may all sound ridiculous, like I'm in love with this misfit mutt who chewed up my shoes, pissed on my carpet, and howled from his kennel every night he didn't get to sleep in the bed.

But maybe I was. Maybe I was in love with this silly animal, this hobbling bundle of canine sincerity that would only sit still so long as you were scratching behind his ears, who greeted my daily return from work with a big smile (and, often, an uncomfortably large erection).

Maybe no one has ever been that happy to see me.

In any case, it wasn't going to last. I knew that very quickly, but denial ain't just a river. The mauled furnishings, the dinners devoured right off the plate the second you turn away—it's all cute until your couch smells like a hobo blanket and your braised tilapia with red quinoa slips through the jaws of an animal you don't want to punish but can't bear to live with anymore.

So: Em took him back. And while she's one of the most absolutely compassionate people I've ever met, she doesn't miss him, and I don't blame her. I have a weakness for inherently broken things, being one myself, and someone with a reserve of strength I don't understand doesn't need that kind of dependent reinforcement.

Twelve hours before she returned Elmore to the shelter, we obtained Buster, who looks like this:

Buster in his Halloween costume, courtesy of Sarah

If you're wondering: yes, he is wearing a crocheted Spider-Man sweater. And yes, he did fit right into it, and no, he didn't nip at me when I tried to dress him like a paper doll. He likes walks just about as much as I do—a little—and he has an energy level on par with mine—relatively low—and he likes spinach and car rides and sitting on my lap and licking my face every morning.

You know what else he does? He just sits with me. Just sits. If I'm watching a movie, working at my desk, reading a book—doesn't matter. He sits on my lap, he sits at my side, he sits in bed at the small of my back while I toss and turn every night, exhausted from the day but terrified of the dreams pounding at the gates of sleep.

This dog is perfect for me. Objectively, subjectively, and wholly suited to every single need and want I've ever felt, expressed, ignored, or sublimated (usually a combination of the three).

But it doesn't mean my heart doesn't sometimes wish Elmore was still around. I think that's natural, though, isn't it? I don't daydream about something gnawing on my cowboy boots or shitting in my laundry basket: I think about how nothing made him happier than seeing me, how he couldn't contain his joy and had to express it through leaping on two back legs strengthened by necessity (he only had one front leg! it's sad but seriously HOW DAMN CUTE IS THAT).

He's happier, though. He's happier, I'm happier, Emily's happier, we're all happier. And I fall asleep with Buster at night, his long face nuzzling up into the back of my knee, legs spinning like a dreidel as he dreams of chasing intruding rabbits down a deep backyard hole.

I get used to Buster, and so maybe sometimes I don't always value him 100% that I should. Maybe he deserves more walks, more treats, more attention than he sometimes gets from me. Just falling asleep next to him every night, feeding him thrice a day, and letting him sit on the couch isn't enough. This dog is here for me, after good days and bad, and I wish I knew how to communicate just how dearly I love and appreciate him.

But sometimes that I think that maybe, at this point, it's just a matter of not screwing things up, of letting time and tenure take their place in our home and let his place in my routine become settled concrete. Maybe, right now, what I need to do is just acknowledge that I'm not always super great at making clear how dearly I value him, that I'm too distracted by my job and volunteer work and impending graduate programs and potential cross-country moves and cheap beer and good whiskey and old westerns and lingering wounds from unrelated betrayals that still sting to the touch and make me recoil from any affection, that force me to fight against crippling self-loathing installed by unfaithful ex-girlfriends or abusive partners or dogs that just can't help destroying good things.

I got home late tonight, and Buster and I went on a quick half-mile walk. The ritual: first he goes #2, then he goes #1—I don't understand or identify with the order, either—then we get to exploring. Bustie's got this thing with trees: he finds our street's matured elms irresistible, and he makes clear his admiration by urinating all over their root systems.

And though I identify with many of Buster's attributes, this is where we differ: I think I may have finally learned to stop pissing all over things that are healthy and growing.

I may not have Buster forever. But goddamn it, he's mine right now. And until something makes that an impossibility, he will fall asleep every single night knowing that my life is warmer for having him in it.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

"what is it you do?"

Twenty-eight years ago, I was born with the lungs of a malnourished dachshund and the breath capacity to match. Fear of sports and an appropriately terrible palette of motor skills nudged me from t-ball to comic books, and I became obsessed with superhero narratives, which I quickly decided were the key to personal happiness.

Eight years ago, I wrote a paper about Batman as a symbol of "radical [political] centrism," a term that the drastically underinformed, National Review-reading, 22-year-old Andy was incredibly proud of (mistakenly) believing he created.

Six years ago, I flew to an academic conference to present the paper to a group of my peers. A woman in my session took issue with my interest in a specific comic book writer as infallible evidence of my "hot rod misanthropy"—I'll never forget how awesome that phrase was—and a lovely fellow student from my university chuckled out loud at my dismissive response to the interlocution. Realizing that Fellow Student and I were sharing the flight home, I asked a flight attendant to help me ask her out, which she did. Fellow Student had a boyfriend, though, so it was a wash. Regardless, a new long-term friend was made.

Three years ago, Fellow Student set me up with a friend of hers. Her Friend and I went on two or three dates, but with about as much chemistry as a humanities degree (although I eventually, drunkenly made out with her on a twin bed during an episode of Archer and then never called her again because of my own shame. She hates me to this day, perhaps not unreasonably).

Two years ago, Her Friend started dating a guy I ended up becoming pals with, a mutual affinity for James Ellroy and fish tacos bridging our shared introversion.

Four-and-a-half months ago, when I was looking for work in a new field, Her Friend's (now-)ex-boyfriend recommended a former employer of his, where I found a happy new occupational home.

Four months ago, after scrimping quarters from couch cushions and living a Netflix-free June, my first paycheck paid for the four beers you shared with me at the local pub, first date conversation drifting to ethereal longings for home and an exhaustion at theretofore not finding what we'd both always wanted.

And now, there you are, on my couch, snoring while I watch Justified, and I'll never let anyone, ever again, say that superheroes never brought me anything.

Monday, September 9, 2013

but you more.

I get scared at night
because that's when the ghosts come out.

Cupboards creak and gutters groan,
so I sit here under this new roof,
where music drips into my open ears like wine through dry lips,
and the curtains hide a world that gives me goosebumps.

The last year has made mountains and formed foothills,
each foot of elevation a bump in a long road:
the sort that's brought me across state lines and broad outlines
but exhausted by entropy and exoskeletons
and I need to rest.

I used to not sleep so soundly.
So I'd wash dishes,
listen to sad songs from southern belles,
looking for comfort in green apple dish soap
and finding nothing but my own reflection,
the glint of my own eyes
caught in freshly cleaned cocktail glasses
and my presence only felt in tapped toes.

And I still don't sleep so soundly,
although it's different,
if only a little:

in the other room,
I still hear hymns and still get goosebumps,
but now the song the way you snore when you go bed past midnight

and my body feels so broken lately,
sniffles and sneezes, coughs and complaints
feeling bedridden on sunny days and crypt-bound on rainy ones

some days
(like today)
I don't feel particularly qualified to face the sun, let alone the day
but then I'll wash a glass and see your lip prints on it
then remember that they also lay invisibly on my cheek,
and I want to rise like the moon and grab hold of the world
so I can lay it at your feet.

but until then,
I'm going to throw words on pages,
pray quietly for the soundness of your sleep,
and save you all of my ribbons.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

the story:

it's taken a turn
and I'm processing and dismantling it while asphalt heat blurs,
the box fan offering no relief, just white noise

but there's a clarity of purpose to where
this fire is taking me

so I'm going to burn my bridges
and use the flames to light my way.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

in which I explained my Quakerism (and worldview) to a beautiful woman.

She's gorgeous in a way that words could only sully, but the way she's looking at me puts me on red alert.

"I know that look," I say, tilting my neck up and meeting her eyes. She's standing above me, and that look—that look—is a combination of confusion and curiosity, served neat with a skepticism chaser. "Let me explain."

Her arms are folded. I take it slow.

"The whole thing with Quakerism is that it's not quite like other kinds of Christianity. You can be Christian and a Quaker, but you don't have to be. An awful lot of us don't really buy into 'sin,' per se, so the whole salvation thing goes out the window—why would you need to be saved from a nonexistent problem?

That doesn't mean we don't see problems, though. No, ma'am, we see problems. We see lots of things as problems. While Christianity has the Fall and Original Sin—note the all caps—we place that degree of emphasis on destruction. Violence, particularly, is something we really, really hate. Most of us are pacifists and would rather take a bullet than send one at anyone, so war and physical conflict are generally out. The world and everything in it exists for us, so destruction of it ain't no good."

I sip from my coffee and she raises an eyebrow. I barely take a breath.

"But that's where it gets interesting, because since the world exists for us, it's a gift, and gifts are beautiful. Thus, since the world is something to be protected, it's something to be cherished. So while many of us might not believe in an afterlife, it's only because we've got something better:

right here, right now. We don't have any excuse for not making the world as lovely and beautiful as it can be. We strive for perfection, knowing that in order to strive for a harvest, we have to identify the seeds. So we do: we look for things to fix, and we look for things that are close to perfection, things that are capable of perfection, and we push everything else we can toward that perfection. Quakers were prominent abolitionists, voices in the Civil Rights movement, and anti-Vietnam war protestors. We take a spiritual issue with imperfection, and not in a utopian sense, but in a strictly humanist one: it's all within our power to create beauty, and I guess the only real sin is not to."

She's barely moved. Her eyes hang like gargoyles from dark lids, and I can't get a read on her.

But then she moves, and when she does, it's like she's a hummingbird at a feeder, her arm darting down to the table at my booth. She picks up the plate and sighs.

"So what do you want me to do?" she asks, pointing to the cheeseburger on the plate. Her gum pops like summer firecrackers.

"Just throw it on the grill for another ninety seconds or so," I say.

"And then it'll be perfect?"

I smile, if only to myself (she's not looking anymore). "Yup."

When it comes back and I take my third bite, it tastes like spit.

But a man's got to have principles.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

the voices that we hear.

The police tackled the man, who shrieked like a wounded dog yelping at a nail in his paw. He didn't fall to the ground, but rather crumbled, collapsed to the hospital's linoleum floor like a kindergartner's block tower. Once he was on the ground, one officer put his hand to his holstered taser while four others grabbed the man's arms and legs and picked him up.

He begged to be let down, and was told that he could walk himself if he would only calm down. "I will," he muttered, and the two officers carrying his feet lowered his bottom half to the floor. At this point, he pushed up with this feet like he was trying to jump to the ceiling, at which point the now-unburdened officers caught his calves, midair, and held him horizontal. He sprawled and he caterwauled as they carried him away on a makeshift gurney of his own limbs.

They tried to use the extra-wide revolving door, but the man arched his back and starfished his appendages, jamming feet against the windows and triggering the stop. He kept kicking and punching and screaming—"I work for God all day and all night/you have no idea who I really am/get your goddamn hands off of me/ please dear God will one of you help me/God in Heaven save me"—but they finally got him outside before they put him on the ground, stomach-side-down, handcuffed him, hoisted him into the back of a patrol car, and took him who-knows-where.

At the conclusion of my first night of volunteering in the hospital lobby, I walked out to the parking lot, brushing gently through the crowd forming on the sidewalk, climbed into my car, and drove home.

I can still hear him screaming.


Katie and I saw Silver Linings Playbook back in December, just a few weeks after I moved back to Utah. Her husband doesn't watch R-rated movies—WHAT A NERD, AMIRIGHT—so we travailed to the crappy theater in Millcreek, the only one showing it, and enjoyed a gargantuan bucket of kettle corn (seriously, it was probably built to carry ice melt) while watching Crazy People Fall In Love.

We got in a car accident that night. It wasn't too bad—a dented axle and a hubcap that went flying like an olympic discus—but it shook me up. I'm naturally prone to anxiety, but the movie had set me up like a tee-ball stand, and slamming into that elevated curb, mid-snowstorm, sent me over the edge.

As we'd left the theater, Katie asked me if I was okay. She's known me since junior high, and she was semiwilling audience to all sorts of my teenage melodramatics. But maybe even just by a change in my step, a lurch in my gait, let her know that something was amiss, and she was right.

If you'd seen the flick, you've seen the parts where Bradley Cooper's character experiences a dramatic combination of panic attacks, flashbacks, and delusions that culminate in intense re-livings of traumatic past experiences, perhaps amplified by his own imbalances.

I've had those.


Okay, maybe not to that extent, but I've heard voices. I've experienced sensations that were not based in reality. I've seen, heard, and felt things that weren't there, and I don't mean spiritual experiences or some kind of existential revelation—this was a straight-up visit to BananasTown. These times shook me precisely because nothing is more terrifying than not being able to trust yourself.

I'm still prone to bouts of occasional illogical upset at the hands of hypothetical conspiracy—although, as a close friend put it to me, it's not paranoia if there's precedent—but I'm almost 100% past these things. Sporadic relapses into darkness plague days and nights (dreams, mostly) and not only underline existing issues as Matters of Life and Death, but create nightmares wholecloth from problem-less situations. Imagine a negotiator so persuasive that they convince you that you only have one arm, despite being able to see your arm right there, attached to your torso, its hand giving a thumbs-down to whatever fictional crap this part of you is shoving in its face.

You can only resist for so long, really, at which point you start to hear the voices.

It's been different people, and always in a harsher voice than has ever really been spoken—a disappointed parent, a regret-filled ex-girlfriend, a boss who can't believe they waited this long to throw you out the second floor window. And that's the thing—they're fictional. These are templates that your dumb, broken brain takes from existing folks and builds into nightmarish scarecrows that shatter your faith and destroy your peace and laugh the whole time they're doing so. You know that you did your best, you know that you did right by them, and you know that you worked your hindquarters off, but the all-powerful brain thinks otherwise, and it lets you know.

You can't shake it. You can't appeal to logic when your brain, YOUR CENTRAL IF NOT ONLY CENTER OF LOGIC, is insisting on something that isn't true. Prayer, deduction, etc. are completely helpless in the face of such overwhelming, self-induced cognitive despair, and there's nothing. that. you. can. do. about. it.

So you do your best. Understanding that your brain is broken helps, so you make do. You dunk your head into Spider-Man comics, Prince albums, Steinbeck novels, and Cassavetes movies while doing your absolute damndest to ignore that part of you, the chunk of your mind that's telling you how dangerous everything and everyone is and how they're all out to get you, and you push it down like a water wing at the public pool and hope that it takes at least seconds to resurface.


I watched that man shriek and holler that someone help him, and a part of me shook, knowing that I was perhaps only a misfired synapse away from such a debilitating condition. I'm not a violent man by any stretch—I'm a Quaker, for God's sake, and I have to read books about how to be assertive—but good grief, there's nothing like seeing a man lose complete control to remind you of how tenuous yours was.

What chemicals in my brain appear in milliliters and allow me to be calm in the face of confusion and dismay? What about the people who've never had anything but a smile on their face—what're their serotonin levels? And the folks with an unshakeable belief in a loving, omnipotent, omniscient God who goes out of His/Her/Its way to comfort and unforsake(?) them...what do they do on dark nights of the soul in which the world proves alien and their minds fare no better?

This is how it works. And this is what is inescapable.

I can't even write this without help. I'm currently about four glasses into a bottle of red wine because this is all too much to process without a foggy cloak of tannins hovering over my shoulders. It's not a matter of alcohol, either—nine times out of ten I'll just take a jog and watch cartoons—but there's a vulnerability necessary to these discussions, one that can't really be arrived at without intense therapy and/or 26-proof grape juice.

So that's where we're at, I guess. I saw a guy freak the shit out and go crazy, but what does that mean?

I guess it means that, in a slightly different world, where I was held as a child two minutes less than I was in this world, if I'd been given an additional gram of sugar in my infant diet, if I'd whatever whatever whatever, whatever whatever whatever "Whatever, WHATEVER!" whatever—then maybe I'd be that guy, cowering in fear at the back of a headrest in a Salt Lake Police Department cruiser in front of a children's hospital where all I wanted to do was get some help.

That's what the security guard said he was there for, after all: he was a paranoid schizophrenic, a guy in his mid-40s, who thought he'd ended up at the nextdoor college teaching hospital, but who stumbled into the nearby children's hospital. I don't begrudge the police officers and security guards, either—if children are directly involved, my civil liberties bullshit flies out the window like a deranged sparrow trapped indoors—they just did their jobs, and were as gentle as could be with a man flailing like a party favor whistle.

But this part of me can't escape thinking how terrifying it is not to be able to trust what you see, hear, feel.

And it may sound like ridiculous tripe, but all I want is for that guy to calm down long enough for someone to put their arms around him, whisper a "sshhhhhh" into his good ear, and pray with him for the ghosts to go away long enough to feel the warmth about his shoulders and the cheek against his neck.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

"There's been an accident."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've never written about music like this before, but I wanted to try. This is my all-time favorite song, so I figured it'd be fitting to start with it. Hope you get something out of this.

Appreciate you reading.



Ignore the little nightingale flourishes at the beginning and wait for that piano. The synth in the background hover on that big ol' G, letting the ivories dance around it like a maypole. Arpeggiated major triad jumps stands boldly in front, standing strong in the low-key cacophony of bells and whistles, but then becomes its own darker self the second time, with that D going to an Eb and making the whole chord into a flinch. The back-and-forth continues the whole time, with the bass meandering between the low and the high, see-sawing between the first note we hear and one of the last we'd expect to. You hear it in the bass, lumbering frost giant-like across the lower register, something impending. Will this be an act of creation, or an act of destruction? Is this a sunrise or a mushroom cloud?

Ain't no light summer rainshower: we're bracing for a hailstorm.

This is a song that you can listen to with headphones and still feel it in your chest. Those snare rim clicks come in like dark clouds—close your eyes and see drummer Bobby Macintyre, tapping the side of the drum, biting his tongue until he can unleash the doubles and triples just past the horizon and fast approaching. You stare into the setting sun of the ooohs, the ahhhs, the string section that drips across the rhythm like it was coming down a rain gutter.

That's when Greg Dulli starts to sing.

"Daylight is creeping,
I feel it burn my face
I don't sleep here no more
so my shadow walks in place of me."

So we're off by twelve hours: it's not bright turning dark, it's dark turning bright. This push and pull is the running theme of everything Dulli's done. Things start night-black, anything good concealed within a block of ice, but when morning comes—as it always will—the ice melts away, water dripping like tears down cheeks to reveal what was there the whole time, what we hoped was there, what we knew was there, within arms' reach and holding out for us.

The ooohs and ahhhs don't stop, and they shouldn't. This is a Greek chorus. No matter what Dulli's protagonist believes or sings—which aren't necessarily the same, since his narrators are about as reliable as a Ford Escort—he's not alone, and the voices will follow him through his whole journey.

"Like candy,
your eyes sweetly
roll out of control."

Ah. There's the "your." There's where she comes in.

"Like the singer,
but just barely holding on."

So he's barely holding on.

And then he lets go.

That final dissonant note at the top of the triad may rise a half-step, but everything else—the groove, the stable pulse, the very ground beneath their feet—crumbles. And when he gets to "far away/where you run/when it all became undone," we don't recognize the distance between them: we see the earthquake throwing their footholds up and down, refusing to sit still.

But that groove, that groove. It's dissipated, dissolved, a sugar cube in gasoline, and the song throws its hands in the air and loses its cool. The beats come hard now, punctuated punches with dust explosions like two chalkboard erasers crashing into each other again and again, just off standard rhythm, buhhh, buhhh, buh BUHHHH BUHHHH, buh BUHHHH, [repeat]. Left hooks and right crosses are let loose and you didn't have your gloves up and they catch you and cut your tissue paper eyes and bruise your bubble wrap cheeks and crush your cauliflower ears.

And here are the consequences:

"You'll be dust,
and realize
that you were taken for a ride

but still you call that number
until you're crawling under
them stones,
assorted jones,
and all alone."

The waves come crashing, relentless, and just when it's time to give up, right when the air gives out, there's a reprieve.

"I'm alive:
it kinda took me by surprise."

He's not the only one. It takes us by surprise, too; after the uppercut onslaught of the percussion, when the rug's pulled out from us, there's a quiet. We're back to the original feel, complete with the residual comfort of rim clicks and the string section cocoon.

But we're torn from it:

"but every time I look away
there's no light,
there's no sentry at the gate."

Maybe the sentry—sentries?—is who's been ooohing and ahhhing, part of a phalanx of soft-spoken guards shooting violin lines across the like crossbow bolts and nicking with each draw.

And now he repeats himself. This is what he wants us to know. The vocal line goes higher this time; he's already dipped his hand in the water, and now it's time to strike at the clouds. He stretches out as high as he can, volume increasing with pitch, throwing a chain to our ears and dragging us uphill with him.

The voice begins to crack—"all became undone/you'll be dust, re-a-lize," etc.—as the cool facade follows suit.

But between the peaks and valleys we see what's really on his mind:

"but still you call that number
until you're crawling under,
until you're crawling under,
until you're crawling under
them stones,
assorted jones,
and picked-over bones."

Listen to that "call that number" and that first "you're crawling under." These aren't just accusations, they're pleadings. This person calling this number? The one who's dust and who's been taken for a ride? The repeated pattern—this is the second time we're hearing this, so who knows how many more times it's come before—is driving him to his literal breaking point, and his voice, the only thing of his we have, is shattering under the strain.

And notice the difference between the otherwise identical lines: "crawling under" is repeated twice. He's not just telling her she's going lower, like he did before—she's going lower, and lower, and lower still. And what's she descending beneath? It's not just the rocks on the path or the assembled addictions she's hosting—it's a corpse.

But he's finally out of breath. He'll never hit these highs again—the few remaining vocal lines aren't just repeats, but also don't even approach what's come before—but we knew that already, didn't we? No surprises left. Felix's bag of tricks is at last empty, turned over, and only dust mites—there's that dust again—come out, falling like feathers.

A semblance of composure is regained, though, and he tries to take us back to where we started:

"Daylight is creeping,
I feel it burn my face
I don't sleep here no more
So my shadow walks in place of me."

Listen, though: there's no energy. He's wiped out. Fight or flight, and he picked both, leaving only his shadow. But once that daylight arrives, the shadow's gone, too, and the whole thing will just disappear.

Which is what happens with the song, really; it just sort of...stops. It doesn't so much "stop" as it does "evaporate," the remnants leaving speakers and turning to waves, then dripping to clouds, forming into drops, falling into mud, and leaving its tracks in our footsteps.


I don't know what this song is really about. I'm sure there's a real meaning behind it—there always is, and it's almost certainly a woman—but the ambiguity of this is what draws me in, I think. Why is his face burning? Where is it that he's not sleeping?

But it's the second "when you call that number" that makes the hairs on my neck stand up and scream for attention. He hits that note—good grief, that note—and there's enough power behind it to light up the Hoover Dam. Other singers dissipate at the top of their range, but Dulli just turns from sledgehammer to a scalpel, and it cuts deep. No one I've ever heard can match his vulnerability, and that's what always gets to me: every song is him stripping down, showing us his scars, and refusing to let us turn away.

I haven't been writing much lately—not just on this blog, but in general—and I think it's because I've only recently become terrified of vulnerability. The last six months have bred an awful lot of changes. I went from rural New Mexico/minimal human interaction/no relationships/a dog to urban Utah/consistent human interaction/a girlfriend/no dog literally overnight, and it's been HARD. Everything has been flip-turned upside-down and I might be holding steady, but man oh man, it hasn't been easy.

So whenever I need to remember that the only good writing, the only things worth reading, are naked and bare to the universe while insisting to take on all comers, I listen to this song and remember what that connection can be like—should be like—and I try to act accordingly.

This was long, and I appreciate you reading, so I want to share with you my secret for happiness:

Give until you don't have anything in you,
until you swear you're empty

but then look to your right
at who's decided your hand is worth holding,
give it three squeezes,
and thank the God who you hope exists
for what's fallen onto your couch and into your heart.


Thank you for reading. Spay and neuter your pets.