#before we moved there was a park by a river near where i lived where giant rodents lived in the water

[karinyosa]

moving to a major city in youth was really bad for me because i am never going to get over my fear of bugs. or my lack of tolerance for hiking. LMAO. like i enjoy being in botanical gardens and woodsy parks but i am such a wimp about like rough/dense terrain and shit like that i scream at bugs i’m everything people say about city slickers. girl thats me

[inkskinned]

okay yes it's often bad and hard and sometimes i am so anxious my whole body feels like it's vibrating but also at the same time the gps took me a different way on my drive and i got to see more of the river than i usually do and yesterday the sun was still above the horizon after 7pm and that was amazing and the whole sky turned an orange-gold like how they try to make ice cream taste; you know, one of those evenings that just tears you open no matter how jaded you get. it's warm for the first time here and people had lined up against the water just to stand outside and watch the sunset

and yeah it's tax season no i haven't done mine yet but when i mentioned it offhand in a single side-comment three days later my friend sent me a list of helpful tips and followed up to see if i'd need help on them

there's this parking lot for a walking trail near where i live and one of the two google reviews is my actual favorite: love it here. there were so many beautiful parking spots but sadly we could only take one. and no this person isn't going to go viral and probably the only people navigating to this spot are extremely local - but there's something so precious to me about someone taking the time to write something that will make strangers in their community laugh, even though there's no way for me to tell them good one! directly

yes i am not doing well sometimes i'm doing even very-badly but recently i have been given enough breathing room to say okay, this situation is bad, but then it will be over, and you will be moving onto the next thing and it's true that i need to get groceries and pay rent and argue with my health insurance but it is also true that in the absolute stress and anarchy of my life today someone recognized my dog before they recognized me and was so excited because "they tell everyone about the greyhound in the area and didn't get a picture before so can they take a picture now please"

in class we all stand in a circle and are all grown adults and for a moment while the teacher is figuring something out, we all hold hands, just to be silly and connected. for no reason at all at 8pm on a thursday my friends and i start breaking out the dance moves to high school musical. my coworker gchats me during a meeting about the book he recommended to me and i'm enjoying reading

i help a high school set up for a star-themed dance and while putting up streamers i find graffiti that says if you're reading this, i love you, and we're both going to get out of here right next to fuck everyone, live out of spite, don't let the fuckers make you die. on the bridge where i walk my dog someone has written i love you and on the sidewalk in chalk someone has written i love you and on the side of the water tower someone has written i love you

at the bottom of a text post an internet poet says - i love you, i love you, i love you. i've never met you, i love you because you exist and we exist together. and isnt that enough for now. just for this moment, i mean. like, if you just close your eyes and breathe - somewhere, across this world, i love you, because you're here with me.

[7ndipity]

Long Distance Relationship Headcanons

Jimin x Reader

Summary: How Jimin would handle a long distance relationship with his s/o

Warnings: none

A/N: Thanks to @animesllut666 for requesting this one!

Masterlist

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

I think Jimin would struggle a bit with a long distance relationship, just because of how physically affectionate and how much of a care-er he is. He would hate not being able to physically be there for you and look after you.

But he manages to find unique little ways to make you feel closer and show you he cares.

Calls you almost every day, even if it’s just for like five minutes to ask about your day and to tell you that he loves you.

Good morning/goodnight texts.

Definitely sends stuff like hoodies/t shirts back and forth with you to share, and smiles so big whenever he notices you wearing them in pictures.

Video call ‘dates’, but it’s mostly you just leaving the call open while you do whatever so you can keep each other company.

“Where did I put my glasses down?” Bedside table behind you.” “Wha- oh, thank you!”

Another who, like Yoongi, makes little ‘jokes’ about you moving to Korea. “I heard about this new apartment complex near the park, you’d have a great view of the river!” “Ugh, I forgot to go grocery shopping” “That wouldn’t be an issue if you lived here, we could eat together.”

Sends monthly care packages, with an emphasis on the ‘care’ part(yes, I’m still thinking about him asking Jin for a shopping list before going to visit him in the military, he’s too sweet*cry)

He packs little things like hand warmers and cozy socks for you in the winter, sunscreen and cooling sprays in the summer, random lil gadgets that he saw on instagram ads, just anything he can think of to help make your day to day life a lil better/easier.

Gets you both those couples bracelets or lamps that are touch activated where when you touch yours, the other lights up.

Sleepy video calls at 1 in the morning where one or both of you is fighting desperately not to doze off but refusing to hang up bc you wanted to see each other.

Drops everything and flies to you if you’re sick/hurt or having a hard time. He doesn’t care if it’s an over-reaction, he wants to be there to take care of you, whether that’s feeding you soup while you’re sick or just being a shoulder to cry on.

Completely overjoyed when you’re finally able to remove the long-distance aspect to your relationship when you move to Korea and you’re able to see each other everyday.

@sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @main-bangtansmauyeondan @feminympho @classicalelephant @dfqcsqueen @mother2monsters @comingupwithacoolnameishard @universal-travel-er @bo0ghol @seleneacyoflove

[2004fig]

Tummy | p.sh

PAIRING: Park Seonghwa/Reader

WC: 392

CONTENT WARNINGS: NONE

"If we could live anywhere in the world, where would we live?" Seonghwa mindlessly poses the question. His eyes are unfocused, and his fingers are busy plucking at the frayed edges of your woven carpet.

Seonghwa and yourself lay on a decorative rug, soaking in the rays of light pouring through your washroom windows. The subtle humming of your laundry machine punctuates the silence that follows his question. Despite the offhandedness of his question, you take time to produce a well-crafted answer. Your mind wonders between many possibilities, yet every idea seems unworthy of breaking the serene atmosphere you've created.

"We'll find somewhere lovely for you and me, somewhere that's simple and warm," he says.

It's clear where his thoughts traveled to while you huddle close together. Seonghwa seems intent on sharing ideas about your future, and you're happy to listen quietly to his musings. His head shifts to press into the side of your neck, whisps of hair tickling the underside of your chin. Handfuls of giggles spill from your mouth as your heart swells with affection.

You carefully suggest, "We'll find a completely magical home where the garden fairies flutter by and whisper their secrets into our ears."

He hums in agreement as the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. His arm stretches to reach for your own, bringing your hand to his lips. After pressing a kiss to the tops of your knuckles, he gathers your arm at his chest.

"It'll be somewhere near a river," he adds. "We can stick our feet in the water on hot days, and the fish will nibble at our toes."

You're hesitant to disrupt the peaceful moment with your boyfriend. However, the logical part of your brain is plagued with thoughts of reality.

"Will your job allow us to live a quiet life together?" You wonder, words feeling like spiders on your tongue. "How could you move away without leaving some of yourself behind?"

Seonghwa pauses before responding. There's a thoughtful look across his face, and he presses your arm cradled to his chest against his heart.

"I don't care where I end up as long as I am with you," he concludes with a tone of finality. "If all I had was you, I would still be happy. That will always be enough for me."

[midwinterhunt]

I finally had a murderbot diaries dream

I was a defective SecUnit. A good half of my modules (including my governor module) were corrupted and failed to install. Usually this would be found and corrected during calibration in the facility that made me, but before that could happen the facility was attacked.

I was not part of the attack. I saw the chaos begin, but someone (human? bot? construct?) put me into stasis. As far as I know I was the only survivor.

When I was brought out of stasis it was by an adolescent girl and her mother. They learned what i was, that I didn't know how to fulfill my function, and they wanted to keep me anyway. They helped me write my own calibrations, helped me learn to function, and made me part of their community of family and friends. I may not be a good SecUnit, but I made my humans happy and eased their lives.

But good things don't last on the Corporate Rim.

My humans had moved to a colony planet. It was alright, it had beautiful rivers and lots of lovely nature.

It also had bounty hunters or something?

I was running errands on my own and noticed myself being followed. I began evasive maneuvers. Pretty soon I realized I was fairly well surrounded. The humans boxing me in accused me of being something called a "rogue" and said they were taking me in to turn over for money. In pieces if they had to.

I didn't have my combat module, only the self defense moves taught to me by Older Brother. This was insufficient and despite me struggling and fighting back, I was subdued and taken to their cave base with a raging river underneath a short cliff drop. I overheard their plan to sell me back to some corporation.

I still hadn't formulated a plan for my escape when I spotted my humans laying low in a boat, floating down the river toward me. If I didn't do something, they would get into danger.

So I did something.

I did not have my modules online, but I was stronger than the humans were. And only a couple were near me. So I threw my guards away and fired my energy weapons wildly around the cave to force my other captors into cover. Then I jumped down the drop into my humans' boat. I kept firing as we were swept out of the cave, and the Hostiles gave chase.

A hole was shot in our boat and we had to climb up the shore. We made it to where several land vehicles were parked and I began trying to hotwire one of them.

The Hostiles were close behind us, I did not have the experience to hijack a vehicle. I'm not sure how many projectiles I took. That didn't matter. The mother of my human family group took a projectile. She was hurt and bleeding and I couldn't think and couldn't get my humans to safety and the Hostiles were incoming and before I knew it a Hostile had a weapon pointed at my humans. I was outnumbered, and now my humans would be dead before I took out a single hostile. So I surrendered. In exchange for the freedom of my humans, I willingly gave myself up.

I don't know what will happen to me now, but I saw my humans to safety and that's all any SecUnit could ask for.

[slashervideo]

➠ New Muse Added: Benjamin McKenzie - OC

✘ stats

muse level: primary

fc: dan stevens

type: oc

age: 37

gender: cis male

pronouns: he/him

sexuality: bisexual

occupation: small town cop / former homicide detective in NYC

✘ notes

This is my grumpy man who refuses to believe in the paranormal, even though he has a history of seeing and interacting with ghosts. Below the cut is a ficlet detailing his background.

It all started when I was ten years old. The summer of 1997 in Falmouth, Massachusetts was an unusually hot one. I spent my days out of the house, playing in a creek bed that ran through a forest behind my house. That was where I met Bobby Brinley who was one year older than me. We'd meet everyday out there and play pirates, or cops and robbers. We even built a small tree fort with scrap wood we "borrowed" from my dad's garage. I liked Bobby. He was kind and outgoing. His energy never seemed to dim. We could play in that forest for hours on end until the sun went down we had to part ways for supper.

It was near the end of that summer, late at night, when my parents' voices woke me from my sleep. They were agitated. It wasn't entirely unusual for them to have quarrels now and again, but hearing my name piqued my interest. I crawled out of bed and sat on the floor by the old air vent where I could hear the echoes of their argument with perfect clarity.

"It's not normal, Susan! How can you encourage this?"

"Imaginary friends are a good sign of creativity. Besides, wouldn't you rather he be outside in the fresh air instead of rotting away on the couch all day with video games like those Kelley boys do?"

"Bobby Brinley??"

There was a feminine sigh of exasperation. "He probably heard the name on the news or something."

"You know who my imaginary friend was? Blackbeard. A man of legend and fame. Christ, he could even make someone up for all I care. But ours is the only boy who's imaginary friend is the murdered dead kid they found in the river those years ago!"

That was all I remembered of the argument before a ringing in my ears took over. I stayed up the whole night, unable to sleep as I puzzled over what that meant. When morning came, I ran out of the house so fast that I barely stopped to grab a Pop-Tart on my way. Just as I had for weeks before, I went to the spot at the creek bed to meet Bobby. Only this time, he wasn't there. I yelled his name. I waited for hours. The sun eventually got low in sky, shadows growing longer, when I realized that he wasn't coming. In fact, I'd never see Bobby Brinley again.

The experience didn't instill a belief in the supernatural. Quite the opposite. Even as a child with a wild imagination, I knew that ghosts had no place in reality. I was twelve when I was allowed to use the microfiches in the library by myself. I poured over every article I could find that mentioned Bobby Brinley. Though he was found in the river, he died of strangulation. The killer was never found. A new obsession was ignited within me. I wanted justice for my friend. I wanted justice for all the children who's lives were snuffed out too early while their killers walked free. I studied to become a cop, and eventually, I moved away from the placid little town of Falmouth and became a homicide detective in New York City.

I was damn good at my job, able to notice the small details that most people overlook. Maybe I was too good. I never settled down or married or anything like that. My life was the job, but I didn't mind it that way.

At least, not until that night last November when my very beliefs would be tested to their core.

Homicide in the big apple is no walk in the park. I see the worst of the worst, day in and day out. Things that make an Eli Roth film look like a kid's movie. Though the majority of my cases are one-off's, like petty squabbles turned deadly or mindless thievery gone wrong, every now and then a real sicko comes across my desk. I was working a serial case, trying to track the killer before he could strike again.

It was late that November night and rain pelted the windshield of my old 1970 Chrysler 300. The car was built like a tank, painted tan and chugging along down the street. There had been a phone tip about unusual activity at a particular house in a little suburban neighborhood and I wanted to do a drive by to see the place for myself. The rain made reading the addresses on the houses difficult. As I was squinting to make one out, I suddenly caught sight of the figure in the road. Slamming on the breaks, the Chrysler squealed to a stop before I could hit the girl in the street. Her hands were up and she was screaming, pleading for help. Leaning across the velvet bench seat, I unlocked the passenger side door and she quickly took the invite and hopped in. The poor girl had to be no more than twenty. She wore blue cotton shorts and a pink tank top with no shoes. She shivered as her long, brown curly hair dripped around her face.

I turned on the heat and started again down the road. "The station's not far from here. I'll get you help. You're safe now," I tried to reassure her.

"No!" she yelled. "Right! Turn right! Turn right now!"

There was such a frantic determination in her voice that I was compelled to comply. That's when I heard her mumble a number over and over. It wasn't hard to decipher that she was giving me the address. "Fifty-one fifty-two. Fifty-one fifty-two. Fifty-one fifty-two."

When I saw 5148, I knew I was close. Grabbing my radio, I called for back up, having no idea what I was walking into. Then 5152 Elm Lane came into view. The small, one story house sat dark, appearing as though it were trying to look hidden on the street. "This one?"

The girl looked right at me, opened her mouth, and let out a heart rattling scream. It startled me and I jumped slightly, but quickly composed myself. She was clearly under duress. "It's ok, it's ok. Stay in the car and lock the doors. I'll be right back, okay? Lock the doors." I grabbed my gun from the glove compartment, checked the chamber, the holstered it before getting out into the unrelenting rain. Catching her eye, I pointed at the door handles and she understood, leaning over to lock the doors of the old car. Satisfied that she was safe, I headed into the house.

"This is the police! Is anyone home?" The first thing that hit me was a wave of a putrid scent. I knew that sickening smell all too well. It was the smell of death. This was definitely the right house. "I'm armed! Come out slowly." Unnerving silence was the only reply I got.

Gun held, just as I was trained, I slowly made my way through the living room and towards the kitchen, straining my ears for any sound that didn't belong. "I repeat, this is the police and I'm ar-" A sudden movement whipped behind me before something large and heavy was brought down on my head. Knees buckled and I fell to the linoleum floor, trying to blink away the stars in my eyes. Looking up, I saw a young man standing over me, the bat in his hands raised above his head. I was startled to see how normal he looked. Clean cut, short blonde hair, jeans and a sweatshirt. But those eyes... There was nothing in those brown eyes, even as they widened to show off the whites all around the irises. They were dead eyes, and I knew they were the eyes of a killer.

The bat swung again and I felt a sharp pain in my fingers as my gun went skittering across the floor. I stared up at him, waiting for the final blow as he raised the bat once more. Instead of my skull being cracked in, I heard two gun shots. A small spray of blood hit my cheek and I looked up to see the crazed man fall to his knees, a look of disbelief written across his face as he hunched over onto the floor.

Back up had arrived in the nick of time. As the cop tended to the wounded assailant, I grabbed up my gun and got to my feet. "McKenzie!" I heard the familiar voice of my partner yell from down the hall. "Get in here! You'll wanna see this." I knew instantly that the sight that awaited me was in fact something I'd never want to see, but something I had to. Joining my partner in one of the bed rooms, I was met with a grisly sight indeed. A young girl lay sprawled across the bed, her limbs tied down. She wore blue cotton shorts and a pink tank top. Her eyes were open with the unmistakable vacant look of death in them. It was the long, curly brown hair that stood out for me.

"Jones. What about the girl in my car?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes from the body.

"What girl in your car?" Jones replied quizzically. I met her gaze and saw that my partner was speaking in earnest.

Without explanation, I hurried out of the bedroom, down the hall and out the front door of the house. In the driveway sat my 1970 Chrysler 300. Empty. But the locks on the doors were still down, showing that it had been locked from the inside.

That was the last case I worked in NYC. After packing up, I moved back to Falmouth and took a job as a cop there, hoping for a quieter life. And therapy. Oh, there was so much therapy. Because surely the problem was with my head and not actual ghosts, right?

Surely there couldn't be ghosts...

[anonsally]

Weekend in Chicago

Day 0

Unusually, I didn't feel particularly anxious about this trip, though I still slept badly the night before departure. Although I left slightly ahead of schedule, I had a long wait for BART and then a long wait for the little mini-train to my terminal at the airport, and then the line for security was longer than I expected, so I only just had time to buy food for the flight. When I arrived at my gate, my group was already boarding. Since I’m usually at the airport 2 hours before departure, this came as a bit of a shock! But once I was on the plane, it all went smoothly. Nobody was in the middle seat next to me (I had a window), and I spent the flight reading a novel. I finished it just after we landed! [separate post coming about the book]

I landed at Chicago O’Hare around 8pm. Because it was such a short trip, I hadn’t checked a bag, which is practically unheard-of for me; I was proud of packing so light! Although it’s obvious, I still felt surprised at how quickly I could leave the airport since I didn’t have to wait for checked luggage! Because it was dark (and raining a little), I took a cab to my hotel, where Best Friend had already arrived. We went up to the room to drop off my stuff, then went out for dinner. This was a hip hotel in a hip neighborhood called River North, and we were decidedly not cool enough to stay there! However, we were also old enough not to give a shit!

By then it was 9pm (7pm for my body clock though), and we were very hungry. We had thought we would just go to a little ramen shop nearby, as surely at this hour restaurants would be emptying out, but it turned out to be packed. It was Saturday night, and I guess people in Chicago are back to going out at night. We struggled to find a restaurant that could seat us, but we eventually got a table at Hub 51. Chicago is a foodie town, and we enjoyed our meal, though the portion sizes were enormous.

After that, we returned to our hotel and went to bed soon afterwards.

Day 1

We had a leisurely start before heading out to grab breakfast en route to the Art Institute of Chicago, which was the main purpose of this weekend getaway. They had an exhibition of Remedios Varo, my favorite artist, called Science Fictions. It was fabulous. If you are in or near Chicago, I think you still have a week or two to catch this before it closes! I will be posting photos. I had only seen a few of the paintings in person before, and there were more paintings than I expected, along with a bunch of sketches. As always, seeing the paintings in person brought out details I hadn’t noticed when looking at reproductions of them, and in fact, I think there were some paintings I wasn’t familiar with at all. We spent quite a while in that exhibition before moving on to look at other works in the museum, including some great Georgia O’Keeffe paintings (I loved the landscapes) and quite a few Sargents (many from early in his career), the Chagall window, the Tiffany window, some Frank Lloyd Wright-designed things, and some furniture (some of which was great and some of which was hilariously hideous). We ate a late lunch in a sheltered courtyard café in the museum and then resumed looking at art.

After the museum, we wandered through Maggie Daley Park. It was late afternoon, and I did some birdwatching while Best Friend made a couple of phone calls. I saw a palm warbler! That was a new bird for me, and I also got a good look at a fairly distinctive bird but still couldn’t identify it. I took photos, and was later able to determine that it was an ovenbird, which is also a new one for me! There were lots of white-throated sparrows (uncommon where I live) and yellow-rumped warblers, as well as some northern cardinals (which don’t exist where I live).

We ate dinner at a deep-dish pizza place, which seemed mandatory while in Chicago. It was delicious! This restaurant makes single-person pizzas, which are cute (the fork and pen below are normal-sized and included for scale). I still couldn’t finish mine, so I brought ¼ of it back to the hotel (in a cute box!) to eat for breakfast.

We then returned to the hotel to pack and wind down.

Day 2

I had set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 6:45am, not because either of us had an early flight (we didn’t), but because we wanted to do something fun before heading to the airport. So we checked out of our hotel at 8:30, left our luggage, and took the metro (well, the el) to the 606, a repurposed elevated rail line that is now a sort of park/trail for bikes and pedestrians. Best Friend admired the architecture of the neighborhoods we were walking through, while I did some birdwatching. We then walked through Humboldt Park (more birdwatching, the highlights of which were a golden-crowned kinglet, wood ducks, lots of white-throated sparrows, and more northern cardinals, though there were also about 60 Canada geese, which was slightly terrifying!).

On our way back to the el, we stopped at Typica Café, which turned out to be Venezuelan. Best Friend had to attend a Zoom meeting for a half hour. I ate a delicious guava-cheese puff pastry, which is apparently a Venezuelan thing and which I highly recommend if you get the opportunity to have one! The hot chocolate was also exceptionally good; it was made using Venezuelan cocoa and, I think, a tiny bit of caramel syrup. It was excellent; not too sweet.

We then walked to the el and rode back to our hotel, picked up our luggage, walked to the pizza place so Best Friend could bring two frozen pizzas back for her husband and son, and then rode the el to the airport. We had gotten day passes for the Chicago el, which were a steal at $5.

At the airport we hugged goodbye as we were on different airlines. Going through security was fine, and I got to walk through the colored light underpass that is the only good thing at O'Hare. I bought snacks to eat on the plane. Boarding was a bit of a fiasco (they started boarding group 3 before group 2 for some reason) and very inefficient, but as we all reminded each other and ourselves, the only thing that really mattered was getting to our destination safely and approximately on time.

The flight itself was full and slightly delayed but fairly uneventful, and I got home via BART within 1.5 hours of landing. Yay! Although it was frankly bananas to fly halfway across the country for a 2-night stay, I feel very refreshed and energized by it and am glad I went, and particularly glad that Best Friend joined me. She's a great travel companion (despite her snoring), and I think it's the first trip we've taken together since she had her son nearly 13 (Edit: 14!) years ago.

I plan to post some photos from the trip. (I realise I didn't manage to do that after the Europe trip this summer, but this was only 2 days so it should be more manageable!)

[catysharksstuff]

Culting

Serendipitously, Struthless' C- week also tackles the subject of cults. (And this is highly recommended viewing but not essential for the reading of my latest dissertation) Cult vs Start Up: Can you spot the difference

He makes a good argument, lots of meaty stuff to contemplate, and delivers the message compassionately. I would agree with everything he's said and so I won't take up any of that here, other than to reflect on one aspect he also raised: "why people join cults in the first place".

From 2013 (ish) to 2016 (ish), I was part of a cult (although, of course, it wasn't referenced as such; it was just called "the group" or, sometimes and more affectedly, "the college" ). This cult has some notoriety, particularly now as its leader has been charged with the usual banal and grotesque range of sexual infractions. To be clear: I very much think he committed all that he is charged with and I hope justice is served.

I wasn’t near this stuff, I was never in “the inner circle” (there’s always an inner circle), and I had the good fortune to come to Culting after already having long-established myself in the city. This was not the same for the vast majority of the rest. These were (are) people who had traveled a long way to “be with him” - across the country, across the continent, across the world’s oceans. There were people there from Germany, Israel, Australia, Japan, India, and elsewhere. People left careers, families, friends, lives to move to a very parochial city in the middle of almost nowhere - just to “be near him”.

And, like so many others who join cults, they were more-or-less like any other group of people. Some very intelligent, thoughtful, knowledgeable, worldly. Some bat shit crazy. Some just boring and insipid. They were pretty typical of any bunch of people, except for this one thing - four times a week they would take themselves to a purpose-built hall in the middle of an industrial park where they would sit, wait for this guy to sit on a seat on a stage, get super still, and then watch him for two…three…sometimes four hours at a session. Two people would sit in special chairs in front of him, stare at him while he stared back, and ask him questions. Sometimes, that is. Other times they would just stare. For eight to sixteen hours a week. One hundred, two hundred, sometimes even more than that during “seminars”, where these sessions would be held twice a day for one or two weeks at a stretch. Sitting, starring, speaking very slowly and being, as they (…as we…as I…) termed it: “in the deep”.

*

So what is this entry about, this Week Three Letter C week? Why am I writing about cults?

The unifying theme of this - my Alphabet Superset exercise - is “meaning”. What gives meaning to a life? Specifically, what gives meaning to my life? Why do I live? What’s the fucking point of it all?

Now, before you recoil in horror - or roll your eyes, or rush to explain how you don’t bother thinking about such things…don’t trouble yourself. I get it. I get that many, many people don’t think about this. My husband is one. My best friend is another. Probably most of you are. It’s just - simply - I am. I think about this, and I have thought about this for as long as I have had conscious thought. I don’t know why that is - could be my upbringing, could be my wiring, could just be something I’ve been alternately blessed or cursed with from whatever version of the almighty you subscribe to. It doesn’t actually matter why I find myself questioning “why”; only that I do. In order for me to live a semblance of a normal life…in order for me to move through the darkest times and enjoy the lightest times and make sense of it all….in order that I am not constantly thinking about crossing the rubicon of the grand river styx - I need (needed?) to understand, for myself, why I exist in the sense I do, in the form I do, with this body and this mind and this life in this world, with this community around me. Why?

And I’m not going to get into depth here (not today any way) about what I’ve learned, or what conclusions I’ve drawn to that end. It’s just necessary, for this story to make sense, that you understand that about me. Because that is what led me to go to these sessions for almost three years. That’s what led me to join a cult.

There are other threads to the beginnings of the tapestry: being diagnosed with a chronic, life altering condition at the age of 12; being close to losing consciousness on multiple occasions; going to Asia at age 17 and learning about buddhism; becoming interested in the transcendentalists; living a transitory, nomadic existence made up of passing connections to many places and many people; moving from one to the next without forming firm, strong bonds to anywhere or anyone; alcohol abuse; sexual assault; that old friend depression; running away to another country; a short ill-advised marriage; a longer, emotionally and financially abusive relationship; escape and freedom from that - and all against this backdrop of a deep, dark, silent yearning to understand why

So I got to this city and I met a guy. And that guy opened a doorway to why. He turned on a light. That guy showed me the beginning of a path to transcendence and freedom and way to having nothing, NOTHING but merging, being, drowning, becoming love.

It was a fucking drug. He was a fucking drug. In that drug-high, I lost whatever pieces of myself remained after leaving one life (centred in the abusive relationship) and reformed my new life as an absolute addict. And, just like any drug story - when he inevitably pulled back and pulled away, I was a ravenous junkie who could not exist without my fix. That stuff is another story completely. It’s not the point here. The point here is THAT was the final spark that lit the tinder that had been accumulating for years and years. Whatever that drug was - whatever that relationship was - it brought me closer to understanding myself, and Meaning, and the Big Why - than anything I had theretofore experienced. It was like my aching met with the idea of an answer and all I wanted was more.

To be clear - that guy was not “the Cult Leader”. And, in some ways, I think that is what saved me from the most of the destruction the Cult Leader has wrought. Other people, good people who have left and who speak about their experiences now, have described what brought them into the fold; and their experiences are so, so similar to mine. The difference is that they had "that" with the Cult Leader. They experienced a total immersion, a total understanding, light, peace, in his presence. I never did. Or, at least, what I did experience when I eventually started going to the sessions was a reconnection with the phenomenon of being with the guy, but much less powerful, much less all-consuming, and, along with that, a useful kind of recognition that it was coming from me, not coming from the Cult Leader.

I met the guy - the guy unlocked something profound in me, and over time, he left. During the time we were together, however, I started to hoover up everything I could get my hands on to help explain what was happening to me. I read so many texts, attended many workshops, drew unsuspecting strangers into intense existential discussion. And I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. When he left, that bit remained. The serious, dedicated, searching for more. And since he had told me he had come here, to this city, to be part of this group, to follow this teacher, I wanted to go too. He said: no, too much, too complicated. In truth, he just didn't want to deal with the fall out of mixing me into that community. But then he got tired of all of us and just…melted away for a bit. And so, with my dealer gone, and a growing understanding of the depth and vastness of the story of “searchers”, I said an internal "fuck it" and went along by myself.

*

So that is how I came to culting. It was a place to go: a safe….understanding….accepting place to take my own searching and the weirdness it was engendering in me. I got to be held by a community of people, on their own individual search, as I unpacked and examined what I was seeing, what was being revealed to me about "me". And I needed that. I was going through something incredibly intense and frightening. I was stripping back everything I had assumed about myself, and my life, and my world. Nothing was secure. Nothing was stable. I was hovering with my foot above wobbly stones, afraid to put my weight on each, unsure whether they would bear me and hold me up, or if they - too - would fall away and leave me slipping into a dark, black, river of nothing.

It’s a strange thing to try to convey what this was like. It was black and white, darkness and light, hellish and heavenly. It was heavy, dank, oppressive in one turn; and soft, light, joyful, in the next. And in the cult, I found a space and a community to take care of me as I was in it. What happened during those sessions (setting aside the words and “the teachings” and all the stuff that also happened) was like a state of incredibly intense focus. Other people who were in the room describe it in various ways, and it seemed to show up for everyone a bit differently. For me, words are a challenge. I find that they're inadequate descriptors. But what I can say is that the closest I have been to it outside of that room was during one meditation session in a ten-day silent meditation retreat I took quite a number of years ago. It was a similar experience, but not the same. Not as “deep” feeling. And not as intense. I can’t really do it any more justice than to say that whatever happened to me in that room for those two or three hours was intense and it was unique. It was “something”..

Now, though - reflecting back - I don’t know if it was a good something or an evil something or an "honestly nothing particularly poignant at all" something. It was what was happening to me, though, and I was there for it, usually four times a week, for almost three years.

*

And then... I wasn’t.

A lot of circumstances led to my quitting - or at least were occurring up to and around the time I quit. But my moment of absolute clarity came when, as I was sitting as usual in the room while the usual starring and questing were going on, I had this searing realization: this is absolute bullshit. And what arrived for me, in that moment, was this sudden understanding that all of the goings on related to this thing: the group, the hierarchy, the leader, the people, the “teaching”, the discourse, the room itself, the scandals, the past and present dramas, were all complete bullshit. And that I had everything I needed to move forward with living my life without it.

And so I walked out of that room. And I haven’t gone back.

*

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

[neurospicy-diaries]

How I realized I am autistic

So, let's get started with a fun one! It's also long, so brace yourself.

It was two years ago and the catalyst event that caused the lighting strike scared the shit out of everybody, except me (and my mum and sister).

It all starts with a snake.

It was the end of August, I was back from vacation, bored and lonely. Luckily a friend of mine was back too. I begged her to see each other in the evening and up we went to the park near my apartment.

It's a nice park, well kept. Surprisingly my city has very nice parks and this one it's quite historical too. It's my favorite and in the 17 years I lived in this city I firmly refused to even consider moving away from the it and the river (which, in retrospect, was a clear indicator too).

The evening was not too hot and we were on the condos side of the boulevard, on our left the park and the busy car lanes. In front of us, like 20 meters, a group of adults and children were gathered around something. I understood immediately what was going on.

-----------------

Back story!

That was the first very hot summer for us. Being in the north of the country we always "enjoyed" not so hot summers (compared to the central and southern regions at least, not the summers of my youth; lets just say that till that summer fans were enough to keep us cool during the day). Very hot weather causes lots of things, specifically it causes things to get out from their usual spots because now they're too hot and they're searching for relief outside (where they usually don't venture in). Two months before two of these things did exactly that, in the center of the city, in a third floor apartment, scaring the shit out of the humans: they were two grass snakes. Very harmless of course, but fully grow and this is the big city. The media had two field weeks. As a mountain girl I was very annoyed.

End of back story!!

-----------------

As I was saying, I understood immediately what was going on: another poor snake got out searching for relief and found itself with wall at its back and a dozen of humans all around. The snake was small and it kicked in me a double protective instinct: not only it was a poor defenseless snake, it was a baby snake! I had to save it!

I activated my (quite arrogant I must say) mountain personality and entered the circle. One the men told me they weren't sure if it was a viper or not but come on! We're in the big city, vipers don't live here, so of course it wasn't!

That's when one the of the many educational holes my parents left me with manifested itself: they never taught me how to catch a snake. I'll give you a hint: you don't do it like lizards, which is exactly what I did.

The snake, in all its right, bit me and that's when I realized the mistake of my hubris: it was a viper alright. If the two fangs bite wasn't enough to confirm it, the vertical pupils were just the icing on the cake.

Despite this, not only I did not disclose the truth to the audience but I assured them it was just a normal snake bite (because I didn't want another social media storm about snakes in the city).

So, while my friend was panicking (because she's not a city girl either and immediately caught on the truth) I calmly kept reaching the park while thinking of a place to dispose of the very damn cute viper. I also gave my phone to her so she could photograph it and send it to my mom that, in 5 mins, was able to reach a friend to confirm that yeah, it was a viper. I reached the river bank (it's a big river) and decided the snake could take a swim, cause I needed to go to the ER (snakes can swim). I was able to launch it in the water and off we went to phone the emergency line.

Everything that happened after that was very funny.

(Like, literally, for me at least).

First, the operator couldn't input the address we were at for the ambulance, because I was inside the park, not in an actually street with a name and number of the buildings, so we had to go to the edge of it under a very well known city landmark. It took us like 15 mins to rendezvous. Once on the ambulance, we actually had to wait another 15 mins because they didn't know to which hospital send me. I mean, fair, it's not everyday that in a metropolis people get bitten by a viper. At the ER, it took another 15-20 mins to actually being admitted because the doctor didn't believe it could be a viper (again, fair; 1 million people city in the plains!!) and made me send the pictures of the baby to the Poison Control Center. After a while they confirmed it: not only was a viper, it was an aspis!!

My inner Egypt enthusiast child was over the moon (while my friend was outside on the verge of a panic attack and was sharing it with everyone we know. Still today I can't hear the end of it from them, while I'm very peachy and actually excited from the experience).

So I got admitted in the ER trauma department, which is the one were all urgent patients comes in and then back after surgery to be monitored. A couple of things about this department: they rarely get conscious people and when they get them back they're never conscious. I was and I remained it for all my permanence (except when I fell asleep of course).

What does that mean? So much hilarity for me.

They weren't prepare to a patient that was able to:

move

listen

talk back

needed to go to the bathroom (thus to be disconnected/reconnected from everything)

eat

I had to remind them at dinner time and breakfast that I had regular needs. It did catch them by surprise both times.

During the first assessment (in which the nurses were a bit taken aback by my chilliness) I received the visits of two police women (because a viper is serious business and they have to keep track of this thing) that were assured I did it for the kids (it's the official reason written in the report so nobody snitches on me, ok?!?!) and the first batch of curios personnel that wanted to see the woman bitten by a viper in the center of the city (yes, I was a hospital celebrity for two days!). More would have follow till the next evening (only curios people, not policemen).

I got to ear experienced doctors and nurses racking their brains on manuals that they probably never opened before to search for a procedure they never thought they would have to follow, discussing which medications I needed (anti venom is not used anymore except if you're about to die!) and reporting hourly with the PCC to gave them my status. I also got to be annoyed as fuck in the night by the constant beeps of the machines when they disconnected patients to move them (because sedated people don't complain about the noise and awake people need to hear them).

One of the first times they came to check on me I answered before they could ask their question (door wasn't completely closed nor very sound proof) and it was hilarious to see their face. But they got their kicks back because I fully felt the epinephrine entering my system (NOT FUN).

Next day after breakfast they moved me to the emergency department. It's where patients with sever complications stays but even in that department I was an anomaly because:

I could move without help

I would move often

I rarely napped and I needed my phone charged to not get too bored

One of the nurses got a little startled when I got out of the bathroom one time (I also heard several: "Why are you in this department? You're fine!!").

I also probably lowered the average age of all the patients because mostly only old people get sent there.

Let's keep going.

Despite the beds being the most amazing beds ever (I got two fabulous night of sleep, I'm not exaggerating when I say I felt like I was on holiday again) I was bored and still lonely. People came and went to hear about the viper bite, a friend of mine that works there came too, but nobody could stay long (also, covid procedures were not fully lifted yet, so no visitors), that's why when the hospital chaplain came for his daily rounds I refused the prayer but happily talked to him (I'm an atheist and quite anti-religious).

Last parenthesis: this is Italy and the chaplain was from Tuscany. If you don't know, the Italian language owns its origins to Tuscans and Dante is considered the first one to have written a complex work in vulgar Italian. Still today Tuscan regularly talk with terms that feel out of use in the rest of the country and a quite precise phrase construction (and choice of words). It's one the reason I like them.

So, we were chatting and I told him my tale, he was perplexed as anyone else of course and said these exact (translated) words: "That's weird, because a viper it's quite easy to spot, it has a rhomboid head..." and I stopped hearing anything else.

In that moment I was John Belushi finally seeing the light and the light was: fuck, I do process information differently.

As I mentioned I come from the mountains and vipers are not uncommon up there (despite me never seeing one till the evening before). Of course they explained to me till the nausea how to distinguish a grass snake from a viper: the first one has a round head, the second one has the tip of its head triangular.

However, I never understood it, never, because my brain always figuratively translated the description like this:

and no amount of repetitions changed that. It was no surprise that I got bitten after all (when I told my sister, she upped the ante saying "Well of course, you have grass snake when you can't see where the head stops and the tail starts, with the viper you do". Thank you sis for sharing this after I got bitten).

The moment the chaplain said "rhomboid" everything fell into place.

I was autistic.

And you people on this hell site had a huge part on it.

You were sharing more and more about your experiences, quirks, feelings and behaviors and I was relating. But I always said to myself: "Look at that! apparently anxiety, depression and social trauma causes to have some things in commons with neuro-divergent people".

That was quite the shoe that dropped: I was one of you!

I wasn't clueless, I wasn't literally able to understand and process social clues and settings without somebody translating it for me. I wasn't easily offended, I had tantrums because of overwhelming social stimuli, constant breaking of routines (mine and the established work ones), trying to conform by going way over my comfort zone daily, allowing the crossing of my boundaries, not protecting me from excessive stimuli, etc. I wasn't easily tired, my brain had regular-person.exe and compare-situation-with-past-ones.exe always running in the background.

It was a relief.

I was not stupid, I was autistic.

I was not socially handicapped, I was autistic.

I was not fragile or neurotic, I was autistic in a world that catered only to neuro-typicals.

In the next weeks I found and took some neurodivergent tests online, talked to my analyst and family doctor and started the process to be diagnosed with our NHS.

I was about to turn 38.

Today I'm a week shy of turning 40, I have a public assigned autism therapist, earplugs for noisy social settings and stopped several masking behaviors. I express any discomfort when I have it to my friends and I ration my energy carefully.

I'm autistic and it's ok.

And everyone knows.

Except my mother.

Nobody tells my mother!!

----------------------

SNAKE PICTURE HERE

And here's the aspis!! (And the bite on my right middle finger)

[marjaystuff]

Guest Review: Gathering Mist by Margaret Mizushima

Timber Creek K-9 Mystery Book 9

Crooked Lane Books

October 8th, 2024

Gathering Mist by Margaret Mizushima uses the setting of the Pacific Northwest to create a suspenseful story. 

“The idea for the story came from the cover.  This was going to be the cover for book 8, but I realized it would not work. The setting for that book was in Colorado, but the cover was the Pacific Northwest. My husband and I had just moved to Washington State. Because I saved the cover, I decided to write a story surrounding it.”

The setting had a dense forest, chilling rain, a heavy mist, and a rugged terrain. There is also an interesting aspect where the working dog, Robo, was not just a search and rescue dog but also a K-9 officer who had skills that SAR dogs usually do not have.

In the plot, Deputy Mattie Wray and her K-9 partner, the German shepherd Robo, are summoned from Timber Creek, Colorado, to Washington state for an ultrasensitive search-and-rescue mission. With only a week left before her wedding, Mattie is hesitant to leave Timber Creek, but her K-9 partner Robo’s tracking skills are needed, so she decides to go. 

“In Timber Creek time it has been about eighteen months since Mattie and Cole had met each other. In the beginning Mattie was remote, withdrawn, and did not trust others, and did not have many friends. When it comes to her work, she is a perfectionist and she has a great sense of justice, right and wrong.  She is all business when it comes to her work. But she has fallen in love with Cole’s two girls before she has fallen in love with him.  She is very tender hearted when it comes to family and children. Her goal is to have a family. By marring Cole, she can have children and a family, which occurs in the last chapter of this book.”

River Allen, the 9-year-old son of actress Chrystal Winter, has wandered away from the movie set where his mother is filming a new movie. The search for him takes place in the region east of Olympic National Park. 

After one of the SAR dogs becomes ill, Mattie’s fiancé, Cole Walker, suspects poison. Fearing for Mattie’s and Robo’s safety, Cole joins the search and rescue team as veterinary support. Mattie now suspects something more sinister than a lost child is at play. Plus, after Robo finds two children’s graves the searchers realize something more dangerous may have happened and the question is what really happened to River.

“I had training in search and rescue a few years ago. I was motivated to have trained dogs to find our children had they ever got lost. We lived near the mountains. I really wanted to write a search and rescue story.  I decided to take Mattie and Robo to a new territory and with an unfamiliar environment. Hunting dogs are bred to pick up the smell of the birds from the air. When we were in search and rescue training, I observed different dogs that could track through the scent in the air. It is interesting to watch dogs track in two different ways, either nose to the ground or nose to the air. I wrote how Robo could do both.  I based it on one of our dogs, Ilsa, a Rottweiler. Robo’s qualities besides search and rescue include sensing children’s distress, backtracking, smell children’s unique odor, can smell a fugitive based on their fear and stress that they give off, and is trained to only listen to Mattie when working. He is also very protective of Mattie but is very well socialized with children.”

The next book will also have a sinister plot. It will come out in the Fall 2025.  The setting is back in Colorado. The plot has a close friend of Cole and Mattie dying with something sinister at play.

This plot is very interesting, engaging, and intense. The red herrings, twists and a shocking ending makes for a wonderful read. 

[halcyon-digest]

2023

Art Klaudt: Getting married

Anonymous 1: stressed and excited about travel outside the country

ava: getting into the band the mars volta

kate: In 2023 my partner moved to a town further from the city for work. In September of that year I decided to move in with him. My apartment for the past couple years before that was my favorite one. It had been only a couple blocks from his mom's house (where he had lived), it was a cheap (for the location) little one bedroom with a fire escape we could sit outside on and nice sunny windows for growing plants. I loved it, it was "my" place. The fact that I had to leave was devastating, and especially because I was leaving it for a shitty little town with no gym or movie theater or good restaurants where nothing was happening and the apartment was bare and ugly with gross green carpet and a nasty bathroom, and not even a tub to soak in. To top it all off, for months I had been looking for a different apartment near the train station that we would both move into so he could move out of the shitty one and I could still get to work downtown. I was doing this essentially alone because he was too focused on work to help. He was too focused on work to help me pack or organize the move, and I had almost signed a lease for a place twice the price when he told me to back out of it because of the smoking/vaping clauses in the lease. It sounds terrible, I know. I'm not making him sound very good, and I was extremely angry at the time, but looking back it was the right thing. We would've been able to afford it but only just barely, and it would've been less space honestly.

Anonymous 2: walking back to the train after a concert. in a lot of pain in my joints but very pleased. meeting someone while waiting for the train back across the river who had also just come from the concert and realizing that we had spoken a  few months prior on a dating app

Lucas: Meeting my friend collin prison

Anonymous 3: Throwing up in a dead-end alley between two businesses next to the yard that contained the bins and dumpsters belonging to the restaurant I was working in, mid-way through an evening shift, at Christmas time, because it was so busy and stressful during the shift, and I'd eaten a really big and very dry sandwich really fast on my break and it had got kind of lodged in my chest, so the cause of being sick was both the sandwich and also the stress, and my sick landing on the scrappy weeds that were still growing in that sheltered place even though it was December, and having to go back into work and work the rest of the shift with the acid flavour of sick in my mouth and my throat hurting.

Anonymous 4: The beginning of my first long-term relationship

Anonymous 5: Starting the job I currently have

superswag: date with someone, incel phase

v0w0v: Chainsmoking while drunk in the alleyway outside of my studio apartment. I was one of the only smokers who went outside to do it, and in order to stay away from the ventilation system for the building I would sit on the pavement between the cars parked there, startling dog walkers and passers-by. Once someone asked me to move so he could park his car, and because I was so starved for human contact I rode the high of him smiling at me for the rest of the day. It was a lonely year. Many things got worse.

Anonymous 6: Having a catastrophic psychedelic trip and feeling a guitar riff ring in my head as I met every partner past present in future lie beside me and then vanish into water while I tried to hold them. Deciding I didn't love someone anymore the next day and resolving to stay sober.

Anonymous 7: getting glasses for the first time and seeing trees.

binnie: Emma visiting me in New Jersey, my dad paying for us to stay at airbnbs in Jersey City and New York...Going to the

Anonymous 8: My university graduation and becoming a teacher

April M. Mildew: It's late in the year. I am in a discord call with close friends. It is nice. I am streaming my first playthrough of Portal 2. I have been doing this for a few days now. Discord calls with friends. It has been nice. For a while the days had been too fast and this has been slowing it down. I pray this will last. It does not. Things fall apart, such is life. also for a brief time during this year a friend invited me to a discord server run by the person running this survey. And I saw a bunch of other people who I remembered from years ago on other places on the internet. I realized I had remembered seeing links to that server being posted on tumblr years ago and I was too scared to click on them. The world is very small. It's actually very big, just parts of the internet are small. This does not really belong on this survey.

[planetsnakes]

I went outside. There's 13 paragraphs about going outside

Today it was raining. Not as rainy as it could be and I havent managed to leave the house in two days thanks to my own pains. So I decided to go on a walk.

I wrapped up in a couple of layers wearing my slightly waterproof shoes, a really good waterproof coat, my cap that keeps rain off my glasses and an umbrella.

The university issued a public thanks to the area yesterday saying thank you to residents to being paitent with all the students moving in. They were right to. Everywhere there's people walking up and down with boxes, suitcases & the roads are very full of cars. It took ages to get across all the roads.

I went to my local tesco because they sell sushi and I like sushi :3 but alas all the stupid students moving in (like me I am a stupid student) brought all the ready meals. So I went to Greggs and got a sausage roll and belgum bun.

Then I walked until I was away from all the students moving and took off my headphones. There's an amazing park with castle ruins near me and it reminds me of the area I grew up. I ate my food while watching a pigeon. If I take my eyes off it the bird will steal my food it's happened before.

The rain was really pelting it down as I moved to walk along the river. The only people out now are dogwalkers. I sit on bench, positioning the umbrella over me to read fanfiction and watch a group of swans as they lazily mill about.

The dogs all came up to me to say hi. I think they love the rain cuz they all seemed exited. I kinda wanted to stroke them but you should never stroke an animal without the owners permission and I dont like talking to stragers so I don't.

One of the dogs was I thhink a bulldog with eyes that kind of looked golden. We really want a dog. We used to want a black labrador and we'd call them Bluebell but now we're thinking of starting with a smaller dog. As soon as we know where we're living for the next few years.

The air smelt amazing and away from all the cars there was nothing to aggrivate our sensory issues so we sat there and just took the world in. The sky that never stops going on forever, promising to hold beauty, to show me something more, the lazy sawns gliding in circles unbothered by the current and the occasional og rushing past me with no cares.

We feel so much emotion all the time but we felt at peace then.

Following some winding backalleys home we bumped into more and more students, all who seemed to want to go out clubbing. At 4pm. In the rain... It's definately similar to our first year before that money went to cooler things like coffee and replacing everything that broke.

For the fifty millionth time we think about calling our ex who showed us around this town when we were new and took us out clubbing at 4pm in the torrential rain. We don't because it was a trainwreck and we didn't get on great sober. It was nice being new though. I really hope everyone who comes here experiances that same joy.

Then I get home and all the fucking fucks come back to me. I stare mornfully at my clothes that just wont dry after going through the broken washing machine and call my mum.

Then I hang up, open tumblr and realise I forgot to touch the grass. Sorry guys.

[spaciousreasoning]

Walking for Health

My blood sugar remained at 162 for the second day, despite indulging yesterday in an ice cream bar after lunch and a pre-dinner bite of the birthday pie, which is slowly disappearing.

After our coffee and brain games, Nancy and I went out to take some steps. Our morning walk repeated some of what my earlier stroll along 66th Street did: all the way to the north end, then back and into the Wallace M. Ruff Jr. Memorial Park, around the magnolia garden area, out via a path into the neighborhood just north of Thornton, and home.

I discovered an app on my phone that I had forgotten about, and it mapped and timed us and measured the distance. It even estimated the number of calories burned. The distance was 2.3 miles, with about 5,500 steps. We were gone an hour, but we were not walking constantly. The calories burned estimate was 336.

The most recent entries in the app were from October 2015 and included some walks (2.6 miles) and some bike rides (3.8 miles). They were mostly along the Rillito River Loop near where we lived in Tucson. Other entries went all the way back to November 2014. That was not long after I had been in the hospital due to my bout of diabetic ketoacidosis, so I was trying to stay healthy. Sadly, the “workouts” continued for less than one year.

While my addiction to sugar has continued to trouble me, I have been fortunate to maintain my recovery without any slips involving drugs or alcohol. It truly seems that the moment I realized I was addicted a switch was flipped and I have never been tempted since then. I wish avoiding sugar had been as simple.

Nancy and I moved a few things around in the cat/study, the second bedroom where my computer and desk shares space with the all the cat supplies, litter box, and Grace’s little cave to which she escapes when things annoy her, which is quite often. We swapped two shelving units so Nancy can store her art supplies in a more open manner, while the tall, narrow bookshelf is now used mostly for books. And there is still a little room that might be used for an electronic keyboard that will substitute for her piano that is now long gone.

A new shirt I ordered arrived in the mail today, just in time to wear it out this evening to the Springfield Block Party. We met Kathleen and Ronin and another friend at their place near 8th Street and Centennial just before 6 p.m. and then walked downtown, about 1.6 miles round trip. Of course there was more walking while there, so it was nice to have the app back in play.

There could have been a lot more walking, but it was still warm and it was crowded and noisy and seemingly disorganized, so Nancy and I headed back before long, with only another half mile beyond the walk there and back.

We then went to Costco to fill up the tank for our Saturday adventure to the coast, and, finally, had dinner at Don Juan’s on River Road. It wasn’t the best Mexican food, but it was better than the last two places we tried.

When we reached home, we watched Colbert and then another episode of “HPI,” the French police series about the cleaning lady who helps solve crimes.

[bike42]

Thursday January 11, 2024

Up early for our excursion to Corcovado National Park, with our 4 new friends from the UK (2 originally Irish, one Scot, and one Brit). We had breakfast and met our guide, Tony. Then down to the boat for about a 30 minute ride to the park, with sea a little rougher today, but not too bad.

Tony is extremely knowledgeable and we started with driving up the river a bit, and he pointed out many species of birds, faster than I could record them. We’d heard a bit about Tony from Fernando last night, they’d been out birding together that evening. We stopped at an island just outside the park where Tony told us about the brown footed boobies. They came from somewhere in South America to nest here, and had a fuzzy white baby chick with them.

Landing was a little more exciting with the surf up, but the boat pilot navigated it well and timed it perfectly. We’d been instructed to wear closed toed shoes while hiking in the park, so Jeff and I took off our shoes and jumped in barefoot. We were met by an officer, not terribly friendly, not terribly friendly. It was her job to inspect our backpacks to ensure we weren’t bringing in any disposable plastic bottles.

Tony was a fantastic guide for the park. He told me in the early 1980s he had his first opportunity to come to the United States. They took a bus tour from Washington DC to Tucson Arizona. In Tucson, he lived with the family for eight months. The trip was funded by several central American governments for them to learn farming practices and bring what they learned back to Costa Rica. Tony said he was 24 years old before he ever heard anybody speak English, so going to the United States was a crash course for him. Tony grew up in the area near what is now this national park. It was amazing to hear him describe how he worked with his grandfather when he was a child to take down trees in the rainforest and burn them, then level the fields to plant rice, beans and bananas, and have space for cattle. The area he walked us through first had been the farm, and he pointed out the new growth of the rainforest only about 45 years old, and lots of remnants of banana trees.

The sign said to stay on the path, but that didn’t apply to Tony, apparently. He had on knee-high rubber boots, and he would call for a bird, listen for a reply, and then go trapsing into the jungle expecting us to follow him - a bit out of my comfort zone of course. We were able to see about a half dozen different kinds of birds. I didn’t retain all the names, nor did I really get photos. He also found several hiding places of bats, and we disturbed a few of them and they flew off in a huff. It was very hot, and very humid with no breeze. Jeff and I both felt ourselves getting lightheaded.

Soon, we looped around and went back to the pavilion where we had a snack and freshened our water bottles, and had another shot at the bano, then we went across the river to the area of the old growth rain forest. By then other groups were starting to arrive, and I think Tony led us on the loop backwards from the way most people do it, because we didn’t encounter many groups until we were walking out of the forest . Tony let us down to the beach as we heard the Scarlet macaw in the trees down there. It was fantastic to stand on the beach and watch three macaws feeding on some kind of nut. Jeff and I had watched Mackay on the beach a few days ago With similar behavior pattern. Tony said the macaw beak cracks the nut with 100 pounds of pressure. Whoa, keep your fingers away! They flew off together and it was simply majestic!

Back in the forest, Tony had us stay on the main path while he went down a side path. He was looking for a sloth that had been there a few days ago, but the sloth had moved? We Trudged on, and soon we came upon several families of Coati, several moms with lots of little babies. They were adorable to watch. Tony had a lot to tell us about who in the jungle is prey, and who’s predator, up and down the chain. The Coati eat crocodile eggs and I can’t remember what kind of animal feeds on the Coati.

Back to the ranger station, and our boat arrived about noon. On our way back to Aguila, we stopped at a beach I recognized as San Josecito (love how familiar we are with the area now), and picked up the boys from last night’s band. Looking forward to another show tonight.

We had another delicious lunch, sat with two ladies from the UK. They live in London and on the Isle of Skye. Charlotte is a landscape designer with work all over the UK and Scandinavia - cool! After lunch, I retreated to the hammock. Scrolled through email, read a bit and napped until it was time to shower and head down to Happy Hour. While I was in the shower, it started raining outside - heavy rain. We grabbed our large umbrellas and headed down to the Jungle Bar, enjoying the rain - the smell, the noise and the moisture in the air!

We played a couple of games of cribbage and chatted with some others. G&T was mighty refreshing, but I just couldn’t eat much of the tuna tartare appetizer tonight!

7pm dinner bell, and the music started right on cue. We met some new arrivals, but didn’t chat a lot as the music was the show again! Just after dessert was served, it started raining again really hard, and blew into the first layer of the restaurant! The band moved a bit more towards to the center of the room, as did most of us! And then we lost power. There was an emergency flood light over the desk, giving us a bit of light, and the singer’s amp was battery operated, as he kept singing even though the accompanying keyboard had stopped. It was awesome!! Fernando called it “Jungle Charm” and I can’t think of a better term. The power came on after about 15 minutes, and most of us took advantage of that to head back to our rooms. I heard the next day that the band kept playing … wish we’d have stayed!

[tomsquitieri]

“You Know The Conflagration That Will Come”

The Press Club bar closes early now, to the regret of many of the dwindling number of old timers. The younger members were full of energy as they dashed out to begin a weekend of holiday parties. The bar emptied as quickly as if it were 40 years ago and a hot story just broke.

I thought I would sneak out and go down the hall and maybe pretend to find the once-hidden 24/7 poker room. No such luck. The efficient staff was already cleaning up and making sure all were leaving; they also had parties to burst forth later.

So I did what comes naturally on a dark windy evening in downtown DC. Walking though the streets of our beautiful Capitol, remembering the history made — shivering from both the Potomac River wind and the visions of what I sensed was coming.

As often the case, I rambled toward the monuments and wound up near my namesake, Thomas, at his memorial near the river. My hope was he may offer up wisdom to my tiring eyes and my shaking soul.

Across the river the Pentagon stood in subdued light, looking like a fortress from the outside. Yet I knew better. Even there, the system was crumbling and false words tried to make everyone sound brave and smart. No doubt they were patting themselves on the backs for their new promotions and laughing smugly about how they evade reporters’ questions.

“You wrote something before, Mr. Jefferson. Several things actually to pull together an unruly bunch into one voice. Please do it again,” I said to his stoic statue. He merely looked forward, out at the Tidal Basin.

“He is not going to answer you,” said a faint voice from behind me. “Even they are unsure what to say.”

I turned to see the Old Geezer, moving slowly, his eyes sunken and his breathing halting as he slowly walked up, paused, and sat on the marble steps.

“That is my fear also, Old Geezer. That the wolves that sit outside the house of democracy finally have the key and they have determined how to guide the sheep to dinner,” I said.

The Old Geezer finally made it to the top of the steps. I had not seen him for a few years, years that had taken a toll on the country and on most of us. He seemed shorter this year, more bent over but his smile reappeared as he pulled an old flask from his pocket.

“Isn’t fun to still break national park regulations,” he said as he took a taste, then handed me the metal container. I took a sip and recognized what I thought was a long lost elixir — moonshine from the hills of western Pennsylvania.

It warmed my body and at least for the moment my spirits.

“That taste reminds of days when politicians were not a threat to democracy, when reporters were not targets all over the world, where challenges always eventually met with teamwork,” I said.

The Old Geezer sniffed and wiped my mouth with a handkerchief. “Those days are in a hibernation that extends long past the natural winter, Tomaso,” he said.

“Everyone hoped — and that is the word hoped — that 2023 would be ‘normal’ again,” I said. “Well, it is, but not the normal they expected or wanted. It’s the normal where the bad guys wear the badges and the dwindling number of good guys have no idea what to do.”

He took another sip and looked again at the water. So I continued.

“I thought the nightmares of the past were aberrations. That ethnic cleansing and war rapes were not to happen again, that the last elections were to correct the course, that the words of those honored here would ring loud and true again, and rouse the slumbering to see the nightmare that is unfolding. But I feel this is a planet of the apes scenario, where I am going to wake up soon and see things that once meant greatness are graveyards.”

“The wrong things have been emancipated,” I said. “We are living in country now where the information we need to govern ourselves has been replaced by political spin and propaganda, hate and vile bravado.”

“What are your dreams telling you, Tomaso,” the Old Geezer said, “Have you learned to listen to them yet?”

I nodded yes. “Very much so and yet unclear. They show turmoil and voices from the past trying to help. Reporter friends reappearing, offering smiles, and even phone numbers, and reassurance but then leaving with no pathways. Lots of trips to places that seem to be on earth but on no maps.

“And there was even a call on a land line, with man’s voice — not computer calls — saying my name, as if pleading for help, or warnings.”

The Old Geezer took another sip and said, “And I bet you did not respond.”

He knew. “No I did not,” I said. “I was hoping that what you told me once — that the quieter you become, the more you are able to hear — would work.”

He spoke his head no and looked at Jefferson. “Those once wise guidelines are perforated,” he said. He turned to me. “You have to work harder than ever before, and strip it all away to think clearly and wisely now, Tomaso.“

My turn again to take a sip. “You know, Old Geezer, when I was a little boy, I used to run as fast I could from the darkened basement, afraid of the monsters that I knew where there, only to be laughed at by my father. ‘There is nothing there to be afraid of,’ he would say.

“Well, I am no longer afraid of the dark. In fact, sometimes I long for it for I see much better in it. And those monsters are still there.”

The Old Geezer nodded. “They were always there,” he said. “You just knew how to get out of their grasp before.

“Don’t them catch you now,” he said. “Many are obvious… but many remain hidden just around the corner as you walk you dog.”

We were quiet for a moment, and the Old Geezer looked back at Jefferson. “You know the conflagration that will come,” he said.

Then I had an idea.

“Old Geezer, we cannot save the world tonight but we can save a few old trees. A friend sent me a note saying how the police department in her city told her that the left-over trees from their annual tree sale would be free, lying on the ground at a street corner. That seems to be the perfect conclusion for how the year transpired — good things tossed aside. So let’s go grab them and decorate them all and keep some bright lights glowing.”

The Old Geezer nodded. “A good idea from you, Tomaso. I guess miracles can still happen. You go get the Jeep and I will wait here.”

I walked slowly down the slick steps, as I listened to the Old Geezer part some more wisdom with Jefferson. Soon, though, his voice faded and as I walked by the other monuments I heard Dr. King praying for a new dream and FDR voicing about a new fear as they struggled to find words and a way to heal a plummeting, broken nation.

And I heard Lincoln crying.

[howyoutalktostrangers]

So,

Falling in love is a lot like going insane.

Since I have firsthand experience of what it's like to lose your mind — in both ways — Shakespeare's assertion that "love is merely a madness" resonates like a Chinese gong in my brainspace. If it wasn't so common, I think the idea of devoting yourself to someone lifelong would be viewed as akin to joining a doomsday cult, or maybe getting a full face tattoo. It's like handing over control of a guillotine, climbing into position, then hoping that your partner won't chop off your head. 

In a few weeks here we're going to hit the Summer Solstice, which marks four years since I began dating my Filipino octopus. The first picture she took of me was on a rocky beach just down the road from Beacon Hill Park, getting ready to sling a rope of bull kelp that I'd fashioned into a lasso. At the time I liked to imagine myself as a cattle wrangler, ready to snare my desired future into submission. It didn't occur to me until later that my lasso could've just as easily been a noose.

Within three weeks, Kristina and I were living on a remote acreage in the Shuswap and pregnant with our first daughter. I would return sunburned and stinking from my days rafting the Adams River, and we would sit out on the unfinished deck overlooking a rustic property with waist-high grass and weather-beaten structures that looked like they belonged in the wild west. We barely knew each other and found ourselves tasked with shepherding a new soul into the universe. At the time it felt simultaneously like a cosmic joke and a divine blessing, and I knew many people in my life would view our decision as a sort of a kamikaze maneuver. I may have been crazy, but I had a matching cyclone of creative energy sitting next to me, dreaming the world into existence before my very eyes.

When she came to visit me at the Royal Jubilee Hospital months later, in the depths of a manic episode in which I became convinced that the television was sending me custom-designed messages through the closed captioning, I lashed out at her for refusing to admit I'd figured out this sublime secret. I thought my recently departed friend Spencer was still alive, and I wouldn't accept it when she told me he wasn't. Despite my vitriol, she was there pumpkin-bellied and beautiful every day until I gradually returned to my senses.

It was only four months later that we pulled off our haphazard roadside wedding near Mile Zero in Victoria, just a stone's throw from the memorial statue of Terry Fox. She was already in labour, and expected at the hospital later that evening, but we found the time to make things official amidst the paranoia and fear of the newly declared pandemic. We approached our makeshift altar in the grass through a cluster of daffodils, the birth flower for March, while the waves of the Pacific crashed against the rocky beach lining Dallas Road. For a moment I thought I was caught again in a delusion, like all my wishes had culminated in a cinematic scene too deliciously perfect to be real.

As it turned out, my mind wasn't finished wrenching our family around like a Go-Kart tumbling down Rainbow Road, teetering on the edge of the great black oblivion. When my psychotic delusions came on it felt like my brain had grown throbbing tentacles that swirled around us to some subsonic rave beat. She watched me throw a Christmas tree like a javelin across a hotel lobby, grieving the loss of my sister and enraged enough at reality to leave it behind forever. She sat holding my hand while we watched Six Feet Under in the pysch ward, and laid spooning me in bed while the meds slowly brought me around. I'd barrelled deep into the jungle without a guide, and she was the one who came bush-whacking through the ferns to find me.

Since we moved to Duncan in 2021, we've slowly established the nest where we'll shelter our children through their vulnerable years and created one of those routinely scheduled lives I've feared since I was a teenager. Working with a psychiatrist, I've taken the steps necessary to get my consciousness back on a stable plane while watching my black-haired kindred give birth to our second child. The fact that he's as reckless and accident-prone as I am has given me some of the motivation I need to become a non-lunatic capable of keeping him safe. Every day I marvel at these twin manifestations of our love, seeing pieces of our spirits walking around in separate bodies. Calling them a miracle doesn't seem hyperbolic enough. They are my rapture, my salvation.

Which brings me back to my wife, the only person on Earth capable of making me feel all my emotions at once. I didn't anticipate that love would be so intense, that it would require so much self-sacrifice and pain. Falling in love in the Shuswap was no big deal, it was all bathrobes, wild horses and lackadaisical lake paddles, just a non-stop swirl of giddy adventure. Settling into a life of doing dishes, keeping the laundry running and taking hefty loads of diaper-crammed garbage bags to the dump, is a different sort of escapade. Sometimes it feels like the universe is purposefully challenging me, molding me into the sort of person that society trusts to be a parent. And the only thing that motivates me is the bonkers, fairy tale-style love I have for her. It scalds my chest cavity and thrums in my jugular.

At least once a day I marvel at the fact this woman married me, that a derelict human like me could somehow find acceptance and peace in her arms. By now I've witnessed some of her frailties too, and we've grieved in tandem, plumbing the depths of each other's darkness and finding solidarity in our pain. It's not an exaggeration to say that I would run into traffic for her, that I would sacrifice everything about myself just to make her happy. That's where the craziness comes in, because it isn't logical to love someone the way that I love her. It's like scuba diving into the ocean and trying to embrace a thrashing octopus ready to douse you in ink and wrestle you to death with its suckers. Eventually your crushed corpse sinks into the depths, but with a crack-toothed smile on your face.

If you've read this far, then it means you can tolerate my maudlin and histrionic rhetoric. A friend recently encouraged me to "fuck the narrative" and pump some of the raw sewage of real human existence on to my timeline amidst all the carefully curated content meant to prop up the image of my blissfully happy family. To practice radical honesty would mean acknowledging the heartbreak and insanity of marriage, but to celebrate it regardless of that. It doesn't cheapen our love story to say that some days we struggle, and that relationships go through ebbs and flows similar to the ocean beating against the beach. It's a natural rhythm, like a heart beat or a war drum, that drives us onwards even when it feels like the next wave will never come.

The next wave will always come. Trust me.

The Literary Goon