On Female Friendship (or, why I drive with the windows down)

“You can’t take my peace, bitch!” she shouted to the Acura that had cut us off in sweaty, tangled Baltimore traffic. The three of us were driving to the airport after a much-too-brief 48 hours together in deep Maryland, a place where the hot air hung thick and green beneath countless Trump flags and sputtering two-engine planes.

When I say that I’m in love with these women, I mean it in the way of love I’ve felt few times in my life. It’s love, an emotion that no degree of italics could capture. The way I feel for the two of them is doubtlessly deeper and more intertwined than the way I’ve felt for almost all of my romantic partners. It’s an attachment that I suspect most folks are lucky to feel a handful of times in this life, let alone for so long.

What no one ever discusses about this kind of love is that it’s discouragingly difficult. It’s work, and patience, and understanding. It’s waiting three years to see each other because that’s the way life carries you. It’s forgiving one other when you disappear from emails for months at a time, and it’s apologizing to your roommate for laughing so loudly at whatever they just sent to your group text. It's knowing that even if they don't respond right away, they still see your words and feel the warmth of your affection across the miles. It’s FaceTiming in traffic because, yes of course that’s dangerous, but your main bitch is going through a time and you’re going to be there for her. It’s sending them the podcasts and albums and books that made you question yourself. It’s being devastatingly honest, out loud and for the first time, because they know if you’re lying about whatever’s on your mind and they’re not here for empty niceties. It’s holding your breath when you say your goodbyes, because you well know by now just how precious your reunions are.

When I last saw these women, I had joked with them about being emotionally closed off. “I didn’t even cry once this weekend, and I’m angry about it.” We’d spent hours floating in piss-warm water, drinking improvised cocktails and airing out our ideas to dry in the sun of each others’ perspectives. After an intensely trying year away, a year in which I lost several loved ones and in several senses of the verb “lost,” I was ready for an emotional release with them.

But my dramatic, misty-eyed monologue never came. We dove into our own tired souls, dredging up whatever willowy sludge we’d cared to share. I felt immensely self-conscious about how detached I could be in talking about the grief I felt, how coldly I could describe the well of my own confused emotion. I imagined that wasn’t a good sign, and my hyperactive imagination urged me to worry that they saw me as invulnerable, unwilling to be present and raw with them in the same way they had both shared with me. As we piled into the car to part ways, I felt anxious that I had taken our time together for granted.

And then we began driving. It was sweltering outside, a clingy stickiness that only happens when it’s July and you’re underslept and dehydrated from long nights and late swills. The windows were cracked, an overeager breeze stirring the car as if desperate to bring us one last moment of overlap. We were silent. We'd said hardly a word for the entire drive, until the obnoxious Acura swerved ahead of us on I-95 as we meandered south.

In that moment, something broke loose. Pushing her middle finger over the steering wheel, she yelled at the other car, the two of us passengers peppering in colorful comments about the value of serenity and the supremely entitled fuckery of DMV drivers. We began laughing, an overreaction to the humor in a fleeting moment. We couldn’t stop. We had moved beyond words; we were simply together.

As the car’s atmosphere again stilled, the weight of our imminent goodbye again pressing down on us, the speakers opened up. “A tornado flew around my room before you came, excuse the mess it made…” Frank Ocean, a hymn we'd memorized through years of shared history. It was a song that felt like being together again. Each of us knew exactly where the other two were, without speech or sight. This was what it felt like to be with the people you loved.

I looked out at the tiny needled skyline, curving past us, finally welling down the tears I didn’t think I could release. And then a hand. She had reached over, tear-soaked fingers in mine, to wordlessly tell me that she was there too. We stretched our palms into the backseat, the three of us clinging to the present as best we knew how, holding onto each other through the last minutes of the journey.

When I drive my car these days, often alone, I do my best to keep the windows down. I like to smell the leafy, dusty landscapes of the county where I grew up. I abhor the heat, familiar and fervently midwestern, but I enjoy the way it makes my skin feel, salty and stained with just the slightest discomfort. I relish the breeze and all it stirs up in my scalp and in my spirit. I love the way it reminds me of being in that car with the two of them, barreling toward an ending and yet impossibly confident that the wind would still, somehow, carry us back together.

- "Thinkin Bout You," from Frank Ocean's Channel Orange (2012)

Buscar La Habichuela

There is a saying in Andalucia, "buscar la habichuela." Quite literally, it means to search for the bean, which couldn't be better. Figuratively, though, it means something more along the lines of to search for life and experience. This is, more or less, what I'm trying to to do with my time here.

My world is relatively static these days: I'm teaching a few new students, taking small trips around Andalucia, and doing my best to make time for the things that make me content. I'm writing less and reading more. Yesterday I finally began reading Hanif Abdurraqib's Go Ahead In The Rain, which, one chapter in, I will heartily recommend to anyone who likes hip hop, personal essays, or vivid and emotional writing.

Because it's about to be Semana Santa, or Holy Week, I have a break from work. So I'm buscando la habichuela and taking a trip outside of Huelva. In a few hours, I'll be on a bus to Portugal before making my way up to England. I will visit a friend of mine, and a few new cities, and I will finally catch up on sleep. My mind is happily scattered in pre-journey jitters.

Last Sunday, I spent the day in Ronda. Perhaps when I'm back home and in my routine again, I will share a few stories from that trip. For now, here is a low-res cell phone photo of the Puente Nuevo awaiting daybreak.

As always, thank you for reading this.

Looking southeast; cold April rain

Back and Forth

The last few months passed at hyperspeed. I'm pursuing a few secret opportunities for next year, traveling to new spots, and picking up more private English classes. (I've also developed a strange and disappointing reaction to bananas. Anytime I eat these very specific ones from the Canary Islands, my mouth itches and burns like an evil pox. I choose to blame it on pesticides, but I avoid eating those bananas all the same.)

Since I last checked in, I've been to Cádiz, Valencia, and a few other cities. I'm trying, desperately, to inhale as much of the landscape as possible while I'm on the Iberian Peninsula. When I was in Portugal last month, someone told me that the name "al-Andalus" was derived from a word meaning "heaven," and while that etymology is debatable, I agree that the countryside here is nearly celestial. Before I return to the U.S., my goal is to explore more of Portugal and Spain. We'll see how that goes.

In the midst of everything swirling around my world, I'm also working on lots of little writing projects. For the first time in years, I'm writing short fiction. It is an absolute joy! Creating such tiny, alternative realities is empowering. Fiction gives me a unique sense of control and liberation. These little narratives are an excuse to be self-indulgent about any topic I want, whether it's Janelle Monáe or public transportation or feminist movies.

To be a writer is to be be selfish, and I happily accept that mantle.

While there is much more to report, I leave you here to read myself to sleep. After an unintentional rash of bleak books (Not That Bad, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love; The Crown Ain't Worth Much), I'm finally working on something (possibly) lighter: Richard Adams's Watership Down. As a child, I false-started this book at least a half-dozen times. I never reached the end, but this time it finally clicks. I couldn't be more delighted.

Eastbound, por las Marismas de Isla Cristina

Porto (A Return)

It’s been almost a year. Over eleven months since I last published a word to this blog. Lately, I’ve thought hard about why that is. I’ve got a handful of secret notebooks; a whole folder of private Word documents on my desktop about public writing, about authenticity, about loneliness. There are hundreds of these abandoned projects. Each false start is a stray pebble, twirling around in the pocket of my mind.

The truth is, it’s a lot easier to be honest when you can hide these pebbles within the luxury of privacy. But that luxury isn’t challenging, nor productive. So here we are. I’ve decided to try writing more for an external audience, to push my own words back into the discomfort of a public arena. I have so much to say, and I’m eager to put a voice—a true, resonant voice—to the things that I’ve seen. I hardly know where to begin.

Maybe the best place to start is with an ending.

Last weekend, I went to Porto and found myself in the midst of a Portuguese funeral procession. I was wandering around the city and had ended up in the Cemitério do Prado do Repouso when I heard someone running behind me. I turned around to see a woman in a hoodie, carrying nothing more than a wallet and cell phone, slowly jogging down the path. I stopped to let her ahead. She seemed hardly out of breath, like she was in no more than a tiny hurry to arrive somewhere. I kept walking.

I found the crematorium, where gray smoke was breezing up toward the sky, and I wondered who was inside and what the smoke had once been. As I turned away, I saw a black hearse approaching. It was glassy and glossy and flowers were exploding over an enormous coffin in the back. The woman in the hoodie was now walking beside, talking and laughing with three or four other people. They seemed impossibly relaxed. They smiled and waved at me as they passed, carrying nothing more than a few motorcycle helmets. The small group proceeded to the crematorium, where they unloaded the casket and carried it inside. They disappeared.

I have no idea if what I saw was “normal,” if Portuguese funerals are generally so casual. But I felt a pang of modest hope, watching them stroll forward. I imagined they were comfortable with mortality, that they would end the funeral and all go drink together at a sunny sidewalk café. I liked to think they’d drink a few messy toasts to the person whose body was becoming ashes, and then they’d continue with their lives. I liked to think it would be simple for them.

There were lots of other shimmery moments, images that in my recollection seem more magical and mysterious than reality. I saw cats climbing over flea market stalls toward abandoned beer glasses, an ancient bookstore filled with anxious tourists, and plain walls painted to life with Escher woodcuts. I saw sleepy men napping next to fiery peacocks at the edge of the miradouro; a photography museum nestled within in a drafty old prison. A setting sun, embarrassed in the pale ragged sky. A woman with a voice worn loud by decades of cigarettes, shouting to announce the sale of lottery tickets. Another woman, still, knowingly winking at me as I sat alone in a noisy and chaotic café. I saw warmth, and attention, and movement.

These impressions, soft and tattered, are worth more to me than any hard data about the trip. They are disparate pebbles, a mismatched set of chipped thoughts and stolen ideas polished smooth in my own head. They are a mess, but they are mine. And with them, I pave my path forward.

Looking west, Jardins do Palácio de Cristal

Portuguese Centre of Photography

II

The Rio Douro

Livreria Lello

Tracks of the Camino Portugués

O fim

Aún Camino

Three years ago today, my Grams would've been a century old. Also three years ago today, I finished hiking the Camino de Santiago. While I've been feeling especially mushy and reflective about this for the last month, today is strangely quiet. Anticlimactic. Life marches on, and while I'm still figuring out my spirituality (among other things), I know I've grown since the hike. I've become an adult, one I hope my grandma would've been proud of.

For all of it, I'm pretty darn grateful.

Pilgrims' Mass, Easter Sunday

A Year Later

It's been a year, and I'm still not sure how to responsibly write about Inauguration Day, or the Women's March, or even the whole last year. I've tried, yes, but it always comes back to the same question: what do I genuinely have to offer to this discussion? And is that question itself even worth exploring publicly?

Maybe I'll figure that out soon. For now, I'll step aside and direct my listening toward groups like Higher Heights and INCITE!, each of whom are working hard to empower women of color and trans/non-binary folks. If you can relate to any of the above sentiments, consider learning more about the activism happening in and around your communities. And if you're aware of any orgs doing work important to you, shoot me an email. I'd love to hear more.

With that, I'm off my soapbox.

Thanks for reading.

Workers clean up debris from the vandalism performed by self-proclaimed "anarchists" near D.C.'s Franklin Square; Jan. 20, 2017

Janet

Good morning from Logan! As always, Boston has been good to me: I feel more grounded after catching up with so many people I love and care about.

One of those people—my dear friend Kate—always opens my eyes to new music. (Seriously. In four years, she still hasn't steered me wrong.) Here's one of the discoveries she shared with me this weekend.

- "Janet" by Berhana, from the Berhana EP (2016)

Back to Basics

I'm in Massachusetts!

I'll post more when I'm home this week, but for now, here's a quick little snippet from Wellesley.

Behind; Above

Looking up; the National Portrait Gallery (January 2017)

A Small Stretch

From the backlog of things I never posted:

Grand Junction, Colorado; July 2014

The Time of the Seizin'

It's been a little while since I posted here, for a lot of reasons. I traveled to Oregon last week (to the Portland friends I didn't get to see--I'm sorry!). One of my S.O.'s old friends got married, so a group of us went out to explore and celebrate. While we were there, we hiked, played in the ocean, and visited the hospital after I had a seizure.

Before I go any further: everything is totally fine. I am safe and alive and intact, and I don't mean to worry anyone.

That said, I don't really know what caused it. I was lucky to be with a friend when it happened, and she called 911 and made sure I didn't, like, choke on my own drool or anything. I don't have words to express my gratitude to her. When the ambulance arrived, I was apparently insistent that someone else had seized and that I was completely fine. Hopefully the paramedics saw the humor in that.

The ER team who took care of me was friendly and efficient. They advised me to get a bunch of tests and to avoid driving. For the foreseeable future, I'll be taking the bus and sleeping a lot. My brain still seems a little foggy, and my short-term memory doesn't feel as sharp, but I'm confident that'll go away in due time. Writing has also been more difficult, which is perhaps the scariest consequence of all this, but I'm choosing to attribute that to temporary stress.

The most likely medical outcome, I am told, is that all my tests come back normal. We probably won't know what caused the seizure, and it probably won't ever happen again. At the same time, there's a small chance there's something more traceable at play: I've collapsed in the past, and it's possible that those instances were undiagnosed seizures. I'm skeptical of this possibility, and optimistic that everything will be back to normal very soon.

Aside from all of that, the trip was incredible, for a lot of reasons. We went to Cannon Beach, hiked up Multnomah Falls, had a great time at the wedding, and ate some of the best Thai food I think I've had. These experiences, to me, were far more important than one brief scare, and they'll stick with me for far longer. I'll try to share some photos soon.

Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read these words. This whole experience has been a solid reminder of the love and care in my life. I'm lucky to have so many remarkable, generous, and warm-hearted people looking out for me. I hope I never take that for granted. A million times, thank you.

On "Caregiving," Fear, and Growing Up

I recently received the advice to write about my experiences as a “caretaker” for my father after his heart attack. I’m not sure whether I embrace that title, for a variety of reasons. I envision a caregiver as someone who sits by an ill person with a wet washcloth. Not, necessarily, as someone who does all the other small and crucial tasks, like cooking and driving. This logic, however, follows the flawed and ubiquitous notion that domestic work is not valuable. I can rationalize that, and still I feel uncomfortable claiming the position of “caregiver.”

In reality, I often suspect that my parents would have gotten along just fine without me. It might have been slightly more difficult for them, but they would have survived. And I could have just as easily moved someplace else as soon as he was out of the hospital. So why did I stay?

Though I didn’t acknowledge this until recently, my motivations to remain here were entirely selfish: I was terrified of leaving.

Before I dive into that, let me share some context.

The summer before I left for college, my dad spent several weeks in the hospital. At first, he’d developed a simple staph infection. Before long, it spread to his blood, and then his bone marrow. After having a portion of his clavicle removed, he came home to several months of outpatient home care. I learned to change bandages, to clear his PICC line, to inject his medicine twice a day. I learned what a wound vac was, and how unforgettable it smelled. I learned which gauzes and wipes to bring the nurse each afternoon he or she visited. I learned to call 911 when he’d stopped breathing. I learned the comfiest ways to sit in waiting room chairs. I learned to give serious phone calls, and to give cautiously optimistic follow-ups. I learned how to politely respond when people told me, retrospectively, that they didn’t think he’d make it. I learned, finally, to be present with the people I love.

Even if I don’t always act on it, I learned a lot in those three months, and then I went away to learn some more. My dad was cleared for travel not long before I left for school. I’ll never forget his grin when he realized he would be able to see me off to college. He and my mom helped me move into my first dorm room, which I shared with two strangers (and ultimately, two of my closest friends). They said goodbye, and left me to forge my way.

In the sheltered bubble of campus, 1500 miles away, I felt detached. I knew my parents were physically healthy, but I worried constantly about them. After all, they were getting older, and I didn’t know how to cope with that knowledge. On breaks, I would go home to stay with them, eat their food, and hear about everything that had changed while I was away. These moments helped soothe my anxieties, but on some level, I was always conscious that our time together was limited (and perhaps moreso than most).

Of course, this awareness helped me appreciate my parents more, and I’m grateful for that. I’m also grateful for the relationships that were born out of these fears. My first-year roommates, Mikey and Saraphin, had endured similar difficulties during college. We initially bonded because of loss and tribulation. Though our relationship has grown far, far beyond that, I can’t think of many other people who understand my fears the way they do.

That seems like adequate context, so I’ll get back to the “fear of leaving” that spurred this whole post.

A week after graduation, I was already scared of losing my incredible friends and bungling my job search. I didn’t know where I would live, or what I would do. When my mom called me to tell me that Dad was in a coma, every single one of those anxieties paled next to the thought that I might not see my parent again. I flew home the next morning, and I’ve been back in Kansas City since.

Every single day, I wonder where my life would be if I hadn’t gotten that call. Where would I be living? What would I be doing? What other arbitrary fears would I have? I wonder this, and I also wonder whether I’d be so damn thankful to have both of my parents, whether I’d have as many memories with them. Whether I'd have relationships as fulfilling as those that have developed here. Whether I'd feel any differently than I do now.

As I get older, I realize that loss is inevitable, and that fear is always an option. Fear of action, fear of inaction, fear of simply being. This is a part of life, and one that I’m slowly learning to handle. Anxieties cannot dictate the course of my life, but maybe I can lever them to develop a new perspective. To be appreciative of what is, and to accept what is not. To realize what's genuinely important to me. Maybe, one day, I can look certain fears in the face, defy them, and stop feeling so scared.

I’m not there yet, but I get closer every day.

Intention

I made more accidents! These photos were doubly exposed last summer by simple ignorance. This roll was processed by the knowledgeable folks over at Express Photo. If ever you're in Brookside, be sure to pop in and say hi to Steve.

Chicago, July '16 / KCMO, August '16

The Unknown

Self-doubt is rearing its ugly head once again.

My yearlong lease is nearly up, and I’m yearning for a change of scenery. I love Kansas City, happily and desperately. I also grew up here. I moved back here out of obligation with twelve hours’ notice. In many ways, Wellesley was my ticket somewhere new, and I still ended up right back here.

In every different place I’ve lived: Massachusetts, D.C., Córdoba; I’ve found solace in the unknown. Nothing could make me feel the cloudy bliss of wandering around a new neighborhood. This holds true, even now. But I’m not sure whether I should stay in K.C. simply because I’m already here. Circumstance brought me back, and conscious decision kept me here. I don't regret staying here, and I can’t accept that without questioning it. Life doesn't seem long enough to stay away from new places and adventures.

I have a few months to think it out, and I intend to do so. The confusion is part of the fun, I suppose.

How did you end up wherever you’re currently living? How do you feel about living there? If you had to leave, where would you go? Leave a little comment on this here blog. (To be honest, I’m not responsible about reading Facebook notes, but I try! You can also email me, call me, text me...)

Let me know what you’re thinking of. Let’s have a real conversation about it.

This view of Westport High is one of the best pieces of my day-to-day.

Questions of Travel

I'm in New York right now, taking some vacation time to visit a few friends and revisit a world outside of my cozy Kansas City. Being here, I feel almost hyper. Still, I'm missing this little beansprout back home.

Moundridge

Lots of feelings; back again.

Grain elevator; Moundridge, KS

Plainsong (for New Beginnings)

I'm starting a new job, signing a lease, and writing spontaneous (and spotty) ekphrastic tanka poems about clouds:

When I leave this place
(even only if in thought)
dumb, I ossify
the highs of the arms-wide sky
that envelop me, all here

A Rainy Day in the Back Bay

It's been just over three months since I was in Boston.

I'm excited to be starting my "life" and to be out of the pressure cooker that Wellesley could be (maybe I'll just write a whole post about that sometime). Simultaneously, I miss it. A lot. At the most unexpected moments, I'll be entirely enveloped by this cavernous sense of longing and loss. In those moments, I'll wonder which street performers are out in Harvard Square, or what the breeze might smell like on the waterfront in the North End. Most of that feeling is fueled by a sort of nostalgia: I miss the place where I was an irresponsible college student, sheltered and safe from the world.

But there's more to it than that. Metro Boston was the first place I ever knew away from home. It was the first city I ever got to "discover," just by wandering aimlessly on the weekends. It was the first place I felt independent and confident enough to spend entire days wandering by myself. When the marathon bombings happened my first year, it was the first place I'd ever felt any sort of city-wide unity. (That's not to imply that unity doesn't exist in Kansas City; it certainly does. But tragedy and loss can leave deep and unique impacts on a place, and nothing similar has happened in K.C. during my lifetime.)

The point is: I grew there. A lot. That growth could have happened anywhere, but it was shaped by the buildings and the people I knew in Boston. And that city only exists in my recollection now, because when I do eventually return, it will be different: friends will have moved, buildings will have been demolished. I will be different, and my eyes will see the city differently. Even though that perspective will probably lack the youthful excitement of a first-timer, I can't wait to see what the years grant me and how my view matures.

I'll be back soon enough.

Commonwealth and Mass Ave; northeast toward the Common
May 2016

Moundridge

Last weekend, I went to Moundridge. This was significant for several reasons:

1. It's my mom's hometown,
2. my uncle Monte lived there his entire life, until his death in May, and
3. I hadn't been back to visit since my grandma's funeral in 2008.

So my mom and I trekked out to the wilderness of central Kansas, to see houses, streets, and cemeteries. The landscape was more captivating than I remembered, and the sunflowers were in full bloom. There was this unbelievable quiet. All you could hear was the wind skimming the tall grass; the sound of male cicadas calling out to a particularly blue nothingness. The low hills there stretch on in a way that makes it seem that they could contain everything.

It's a special place.

Breathing the air in Monte's house felt unusual. It smelled so specific, in a fleeting way. To see his space, his land...it gave me a sense of closure that I didn't have before. I still often forget he's gone, but being where he lived gave me a sense of peace that I needed. I'm grateful for that.

Along the way, I took a few photos using the cheap fish-eye lens I bought last year. And so this is all I have, for right now.

Potentially southward

Exploring Abandoned Castles

Yesterday, my new pal Celeste showed me the Vine Street Workhouse. This building, which looks like an abandoned limestone castle, was built as a jail in 1897. It's been abandoned since the early '70's, and has since become a relatively benign, high-traffic hangout for graffiti artists, local kids, and curious eyes. While we were there, we ran into a young, high-heeled couple on a date, as well as a suburban mom who learned about the place from her kids. As one might imagine, she wasn't too happy to know her sons were spending time there, but the space itself seemed very lived-in and (dare I say it?) "safe."

When non-locals ask me about Kansas City, these are the vignettes I want to share: the unexpected, the accidental, the strange. Days like yesterday help me uncover the true depth of my attachment to this place, to its streets and its spirit. Though my worldview is still narrow, I have yet to find a place as quietly alive as K.C. The air here carries an electricity I can't describe, one that belongs to both the people who breathe it and the space which contains it.

When I leave, I imagine I'll miss this city quite a bit.

Boxers, fire, vodka, and the Sponge