Blue Lobster Files

And then I was stuck. Snack to stuck just like that. Twigs that I can't break with my claws? What was it? Tough. Too tough. I waited. Then. Pulled up, up, up out. Sky, air, cloud, peach blob holds this box I am in. Peach blob whistles. Peach blob calls to other peach blob. Peach blogs look at me. I am not afraid. They seem like predators, but I feel, they will not be. Something is out of the ordinary.

Lot of other guys here. Our pinchers magically unworkable. What is this? What is this?

We arrive. I sense arriving. The other dudes are off, slopped together. My legs twinge. I don't feel good about where they're going. The pack of them. We're not meant to be in packs. But not me. Peach blobs get closer, more peach blobs. There is something special happening. I hope I find out soon. Something worth celebrating.

I travel with one peach blob in a mystic cave. A moving mystic cave. I understand light now. For the first time I really see it. In a way I didn't know it could be, without the come and go of wave haze.

Turns out the mystic cave is it for me. Lots of peach blobs. New peach blobs. Every day. And I see them change when they're with me. Something really big is about to happen, this I have known, but I cannot figure it out. I am also very bored. I don't have to look for food anymore, which was nice at first. But now, I'm not so sure. Perhaps in in preparation for The Thing Happening. That buzz of excitement.

And sometimes I am held on my back, and I can't breath, and the blobs--smaller blobs, bigger groups of them--are touching me. This used to concern me, but now anything out of the cave is at least interesting. I'm lonely.

Maybe The Thing will mean more companions. I like one blob. It has whiskers like mine. He holds me the most. I feel comfortable in his blob blobs. He shines with pride about The Thing, it seems. When will this thing happen? This very special thing in the air. What is it? Where is it? A huge guy stares at me all day. We have caves across from each other. "Hey," we wave, but we'll never even see each other without the glassy haze between us. Is he part of the special Thing? Does he know?

How long will I live this way? It's been longer than my life at this point. I don't remember the old home. No matter how many times I lose this clink clank on my back, it comes back. Nothing changes, forever on the precipice of The Thing. That happiness, giddiness, but what, what, what could it be, and when will I know? I'm starting to wonder if I will ever know. What a world! I'll probably never be let in on the secret.

Never knowing,

shocking, but we're guessing.

We're just moments.

We're clever, but we're clueless.

Flannel Coat

Putting away clothes piles last night--
Bisque has dubbed me "Piles" because little stacks
of my stuff accumulate all over our apartment.
Piles of sweaters on the ground by my half of the bed,
piles of papers next to the couch, piles
of candy wrappers on the kitchen table, it goes on.
So putting away a pile last night your flannel coat
fell on me from the back of the closet.
It is blue checkered. You lent it to me
when I was 20 and never took it back. I quite liked
it and paired it with my daisy slip-ons.
The next year we disagreed about a girl's short story
in Advanced Fiction Writing. In the story some girl
was talking to an ex-boyfriend and told him she still
wore his old band tee to bed. You said, "That's weird,
you would never wear an ex's clothes after you
broke up." I said, "I would if I liked the clothes!"
It's my flannel coat, and I don't remember you
in it. I wear it, me. This was the first time in years
I thought about
where it came from.

Square One

There is something very special about the little house GPS icon. The "Go Home" button. It's comforting in a 21st Century way. No matter where you are, in one tap, you can go home.

The net of things that bring me comfort in these days of nos and missed attempts at improv sets: the Lake Michigan trail, knowing the kids on the other side of that water are in swimsuits at my childhood place, reading S on the sofa, Bisque on the phone and I can imagine him there in that room with the tan carpet and the fan whirring, scooping the almond butter out the jar with a spoon. I stand across the train platform from two classmates headed north while I wait for southbound. It's too far to talk. I watch them bond and feel like Sandra Bullock grabbing onto dumb handles. Who will know me in this wide world!? Rain pitters, like, on cue. But then in a blitzkrieg of texts with my best friend, I am a real boy again! Filled up like a little balloon. Hope floats.

There's a dry gust up on the eleventh floor of the building, the window is half open. Who knows what flies in. But "nothing can be a parasite to you," I listen to the podcast at 5 AM when I have woken up sluggish and out of sorts. I play it loud plugged into the wall across the dark room. I fall sleep free and awake in clear cool light. Go home. Square one.

South Carolina creperie.

Square one, my slate is clear.
Rest your head on me, my dear.
It took a world of trouble, took a world of tears.
It took a long time to get back here.

Look How Far We've Come

It's not uncommon for the guys in my improv class to play gay characters. I've known improvisers who introduce the fact that they're pretending to be gay as the joke. And that's the worst. That's just the worst. That kid who starts a scene with a lisp, and I'm like, "Cut. New choice."

The boys in my class end up gay because it's important to have a strong relationship in improv, and there are actually only so many of those in life: family, co-workers, friends, lovers. And which is most interesting? And because it's a college improv class the gender ratios are 1:3 girls to boys. Two-boy scenes are a thing. Two-boy love is a thing.

Monday two guys did this hilarious scene full of subtext about jealousy and inadequacy and they totally nailed it. Everyone hooted when I called Scene. The guys hugged because they had done good. No one felt uncomfortable. No one made a crack. There's a gay student in class (maybe a couple)--he (they?) were smiling. Sometimes straight boys date the gay boys' in improv land. All parties jump in free as birdies.

#Privilege

This morning I had blueberry sourdough pancakes while looking out the window at the tallest mountain in the country.

Yesterday the summer opened up, and although there are mounds of snow on the ground, the sun was bright enough to bake in (which I did on a deck chair on a bridge over a creek).

I needed that. I truly did. Valdez was breath-taking, but it was not home. Everything was grey and chilled. The Midwest was fine, but the moment I stepped out of the Tucson airport in 2005 I knew I was meant to be a desert rat. It felt right.

If I had never been to Arizona, I probably would have gotten along in Chicago. Heck, I might go back. But now it will be harder. I know it's not my fit. And Alaska! Alaska! What if I had been born in Alaska and never left? I would have thought life was about being uncomfortable? I mean, perhaps I would have mended my ways, but sometimes I think we are who we are and that can't be sewn differently.

So, I guess what's weird, is that traveling to Alaska has made me feel a lot of compassion for transgendered peoples.

"We are who we are."--the immortal Ke$ha

Best Sandwich Ever

Slab of mozzarella, laced with leaves.

Ciabatta as good--no--better

than the ones Kay's dad brought home from the bakery in Monterey.

We ate them on the couch while watching 12 Angry Men.

Buttery. Flakey. Thick.

I didn't think I could taste bread so good

and yesterday revisited that disbelief.

Hill said, "I will take you to the best sandwich ever,"

and it was not even a lie. Not even a little bit.

The semi-circle was hand-sized, comfortable,

and although the stories my friend told me were not pleasant,

there is something pleasant about it--

holding that cradle of tomato over brown butcher paper.

Life might be unfair, but it is just--

because we are walking justice.

Our positivity is the criminal system,

and if you refuse to be locked up,

you can't be.

Let them try.

You might bite down so hard your braces brackets break,

but still,

let them try.

In the end,

you might be at a picnic table

filling up on a champion lunch

and spinning your straw

in fresh whipped cream.

Camp Is Over

My (almost) five-week stint at summer camp has ended. I drove down the road past the barn, the farmhouse, past the sign with the horse head on it, past the small cemetery behind the chain-link fence. I drove away listening to "Sunshine" since it was on the Staff Summer Jams Mix I popped right in.

I am free from my sandy sheets, the nights of mice skimpering feet, the squeaky whines of chillins' from the porch. But also free of the lighthouse's soft siren, and the view of multi-green pines as I stand on the Great House deck, laughing so hard with Kath--big faces and no sound since the campers have been asleep for hours. Our Crocs squeaking as we come up from a late night dip.

This was a good day. I'm currently in Slou's family's rental unit. It feels divine to be inside. REAL inside. And to have a day of driving ahead of me. Music--not itty voices singing/screaming. A couple hours ago Slou and I went for ice cream. I bumped into a child getting ready for camp arrival tomorrow. Kid has a lot in store for her. But I'm a goner. They messed up my order and gave me a sugar cone for my two scoops. It was too flimsy to hold. I grabbed the ice cream with my bare palm and patted it down. The top scoop still popped off in the car and rolled around the mat. Slou laughed forever as I performed the melodrama of hate for my dessert.

Facemasks whilst doing paperwork with Kath! (Keeping sanity in 2012.)

Last night was the First Half Final Banquet. Our Exec Director asked anyone who's life was changed by camp to please stand. I was already standing, but I would have. I would have. The room was a giant shuffle. We all stood. It's an important thing this thing I have done.

Just tell me something new,
forget about the sunshine when its gone.

Be Comforted

Cozy couple in PJS in VA.

Comfort. Capital C, sunny days on bicycles, chocolate cookies at the grad student picnic with Hill, trotting up to our favorite professor's door, being invited in for sits and thoughts.

The Comfort of the subpar but all-you-can-eat chocolate froyo and brownie squares at Sweet Tomatoes. "I want to be fat," I told Smirn. The Comfort of my home here. How it feels to punch in the code on our garage, taking an envelope out of my stationary drawer, knowing there is one pine cone stamp left for this letter Michigan-bound. The people I've met, and how they've turned into the people I can insult, or hug, and how it feels just right.

"You will begin to understand that healing is an effect. It's no longer the object of your intention. It becomes the unavoidable side effect."--Michael Pabst

A Nice Thing about God

Muff and Jamba's mini wedding cake

One nice thing about God for believers and non-believers alike, is that God is not a person. So, if you're deciding to reach out to God, whether you're comfortable being religious, or you are just trying it out for one second in a jam, you can't lose your pride to God. God's not going to call out, "Ha! I gotcha!"

You could be agnostic 'til the cows come home, but decide to pray just for one little day. Get on your knees, say thank you, ask for help, long to feel comforted...and no one has to know. It's not like hitting financial ruin and secretly going to a loan shark or being overcome with lust and seeking a prostitute. God is never going to show up at the same Walgreens as you and recognize you in front of your family. God is never going to spread a rumor about you and your vices that eventually gets back to your boss. Maybe you'd have to eat humble pie in front of a congregation your renounced or a friend who drags you to a Christian function, but in your own home, at your own kitchen table, with the lights turned on or off, after you found out your little wiener dog has to be put to sleep, you can sit still and feel God's presence if you want. No one is going to know. You don't even have to throw away your "I hate Jesus" t-shirt. You can wear it and still secretly ask God what to do.

That's a really nice thing about that God.

Backstage for One

There are certain things I will always love about theatre. Being backstage for one. I haven't met a dressing room I didn't like. They are dusty with makeup particles, full of anachronisms, cool, intimate.

Huntie and I are performing a repeat of Bradley's one-act from last winter "Your Mother's Butt" by Alan Ball. We drove out to the theatre tonight for dress rehearsal. We hit traffic and had to get a move on. I busted in, quickly braided my hair, pomped on some base and blush, slid on the lip-stick, shimmied out of my dress and into my suit. Added glasses. I didn't know anyone. It's just Huntie and me, so obviously the girl's dressing room was full of only strangers. I didn't mind. They were friendly in wigs and robes and eyeliner.

I rushed out in time for five 'til places. We performed. It was okay. Just a dress run. I went back, changed, and we left. A short time in a comfortable space. A comfortable space of strangers and tile.


Bradley and I waiting for notes, November 2009

Served Faithfully

Today.



Sometimes it seems like love is just a fancy word for compromise.