Ten Year Blogversary

One full decade ago, I was a pathetic unemployed person.  I was just married and we were living in the Idaho panhandle.  It was a weird and beautiful place, and a strange new time in my life.  I'm glad I had the experience, but I'm so glad we didn't live there for long.  I started this blog to document everything weird happing in little old Moscow, Idaho.  I thought I could generate income from the blog, but to this day I haven't earned a penny.  That should surprise exactly zero people. 

Today, ten years later, I am still arguably pathetic but now gainfully employed, still happily married, and living in Nashville.  It's been a journey.  We've crisscrossed the continent and moved almost more times than I have fingers to count, and this blog has taken a few hiatuses (hiati?  I want it to be that, but that's not a word, is it?) but here we are, still cranking it out. 

Please enjoy this picture of a glowing dumpster that may or may not be a portal to hell and/or another dimension, which is a pretty good metaphor for whatever this space has been and will continue to be.

Syllabus #63

Most of these links are from earlier in the past week.  Look, the last few days have been busy.  I hate that word.  Being busy is not a badge of honor and I hope busyness is one of those things that no longer has cultural cache going forward, thanks to the time we have all spent with so much less to do.  But in the last few days, I, uh, had a lot of items on my docket of shit to do.  Here's what I scrounged up, nonetheless:

What say you about this Trader Joe's controversy?   I will admit I've always felt a little weird about the ethnic-sounding names they give to their various cuisines.  The names are corny at best and probably reinforce harmful stereotypes at worst.  That being said, I feel like this is akin to the Texas real estate group making a big hoohah about not using the term 'master bedroom' anymore as if that solved racism.  There are bigger issues to focus on.  Not that it isn't a step in the right direction to address something that people can experience as a micro-aggression, but this isn't earth-shattering.  But maybe that's just me talking from a place of privilege and not understanding how it feels to be reduced to a stereotype?

It was so heartening to learn that these hateful buffoons were going to face consequences for their ludicrous and dangerous actions, but then that last little caveat:  their Republican governor will probably just pardon them anyway.

Shoot, for $1000 I'd download Farmville or some shit.  I would need a lot less of an incentive to download an app that, if widely used, could save actual lives and shorten the duration of a pandemic.


This is some serious fascist action.  We should all be scared, but not paralyzed with fear.  WHAT do we do?

I'm too lazy to search back in my own archives to see if I wrote about this a few months back, but WOWWOWWOW you guys!  Dunkaroos are comin' back!  Did you 'roo?  I don't remember my mom buying a lot of the overpriced fun junk for my lunch boxes back in the day, but I know I experienced Dunkaroos at least once and man did I covet those little pouches of icing.  The cookies not so much.  This is where I'm having flashbacks of writing about this before, but I recall the cookies being like if an animal cracker wandered the Sahara for a decade and was equal parts cardboard and sand by the time it landed in the Dunkaroo package.

Analog Reading:

The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson.  I'm on the verge of becoming a KW completist.  What if his books were terrible and I just made it my mission to support him on the basis of having the same initials?  Good thing they're odd and delightful or I'd really be in a pickle.

Still plugging away at Rick Steve's new collection of old Europe stories.  And by plugging away, I mean it's sitting on my nightstand, waiting for me. 

Put How to Do Nothing on pause because after months of doing, uh, a lot of nothing, now I seem to have my work cut out for me in various ways.

The Isolation Journals - 101

This journaling project has transitioned to a weekly prompt, so I'll be attempting to keep up the habit.  Truthfully, I'm relieved that it's not a daily thing anymore, now that the (virtual) school year is approaching and I'll have less free time.  This week's prompt comes from painter Raven Roxanne.

Prompt:  Think about the last time you looked at something and noticed a change within—studying a painting, an animal, a flower, a piece of fruit, what you saw through a window. Write about what you saw, and what you felt shift.

---

Not That Kind of Weed

I have this thing for getting up close and personal with flowers.  It's not macro photography, per se, because I don't have a lens especially for that purpose, but I really get off on, as Andy calls it, "zooming in on some shit."  This habit isn't limited to flowers, though.  Sometimes it's moss, or flaking paint, or rusty metal, a cat's nose.  Anything with an interesting texture that reveals new layers on close inspection - any inanimate object or animal that lacks a concept of personal space will do.  Usually, though, it's flowers.  

Don't mistake me for a gardening enthusiast.  In fact I have two brown thumbs.  They might even be toes, I'm that bad at keeping plants alive.  I can't even manage a cactus, which is probably why I find flowers to be so miraculous.  It's a mystery to me (despite, you know, honors bio and college level science courses) how flowers do their delicate, sexy thing, and how anyone can cultivate one without murdering it from either outright neglect or helicopter parenting.

Sometimes this attraction to anything with petals leads me down the wrong path.  On a trip to Amsterdam four summers ago, I was living my best photography life.  Flowers everywhere, soft lighting to die for.  I found an intriguing, shoulder-height stalk, with soft pink conical blossoms, protruding from a crack in the concrete alongside the canal.  Commence the zooming.

After I got my shot, Andy, waiting patiently with arms crossed and foot tapping, interjected, "You know that's just a weed, right?"

"No way!  It's beautiful!"

Later that night, our Dutch host, a college friend of Andy's, confirmed.  It was a blight, an invasive species.  It's true what they say about Amsterdam, though.  They really do have some of the best weeds.

Syllabus #62

Back to school prep starts next week.  I move this week.  Excellent timing.  I'm not overwhelmed, you're overwhelmed.  If I can make it through the week without breaking out in actual hives like the last time I moved, I'll chalk it up to a win.

Is this where we're headed?  Will the extent of our international travel be to restaurants with country-specific cuisine?  Will you be honeymooning off the coast of Olive Garden or enjoying an all-inclusive stay at Waffle House?


"We have the wealth in this country to care for people, and to set the herd-immunity threshold where we choose."  This article is hopeful but also infuriating to be reminded that we have the ability to drastically reduce the spread and impact of this virus on our lives but our asshat government is not taking those measures.  


Slate's Christina Cauterucci has taken one for the team and done some hard-hitting investigative journalism so we don't have to.  Need to stand up to pee but don't have a penis?  You've got options!  I'm ordering the pStyle asap.

If you read advice columns regularly, you might feel like you've already been exposed to the full spectrum of relatively petty human conundrums, but this is the thing you've been missing:  Middlemarch BDSM role play

The distinction between outcome and intent matters.  People can have the best of intentions, but if their actions or the systems they design are executed from a place of ignorance, they can still cause harm.

I mean John Lewis just died, and RBG is sick again?  How much more is 2020 going to take from us?


Listening:

Slate's Decoder Ring podcast episode on The Rise (and fall) of The Karen


Watching:

Finally got around to consuming the first episode of The Baby-Sitters Club reboot on Netflix.  It was like watching a hug.  It was like stepping into a time machine and setting the dial to 1994, which was probably peak BSC idolization for me.  As I was watching, I was afraid I'd reach up to twirl my hair and discover my growing-out bowl cut.  I had to run my tongue over my teeth to confirm the results of expensive and painful orthodontia, so afraid was I that I had actually been transported back to my buck-toothed, awkward innocence.


Analog Reading:

How to Do Nothing by Jenny Odell.  It's not exactly what it sounds like.  It's more of an ode to giving your mind the time and space to rest and wander just for the intrinsic value of contemplation.  It's not a prescription to 'do nothing for a little bit so you can be more productive later.'  I promise I'll get around to finishing this one, but there's so much something I have to do in the meantime right now.

Perfect Little Worlds by Kevin Wilson.  Another perfect little absurdity from someone who is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors.

Rick Steves' new book, For the Love of Europe:  My favorite places, people, and stories.  I'm all about Rick Steves, and this is as close as I'll get to a vacation for the foreseeable future.

Lady in Red

Charlie and I have enjoyed a little routine together every morning and evening since mid-March.  I say enjoy, but the first and final moments are about as enjoyable as removing my toenails one at a time with a pair of pliers.  Getting in and out of the apartment, up and down 4 flights of stairs, functions like an enhanced interrogation technique blatant torture.  I definitely have PTSD from the ordeal and I would absolutely betray some state secrets if it meant not having to deal with Charlie on the stairs.  But a dog's gotta poop, so every morning before I eat breakfast, and every evening after the dinner dishes are cleaned up, we go for a walk.  With a Gentle Leader, he's actually pretty good on a leash unless some external stimuli, like another dog or certain types of vehicles, sets him off. 

We are creatures of habit, and usually walk the same 1-mile loop of neighborhood blocks, weather permitting.  There's a house we pass, twice a day, every day, that brings me endless joy.  At first glance, it's an unassuming house.  Tidy little red brick bungalow, nothing remarkable.  The yard is more noticeable, a sea of rosebushes inside a chain link fence.  Red roses, surrounded by red mulch.  The walkway leading up to the front door is painted red.

Behind the house is a carport with a red metal roof over a concrete pad painted red, sheltering a...red car.  There's another red car parked on the street.  There are red apple curtains hanging in the windows.

The other evening I walked by and finally saw the person responsible for so much red.  A petite older woman, trimming her rosebushes in soft evening warmth.  She was wearing a red-striped shirt, and her hair was dyed...well, it was a little on the nose.  I noticed this week that her crepe myrtles have bloomed, and they are all red, save for one.  One pink crepe myrtle, and it scares me to imagine how pissed, how utterly filled with murderous rage, this woman must have been when she realized her perfect bloodbath was spoiled.

I wish I loved anything as much as this woman loves the color red. 

Syllabus #61

We're all over the place this week.  We're up, we're down.  We're hot and we're cold, we're yes and we're no...I didn't set out to plagiarize a Katy Perry song when I opened my laptop this morning and yet, here we are.

Speaking of Katy Perry...

Wow this makes me look like a KP super fan, and I promise I'm not.  If I am going to have a creepy level of infatuation with a celebrity, I'm gonna make sure you know about it.  She's no JTT or Oprah or Terry Gross in my universe, that's for sure.  I can name at most 3 of her radio singles, and I possess the random but whimsical trivia that she named her cat Kitty Purry and that is the extent of my knowledge.  Is she even still alive?

The point is, there is no through-line with the stuff I've curated this week.  Some of it is lighthearted, some of it reeks of doom and destruction.  Hopscotch your way through it.  Or don't.  It's your Sunday. 

Basking in some more BSC glory - have you watched it yet?  I haven't, and I probably won't because I watch like an hour of TV a week, and I don't say that in a smug way (except I kind of do), it's just not something I enjoy right now.  But I love the fact that a BSC reboot exists and I could watch it if I was in a place in my life where sitting down to watch TV felt good.

Speaking of TV, I don't begrudge an entire industry their livelihood, and this sucks for a lot of people, but maybe there will finally be fewer movies and shows that I have to feel culturally illiterate for not watching because I honestly don't care.

We should all be deeply ashamed.  I mean I'm always feeling ashamed about something, but on a national level, we all fucked up, guys.  I know Biden isn't perfect, but if you don't vote for him and we end up with 4 more years of Cheeto-in-Chief, we're gonna end up a failed state, and we'll all be dead or destitute.   

At first this Berkeley co-op house sounded so utopian and delightful and then I remembered I'm an introvert and decided it would actually be hell on earth.

I dunno man, do we want to read this?  It would kind of feel like a raccoon digging through a dumpster, like, you know there's stinky, rotting garbage in there and you can guess what the contents might be, but do you really need to dive in and take inventory of each item?

Analog Reading:

Finished Processed Cheese by Stephen Wright.  What a journey.  I admired it in concept and for the extensive world-building and absurd naming of people and things, but that also made it a little tricky to read.  It was often difficult to keep track of which names belonged to human characters and which ones referred to corporations or products, which I'm sure was entirely the point because it was a critique of rampant consumerism, but it required close attention.

Inhaled Samantha Irby's new book Wow, No Thank You.  She's one of those writers who make me feel like there's no place for me in the literary world.  I say that in the most admiring way possible.  It's just that her voice and her outlook on the world having me cackling, nodding, and saying yes, same but different.  I feel like if we met in real life we would either hit it off and be the best of friends or realize we were too similar and become mortal enemies.  She has obviously had vastly different life experiences from me, but we seem to arrive at the same place in the way we process life's absurdities and our own foibles, if that makes sense.

You mean everyone doesn't do that?

The One Where I Do Something Ostensibly Altruistic for Utterly Selfish Reasons

The one where I do something ostensibly altruistic for utterly selfish reasons, and it backfires spectacularly.  Of course.

I have given blood before.  It's a generally charitable thing to do, but does anyone ever do it for that reason alone?  There's always a little something in it for you to sweeten the deal, even if it's just a smug sense of giving your actual, most precious, critical resource to potentially save another person's life. 

Back when I was a clerk in a high school library, whenever the school hosted a blood drive, I would sign up just for an excuse to lay down for half an hour and eat some animal crackers.  It was no big deal.  Needles don't bother me in the slightest.  It got me away from my desk.  I viewed it the same way I viewed pooping at work - Hold up, am I technically getting paid to do this?  Hell yea. 

It would seem that the next logical step would be to sell my plasma, in order to make actual money in the most passive but also metal way possible.  I may have romanticized that notion a little too much thanks to the Against Me! song, We Did It All for Don.  Back in 2010 when we lived in Idaho, I was super unemployed and got really fixated on the idea of selling my blood, but alas, it never worked out.  I have never been (explicitly) paid for my blood.

Technically.

Recently, I learned that the Red Cross is so hard up for blood that they are offering free COVID-19 antibody tests for donors.  I don't know exactly how much an antibody test would cost me, but I have read that they run around $100 or more, depending on the lab.  I wanted that test.

I wanted the antibody test because I wanted to be granted magical immunity.  I know that's not even really how antibodies work in this scenario, nor have I had any symptoms or known exposure to an infected person, so this was purely wishful thinking.  Nevertheless, I wanted it badly enough to sign myself up for a donation appointment. 

Here I sit, eight days later, with a negative antibody test result (of course) and an intense rash on my inner left elbow from, I assume, that weird stretchy medical tape they use to fasten your gauze pad.  Like, guys, we have solved this problem already.  It's called a Band-Aid.  This is not necessary! 

The rash isn't super visible, so at least I don't look like a leper, but it's a constant mental effort not to claw my arm off.  Worse than the rash, though, was the experience of giving blood.  I've never had a problem before, but the phlebotomist was very put off by my allegedly tiny veins.  She had to call her supervisor over to make sure they weren't too small for the giant needle. 

Once she finally got things flowing, my blood started to clot inside the tube before the bag filled up, so they kept spinning the needle around and pushing it further up in my vein.  I'm amazed that shit wasn't poking out the back of my arm by the time they were finished.    The bag finally reached capacity and they were ready to fill the test tubes, but there was so much coagulated blood by that point that nothing else would come out.  They were legit shoving toothpicks up in the opening of the tube to try to unclog it.  I'm no doctor but that seems like...not standard procedure? 

Ultimately, they had to tap my other arm like I was gotdamn sugar maple and I had to walk around for days looking like a sad extra from Requiem for a Dream. 

My takeaways from all this:

• Maybe consider not giving blood anymore
• If I must give blood (like maybe I'm getting out of work for an hour, or there's a cool t-shirt giveaway) consider pregaming the experience by guzzling N.O.-XPLODE, the pre-workout drink that promises to "turn your veins into garden hoses"
• Don't only do things for other people when there's something in it for me

The Isolation Journals - Day 100

Well this is it.  We have arrived at day 100 of this project, Suleika Jaouad's The Isolation Journals.  If you would have told me 100 days ago that I would show up and write something every single day for 100 days, I would have been skeptical.  If you would have told me 100 days ago that our country would be in worse shape than ever regarding the virus that prompted this project in the first place, and that we are in for many more months of fear and uncertainty and, well, isolation, I might have pulled an Iowa and stuck my head in the oven.  Except my oven is electric.

Fortunately, the project is not truly ending today.  There will be weekly prompts coming soon.  I'm looking forward to shifting my daily writing energies towards my own creative efforts, or even taking a break altogether for a few days.

Prompt:  Reflect on all the colors that make up your emotional palette—from the brightest neons to the drabbest grays. Examine the different hues and shades that occur each morning, midday, afternoon and evening. Write about how they’re playing out on a canvas, how they work together to make each day a painting of its own.

---

Will it be a Rothko day or a Mondrian day?  

Mark Rothko Untitled (Black on Grey), 1970

Piet Mondrian Composition with Red, Blue, and Yellow, 1930

Yes, that's what I ask myself each morning as I get out of bed.  Consciously.  Aloud.

And then I get a whiffle ball bat, stand it on the floor and place my forehead on the handle, spin around a few times, close my eyes, and stagger towards the wall.  Whichever art.com reproduction I slam into dictates my emotional spectrum for the day.

No, I kid.  But if I was serious, would you actually be surprised?  I do a lot of weird shit, why shouldn't that be part of it?

Anyway, that should give you a sense of the emotional range I'm working with here.  Some days are more colorful and clearly delineated than others, but the palette is always somewhat limited.

A Mondrian day might go something like this:  I get out of bed feeling pretty good, so maybe a yellow square.  Then I walk the dog and he has a terrifying outburst when another human enters the stairwell or a mail truck drives by on the street and because I'm PMS'ing, I just can't even.  Red square.  

After the walk is out of the way, I pass through several flat white squares where I'm going through the motions of the day with a neutral affect.  Then I start thinking about what a skidmark the world is at the moment and get lost in a boundless blue square.  Eventually, maybe the cat does something hilarious or I make a really bitchin' peanut butter and apple sammich for lunch, and I find myself in a blip of yellow square.  After that, it's back to flat white until something external provokes me.

A Rothko day goes like this:  We both slept poorly, and wake up more tired than when we went to bed.  I get up, but only because I'm tired of staring at the ceiling and I'm starving and the dog needs to go out.  I drag myself through the motions of life, slogging through a vast, muted gray swath.  We don't exchange more than two words all day.  Charlie acts like a dick on his walk, and I can tell that Andy is pissed about whatever sad attempt I've made at putting dinner on the table.  I slip into black.  

I get in bed at 8:00 and read until I fall asleep with a book on my face, and have night terrors of a Heironymus Bosch palette (the 3rd panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights - I hate to be that guy, but if you haven't seen it in person, you. haven't really seen it.  Sweet Jesus it's disturbing.)

Heironymus Bosch The Garden of Earthly Delights, 1495-1505

The Isolation Journals - Day 99

Prompt:  How do you get past pain? How do you let go of the illusion of control? How do you find meaning?

---

Guess we're going deep on this one.  Have fun, y'all, don't get the bends or something.  I'll just be up here paddling on the surface with my snorkel and my floaties.  I'm not brave enough for those shark-infested waters.

What do I know about pain, except how to ignore it?  Physical or emotional, the fastest way to make it go away is to pretend it's not there.  Or make a joke about it.  Sometimes that's the only way to manage - if you can't laugh about it, you'll definitely cry about it.

As for control, I'm not religious nor have I been to AA but I think there's value in the Serenity Prayer.  I try not to get worked up about other people's behavior or attitudes.  They are beyond my control.  All I can control is my own behavior, but boy do I go overboard there.  I'm still trying to figure out whether certain habits, related to food, exercise, and other obsessive behaviors, are controlling me or the other way around.  So again, don't do as I say or as I do, because I'm a hot mess just waiting for a spark to ignite a full-on dumpster fire.

The meaning part is a little easier.  It's called a dictionary, ever heard of it?  For me, it's completely subjective.  Again, not religious so there's no overarching meaning I can ascribe to our days on this complicated blue marble.  I believe everyone can make or find meaning if they choose to create it or look for it.  For me, meaning lies in creating - writing, comedy, artwork, photography, baking.  It's in enjoying small things - reading a good book, taking a walk, sipping a cold cocktail on a hot day, watching my cat bathe herself (and snickering about how creepy that sounds when you say it out loud).  It's in trying not to be a selfish asshole all the time.  I'm sure that wouldn't work for everyone, and it doesn't always work for me, but it's the best I got.

The Isolation Journals - Day 98

Prompt:  Figure out your “fun age,” meaning the common age of those who enjoy the same activities as you. Invite some friends to do the same, and then compare lists. You might discover some new ways to enjoy your time with old friends.

---

What's My Age Again?

My 16-year-old self would cringe at the Blink-182 reference (sell outs!) but she'd probably be too busy in the pit at a loud, sweaty, local punk or ska show to notice.

That being said, the song does reference making prank calls - something my 8-year-old self did with gusto.  Every April Fool's Day, my mom would let me flip through the Yellow Pages and call random businesses to ask them if their refrigerator was running or they had Prince Albert in a can (better let him out!).  I didn't fully understand that one at the time, so I think she was feeding me lines and getting just as much of a kick out of it as I was.  Now we all have caller ID and nobody answers their phone.  RIP prank calls.

These days, my actual 35-year-old self is living her octogenarian best life, going to bed early, eating a lot oatmeal, reading novels and doing crossword puzzles with a cat on my lap.  I'd be just as stoked, though, to color, make friendship bracelets, build with Legos, or read children's books.  Miss me with whatever age likes to go clubbing (19?) - that's a hard pass for me. Otherwise, I'm all over the map.  

No wonder I have a hard time filling out forms that ask for my age as well as my birth date.  What IS my age again?

The Isolation Journals - Day 97

Prompt:  Picture the chairs that you sit in on a regular basis—at home, in public, comfortable or uncomfortable. Now pick one of those chairs, and write an ode to it, considering the physical and emotional sensations it evokes. Does the lumbar support ease strain on your lower back? Does the chair remind you of a beloved grandparent? Does it have a great view? Try to make visible the dynamics of sitting you’ve gotten so used to that they’re currently invisible.

---

Wooden industrial adjustable stool, how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.

I’m still thinking.

Umm, you were easy to assemble...you do a passable job of matching a very unique table...and that’s all I got.

Perhaps one day my battered sitz bones will recover from the daily hours spent in contact with your unyielding seat, but today is not that day.  Absence will make the heart grow fonder, or the butt grow stronger, or whatever.

While we’re airing our grievances (Festivus in July?), I’m constantly disappointed by the configuration of your legs.  They are spaced justthismuch too close together to allow the Roomba to pass beneath you and do its job.  The pet hair tumbleweeds have taken to seeking refuge between your feet, the only comfort you provide.

Syllabus #60

I don't really care much for the 4th of July normally.  Doesn't even crack my list of top 5 reasons to buy a package of hot dog buns.   The more we confront the fact that freedom was not established for all Americans in 1776, and in many ways it still hasn't been fully extended, I think it's kind of a trash holiday.  This year, though, I'm semi-grateful for the day, just because it's a holiday that reminds us what the hell date it is.  Now maybe I can remember that it's not still March, because 4th of July happened.

I hope you had a safe weekend and your dog didn't stroke out during an hours-long illegal fireworks display.  Charlie calmly watched the fireworks from our balcony for a solid 20 minutes, in the chillest behavior he has ever exhibited, then started to get bent out of shape because he saw another dog down on the street.  

Crash and burn.

This is powerful is a trite thing to say, but damn.  Just read it.

Whoa!  That's one way to take matters into your own hands.

I'm not super into genre fiction but this interview with romance novelist Jasmine Guillory was highly education for me.  Guillory sounds like such a positive, organized person who genuinely enjoys her work.  I'm inspired.

And again this week, Slate has gifted me with another interview about how to get your ass in gear and write.  It's like the universe is sending me a sign.
 the transcript

What's going on with the fireworks everywhere?  Seriously.  The amount of fireworks I have heard explode in East Nashville in the past month, culminating in what I hope was the grand finale last night, is impressive.  What arsenal did y'all raid, and have they finally run out?  If toilet paper was as plentiful as fireworks, we'd all have been doing just fine this whole pandemic.

Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen baking up a hot fresh loaf of What The Fuck Is Society Thinking.

Finally, some good news.  Drop everything because we're 'bout to have ourselves an emergency meeting of the Baby-Sitters Club.  If you need me you can reach me on my rad clear telephone.



Listening:

The Baby-Sitters Club Club podcast, of course.

The audio of the Taffy Brodesser-Akner interview

The audio of the Jasmine Guillory interview

Analog Reading:

Finished Hidden Valley Road by Robert Kolker.  It was a lot to digest.  I just couldn't get over the whole giving birth to twelve individual children thing.  That's like 9 years of being pregnant.  Hard pass.

Started Processed Cheese by Stephen Wright.  I'm into it but I can only hang with it in small doses.  It's an absurd satire of greed and late-stage capitalism that sort of makes me think of a literary love child between Chuck Palahniuk and Dave Eggers.  

The Isolation Journals - Day 96

Prompt:  Set a timer for one minute and make a list of all the things that help you feel creatively unlocked—the sources you reach for, the tools you need, the objects that inspire you, the workspace and routines that feel generative.

Then, write about what this list reveals about you and your creative process.

*Bonus: Make a metaphorical shrine of your creative process—for example, illustrate it in your journal, render it in recipe form, arrange inspiring objects into a tableau, or put visual elements together into a collage. Snap a photo and share it on social media using #TheIsolationJournals.

---

Creativity Tools:

• coffee
• blank page
• pencil (preferably mechanical)
• time constraint
• unlimited time
• camera
• people watching

I don't need a lot.  A splash of jet fuel to get me going, and then it's just a matter of time.  Time constraints can be just as stimulating as having a long, unbroken stretch of time, depending on the endeavor.  

I often have ideas for comedy bits or stories at the most inconvenient times.  When I'm in the middle of something like walking the dog, driving, working, or worse still, about to fall asleep.  This morning, I woke up to an email from myself, sent last night at 10:55 PM, which is normally way past my bedtime, however, all of East Nashville was going full Michael Bay with the unsanctioned pyrotechnics, but I digress.  

Subject:  Deviled aggs [sic]
Body:  Avocado with deviled egg mixture in the pit hole

Is that a great idea or a terrible one?  Please try it and report back.  Or don't.  I initially had the idea while I was walking the dog, and was so proud of it I mentioned it to Andy while we were watching the Unsolved Mysteries reboot on Netflix.  Sidenote - if you were wondering what's been missing from your life lately, it isn't social interaction, it's first-person accounts of unexplained paranormal/extraterrestrial encounters.  Disappointingly, Robert Stack is not involved because he has apparently been dead for the last 17 years (but he'll forgive me for not noticing, because he was already haunting my dreams long before his actual passing).  

Again, I digress.  But you see how this works.  One thing leads to another, and there's really no road map for where you'll end up when you just let your mind wander.  Sometimes you take the scenic route right back to where you started, and sometimes you end up in a brand new (weird) place.  

The Isolation Journals - Day 95

Prompt:  Write about a time when you had a pressing question and nature provided the answer.

---

How brave am I?  How independent am I?  Or, to flip it and reverse it, how vulnerable am I?

Nature has answered thusly:  Not very, moderately, extremely.

Exhibit A:  New Jersey, 2003.  I'm sunbathing on a beach towel in the pasture behind my grandmother's house.  Laying on my stomach, bikini top untied to prevent tan lines, listening to my Discman.  

I feel a series of thuds reverberate through the ground.  Over the blaring punk music pumping through my headphones, I hear a guttural snort.  I lift my head, open my eyes, and find a buck staring me down from 20 feet away.  Preparing to charge?  I didn't stay to find out, but sprinted, semi-topless and clutching my boobs, back to the house.

Exhibit B:  Northern Utah, 2012.  I have just read The Beast in the Garden, a book about a mountain lion that stalked and killed several people in a Colorado community several years earlier.  I have a habit of trail running in Green Canyon, a national forest about a mile from our house.  There are rumors of mountain lion sightings in Green Canyon that summer, but I tell myself it will be fine.

I'm about 5 miles into my run, about a mile from my usual turn-around point, when I hear a wild thrashing in the brush beside the trail.  This is it.  This is how I die.  It's been real, I guess?  

Except, it's only a grouse.  A dumb stupid grouse.  Shaken (but oddly, not soiled), I turn around on the spot and hightail it the hell out of there.  

Nature is great, until it isn't.  I am brave, until I'm not.

The Isolation Journals - Day 94

Prompt:  What did you trade as a child for attachment, safety, or love?  Who did you think you needed to be in order to get those things?  And how do you see that pattern show up today?

--- My mom is going to read this on my blog, so allow me to interrupt myself with some 2009 Kanye - "Imma let you finish, but Joyce is the best mother of all time." Seriously.  The best.  Maybe even better than your best mom of all time.  Anything right with me is all due to my mom's unconditional love and, often, extreme overprotectiveness.  Who knows what kind of medieval malady or stranger danger scenario I would have succumbed to if not for her watchful eye. Anything wrong with me is, at this point, honestly probably my own failing because I am a grownass woman and need to own my own shit.  But at one point, it was probs my dad's fault.  If I'm being really really honest, after 2 glasses of wine, it's still Larry's fault.  After my parents divorced when I was 5, I saw my dad most weekends, but he usually just drank with his buddies and watched football while I sat in a corner and read by myself.  He also made a lot of promises that we would do things that never happened. I didn't understand what I needed to do to make him actually pay attention to me and follow through on his promises, but eventually I got wind that he was bragging about my good grades to his friends.   I thought that must be the ticket.  Here I am, the good one, the one kid you didn't royally screw up.  Behold my straight A report card, stop watching golf, and pay attention to me for five fucking minutes.  I probably would have done well in school regardless, but I think I started attaching too much of my self-worth to academic achievement.  Looking back, maybe he did too.  I'm no conspiracy theorist, but all I'm saying is he did die less than a year after I finished college.  Oh my god, did I - did I kill him?  I knew I should have started grad school sooner... Wow that took a morbid turn!  I'm sorry if this seems crass or insensitive to those of you who have or had wonderful relationships with your fathers.  You are so very fortunate and I am happy for you.  That just was not my experience and it's sort of healing to call out the reasons why he had no business procreating and recognize that none of the terrible ways he treated me or my mom were our fault. And then I found five dollars!

The Isolation Journals - Day 93

Prompt:  Look through your past journal entries. Without overthinking it, choose a sentence that intrigues you. Imagine a flashing cursor (or some annoyingly precocious four-year-old) at the end of it, asking why? Answer the question, then ask it again. Continue until you’ve gotten to the heart of the matter.

---

There is a brilliant children's book called Why? by Adam Rex, in which a little girl badgers a super-villain into psychoanalyzing himself.  She brings him to the realization that his daddy issues are motivating him to try to take over the world, just by repeatedly asking, "why?"  

On day 85, we wrote about monuments we carry.  I said I was carrying "oh you know, just a super casual belief that I am a garbage human who contributes nothing to society, and nobody likes me, and I don't deserve to take up any space in the world, physically or metaphorically."  And I know that is factually untrue, but I still kind of believe it.  So let's allow our hypothetical four-year-old to unleash her gentle interrogation tactics.

I believe I am a garbage human who contributes nothing to society, and nobody likes me, and I don't deserve to take up any space in the world, physically or metaphorically.

Why?

Well, I have low self-esteem and feel like I'm generally a selfish person who doesn't try hard enough to connect with others.

Why?

Probably because in my head, I'm still the hideous adolescent who was never the best at anything, and I carry around this sense of guilt that I'm lazy and should be doing more.

Why?

Have you seen the pictures?  I was afraid to wear turtlenecks lest the pressure pop my whole head like one giant zit.  

Why?

See, there are these things called hormones, and also genetics, and it turns out I was genetically predisposed to develop acne when my hormones triggered puberty -

What's puberty?

Whoa, kid, you're going off-script.  You're allowed to ask 'why' and that's it.

Why?

Because I'm controlling the narrative here and I'm not equipped to explain puberty to someone else's preschooler.

Why?

Because I will either warp you irretrievably or set you on a lifelong path of respecting your body and having a healthy attitude towards sex and those are not my dice to roll.  That's a risk your parents have to take.  Go ask your mother if you're so curious.

Why?

Because she said you're going to have ice cream for dinner while she tells you all about puberty.

[And that's how you outsmart a relentless four year old, and probably also lose adult friends]

Summer 2020 Docket of Shit to Do

Last year, I made a Summer 2019 Docket of Shit to Do to inspire me to seize my summer by the cojones and squeeze out every last drop of magic.  Oddly enough, it was not on the docket to mix metaphors in the most revolting way possible.  Anyway, last year's docket was chock full of excitement - domestic and international travel, local exploration, creative endeavors, all of it! 

This year's docket is going to look a little different.  A little closer to home.  Lowered expectations.  You know the drill by this point. 

So here's my Summer 2020 Docket of Shit to Do.  I'll check back in after the Autumnal Equinox to see how I did, although I would like to accomplish most of these things in July, before (if?) school resumes in August.

What about you?  What's on your docket?  Big plans to travel from your couch to your refrigerator?  Looking forward to this summer's blockbuster, Watching Paint Dry?  Whatever you do, I hope you enjoy the hell out of it.

The Isolation Journals - Day 92

Prompt:  Write about the biggest challenge you’re currently facing. Now think of a series of words, phrases or even part of a quote that have helped get you through some tough moments. Use those words to compose a mantra of your own. Chant it to yourself whenever you need it.

---

Mantras.  I have two.

The first one has quite literally saved my ass on countless occasions.  It works wonders, except when it doesn't.  You know the scene in American Beauty when Annette Bening's realtor character furiously cleans the house she's trying to sell while chanting I will sell this house today?  

The other day, I shared that I have sometimes had an adorable little struggle with the ol' sphincter while running.  To combat that problem, I didn't stop running, which is the logical and oft-suggested reaction.  Instead, I run before eating whenever possible, and I never leave home without this handy mantra in my back pocket:  I won't shit my pants today.  You're welcome to incorporate it into your own life if you feel it would serve you.  My gift to you.  

The second mantra is an all-purpose, feel-good repetition.  It works for any sort of protracted challenge, thought it seems especially apt for this year of our dark lord two thousand and twenty.  It reminds you that we all struggle; whatever it is, we will get through it, unless we don't.  The best we can do is give it everything we've got.

It's a lyric from The Mountain Goats song, "This Year."  I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me.  It works best if you scream along to the song in the car so you can slam your hand to the rhythm on the steering wheel.  It's yours for the taking.  Use it well.