T's stories

I got out of Seattle last weekend because of the annual Solstice shitshow celebration. I don’t like people that much when they aren’t naked, painted and really wasted, but have learned to just avoid being home for that particular party.

Denver is always fun, and since my partner had to be there for work most of the week, I was more than happy to join her for the weekend. We found the local Voodoo Doughnut outpost, and I wanted one, even though I generally don’t eat any doughnuts, as the sugar concentration is insane.

After acquiring said sugar bombs, we were headed to Cheesman Park, but stopped in the little bar (Blush and Blu) next to the doughnut shop for a quick bevvie. That’s where we stumbled across Leslie Herod’s hangover townhall, to which she graciously extended us an invitation though we were just visiting. She’s Colorado’s first LGBTQ African American Assembly member. It was unexpected, and delightful as was the bartender, SJ.

We made it the park, which was gorgeous, ingested a billion calories of sugar, walked around punch drunk for a while, then stumbled some of the way back to our hotel before succumbing to the allure of a brewery, a seat, and a Lyft back to the hotel.

I don’t regret the doughnut per se, but I’ve never been sugar high at altitude, and it did a number on both of us. After having some real food, we gave into the need for naptime, and later rallied, but holy crow.

A different kind of Rocky Mountain high…

And I also failed to do the thing. I’ve been to a few classes at the gym, which seems mostly like a funny metaphor. Like, I used to go to a gym regularly, and sorta at least figured out what I was doing. Or I was at least doing similar shit to other people who were also there, and at some point, I was fitter than when I started.

Good thing I didn’t expect that this time. First of all, this isn’t your gym where you go and hop on your treadmill or elliptical, then pick up something kinda heavy and put it down again. Second of all, I am in a shape, but I wouldn’t call it in shape. But the process of learning is good, or valuable, or at least advancing my knowledge of what my body willingly will do and will protest about. The knees protested an apparently basic hike this past weekend, but I listened to them and decided to head back to the trail head and wait it out, rather than persisting. Mostly because I wanted to walk this week. And I can, which is a bonus.

Most of the time, I actually feel completely lost. I don’t know how to do the stuff. and people are really nice about trying to provide some guidance, but it’s clear it’s going to take years, not months, to get a clue. Granted, I’ve only been at this for 2 weeks. And I tend to be a bit self-critical, but really, it’s gonna take years. I hope it’s not a parallel metaphor for getting another job. Because I would like to make that happen a little faster than not. In the meantime, things will run their oddly similar paths – trying to figure out what the hell I am doing. And knowing crap all about what the end goal is, really, but trying to live/learn/embrace the process.

Uncomfortable yet? I certainly am.

I need an off switch. Specifically for my brain, because it’s not letting me sleep enough. Not a new problem, but an annoying one all the same. Currently, I can’t sleep for shit. Or for any other reason. Some days I wonder if it matters and other days I wonder how it cannot.

Though, to be honest, my lineage speaks of light sleepers and nocturnal wanderings. My mom has never been much of a sleeper. My dad could sleep through just about anything. Guess where I land?

As a small child (young enough I don’t recall doing this) I would crawl out of bed in the middle of the night and my parents would find me curled up by the front door, like a puppy. Luckily I either couldn’t reach the lock, or didn’t know how to work it, so I never got out.

Now, I don’t wander, but lately have been having some hilarious antics while sleeping or nearing sleep. I kicked something off the coffee table trying to hurdle a fence in my dream. Luckily, I spared the plants. A few nights ago I was having this weird dream where I was trying to guide a family with 6 kids of various ages to the right parking lot. Don’t ask me why this featured in my dream, I couldn’t tell you. At any rate, another small child wandered through the dreamscape and the whole family freaked out and were chasing this tot, meanwhile, I’m all herding cats. Dream-Me decided that shouting at them was the answer. So shout I did – waking myself and my partner in the process. And there have been several instances of almost falling asleep, then jerking myself awake because I feel like I’m actually falling… weirdo.

However, fall is here, and it’s lovely. The days are growing shorter and the orange moon rests low and full this week. Trees color the hills. Mornings are slightly crisp and afternoons are sun-kissed. It’s flirting with raining here and there, but it may be my favorite season here. I’ll relish it while I can. As winter approaches, perhaps I’ll sleep more, as it’ll be dark from 4 pm on.

I am much remiss in posting this summer. No real excuses, but all the same. I have a job this year, which I didn’t hold last summer. Apparently, that takes some time. Which is great. I’m quite happy to be working away. But haven’t done crap about balancing that with keeping up on the writing, especially the sharing thereof.

Yep, I am busier this summer, with things that aren’t conducive to writing and sharing. So it is.

Here’s a couple of updates. Some of you may recall I said I was going to write a book of sorts. Well, draft one is hand written, and a bunch of it longs to be part of the manuscript online, but hasn’t migrated there yet. So summer goals – finish that. And, then, much to be done, meaning the draft needs love, editing, attention, editing, cutting, building, trashing, and growth. All that stuff. But has to be in one form, first.

In the mean time, I’m trying to get it together to post anything relevant, to avoid melting in the summer sun (which we are sorely under prepared for in Seattle), and generally trying to avoid being warm grumpy.

However, here’s an important side note: RASPBERRIES. There’s a lovely untended bramble just down the street from where I live, practically encroaching on the sidewalk, and ignored by the residents who live in the adjacent apartment building. I love fresh, sun-warmed summer berries, of almost any kind. Free raspberries within a block of my place are perfect. Especially if they appear to be free game raspberries. Nobody, in the 6 years I’ve lived here, has ever said anything negative to me about my picking their raspberries. Honestly, my best guess is that people would rather pay $5 or $6 for a tiny basket so they don’t scratch themselves.

Perhaps I see the berries differently. As a kiddo, our neighbors’ backyard was overrun with black raspberry brambles (note: not blackberries). They are awesomely delicious, and we’d always hope to gather enough to make a pie. They are tiny. The raspberries here are slightly bigger, generally, than black raspberries, but still very much smaller than blackberries. Also super delicious. I’ll risk a few scrapes and pokey moments if I can get a couple of handfuls. I’m not making pie, but throw them over vanilla ice cream and add a little whipped cream, and I’ve a perfect summer treat.

So, whereas I’ve not found a balance between chasing people who aren’t engaged because they are on sunbathing mode, and despite the fact work takes a longer time to execute because it’s not raining for a change, I get to enjoy the best of summer. I may be pale, but those raspberries are just what the summer goddess ordered.

After undergrad, I went straight on to get my Master of Theological Studies. In Boston. We started class 9/12/2001. It was intense timing. One of the first classes I enrolled in was Islam in America. I was surprised to be granted the opportunity to be one of the few students in the lecture, as selected by the professor. It was a small seminar, and my first semester in the program, so I wasn’t certain it would work out for me to join. I suppose I had as might right as anyone to be there, but to be honest, little credibility or reason.

And how little I knew. I once butchered the name of a famous scholar, because I hadn’t ever seen it before and just simply didn’t know how to pronounce it. (And of course hadn’t researched it, wide-eyed wonder that I was.) The professor didn’t bat an eye and gently told me how his name is pronounced. I was probably at least tomato red, but she just had me go on and make my point. She built a safe place where we could learn. Us non-Muslim students were honored to go to the local mosque with our Muslim sisters, who were so gracefully coping with insults and threats of violence everyday.

Our professor led us in exploration and held on while our eyes adjusted to the beauty of what we were there to learn about. So much grace.

I woke to the troubling news that Anthony Bourdain is dead. According to news reports, he committed suicide.

It saddens me, but it also makes me think of why, because I certainly didn’t know the man. But I knew his stories. And I loved the way he told them. In fact, I had the opportunity to see him tell a few, live, here in Seattle. I wrote about it then, for the blog where I worked – if you want to read, it’s here.

As Anne Sexton once wrote “Suicides have a special language.” It’s a hard language to hear, much less understand, but suicide is not a simple issue. It’s certainly a heartbreaking one.

If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, please call 1-800-273-8255, chat (click chat button at top right), or text CONNECT to 741741. Please reach out. Please let someone try to help. You are not alone.