#hot off the brainpan

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

what is your third favorite activity?

Capture the flag

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

You know, I was just thinking about this last night. Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” came on the radio, and I paid attention to the lyrics for the first time. You know what? That song is completely correct.

This song feels like it’s got the perfect attitude toward sex: it lets you release stress and it’s just another kind of physical intimacy, which I love. Yes, I still like to get freaky, but casual sex can be good, since it doesn’t really have the baggage of a romantic or otherwise committed relationship. It’s fun, too! There’s something about being vulnerable like that with another person that feels so open and trusting. Helps to relieve my mind, and it’s good for us…

??? why are “friends with benefits” now considered a cringe straight people thing???? friends can fuck. it’s literally fine

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

Quote from my cishet friend Josh - “If I ever meet a TERF they’re gonna be in the turf, as in the ground. As in I’m gonna bury them alive. In the turf. Where they belong.”

[jockedguy]

Unfreeze (Change Theory, part 1 of 3)

ONE

You can tell a lot about the guy in the picture up there.  You can see a slice of his life, just from the second that was captured by the camera’s eye.  

1) He’s not too bright.  

Look at his eyes, the way his face is moving from one thought to the next.  You can tell that it takes him a minute to process, that maybe he’s not too quick.  You wouldn’t be able to make a pun, or talk about current events, with this guy. He’s young, he’s in the prime of his life, he’s maybe a little disoriented because of the hot sun that’s been soaking into his brainpan all day.  Probably got a little spin on from that last in a chain of four beers he’s got in his hand.

2) He’s not from around here.

Here, in the city, where there’s barely a gasp of green, you don’t see guys like this.  You see a lot of reflections of the urban color palette, like how the sky reflects on the ocean.  Endless gray and slate.  This is a picture of a guy who would feel ill-at-ease in a city, hyper-sensitive to the inundation of noise and technology, to the constant floods of people with their shoulders ratcheted up around their jaws.  

3) He doesn’t give much of a fuck what you think.

This is a guy who’s worked his whole life outside, with his hands.  As a kid, he probably spent all his time crashing through the woods or smashing into the still water of the local swimming hole.  He saw the sunrise most days, and squinted into the dusking evening, as bats came out to lazily swoop from dark to dark.  He caught lightning bugs in a jar.  He shot off fireworks and smoked cigarettes at the gas station.  He has an easy confidence.

There’s more, too, I’m sure, but all we get is what we can infer from the split-second the photograph shows us.  

He’s the kind of guy I see on tumblr, scrolling endlessly through my perfect kind of man.  Of course, since I live in the city, this kind of guy is harder to find, except for various dirty phone chats or Skype messages.  Stuff that doesn’t last, but is enough to get me off quickly and efficiently.

Briefly (since this story is about me, too), I grew up in the deep South.  I knew guys like this, was surrounded by them - if you can ever really be surrounded by  anyone in the deep South, that is.  They were my cousins, my neighbors, my schoolmates.  I was always looking at them, even if I wasn’t, you know - “looking” at them.  My life took me quickly through school and college - I’m an intelligent guy.  I quickly understood what it meant to succeed, and with that understanding, I chose a career that would make me a good amount of money and best utilize my skills - advertising.  I’m very good at persuasion.  I see things very simply, and I speak very logically.  Clients tend to like that.  Hell, most people, including my small group of friends, like that.  I think they feel like it’s a nice break from the modern-day affectation of wandering around the point.  

I also happen to be a gay man, still single as I stare into my 30s.  I’ve had a few boyfriends, all of which except for one lasted less than a year.  I was never content with them - they seemed to need me in a way that I found kind of repulsive.  They were depressed, or lackluster, or we just didn’t have the same goals.  I’m a creature of change.  I’m not happy to sit in one place, thinking the same thing - I want to know how I can better myself, how I can be more efficient.  I’d started working out at the local gym, experimenting with my form, with my muscles, when I found you.

I’d never seen someone so much like a lump of raw clay.  And it wasn’t just that - it was as though that lump had been possessed of some metamorphic desire, some inherent drive.  It was almost as though I could see a hundred possible futures super-imposed on top of you as you struggled, over and over, to lift the dumbbell.  I could tell you were hyper-aware of yourself, of your surroundings.  Your eyes would dart surreptitiously from guy to guy, quickly sizing them up and  continuing with your lifts.  I could tell you weren’t the most confident guy, wearing a baggy t-shirt with sleeves and basketball shorts that came down to your knees.  Most guys would come to the gym wearing clothes that accentuate their bodies - you, it seemed, were trying to hide yours.

Who knows why it was that I was drawn to you.  You were just like so many other skinny white boys in brand new sneakers and ankle socks, headphones firmly screwed into your ears to block out the anxiety clawing at your brain.  Maybe it was that glint in your eyes, that metamorphic desire that I mentioned earlier - it reminded me strongly, almost in an olfactory way - of my own drive to transform, to better myself.  I caught myself wondering what your story was.  Who you were.  

I wouldn’t say I stalked you.  That’s not the right word, and I think if anyone asked you now, you’d agree.  There’s just some people in this world, you’re drawn to them - you see them once, maybe a handful of times.  Maybe they’re one of those “stranger-friends” that you see every day on your commute.  You just know, deep down, that this person is going to figure into your life, somehow.  

It was easy, actually.  I started seeing you in the gym more often.  Maybe you had just started going.  One day, after we happened to finish at the same time, making our neutral, civil nods to one another in the locker room, I just decided to follow you down the street.  In this borough of this city, I would hardly be noticed.  It was almost like you left a trail in the air, though - I was able to lag behind at least two or three steps without losing track of you.  You lived in an apartment building a few blocks away from the gym, slightly to the west and south of my own railroad apartment.  Conveniently, a small coffee shop across the street from your place served as my outpost.  I could watch you come and go as I pleased.

It didn’t take long to figure out that you were gay, too.  I actually got to see a date break down in a miserable fashion, watching you and a (surprisingly) much bigger guy part ways in front of your building.  As you went inside, he lingered by the front gate for a second longer than I would have thought, head hanging.  This only intrigued me further - this guy, whose t-shirt barely fit over his biceps, had been left cold by you at the end of the night without even a hand-shake.  

You became a challenge in my mind.  Your seeming distance, detachment from the world, was a heady ambrosia that left me not only curious (for the first time in a long time, believe me) but your continual drive at the gym spiked that curiosity and stoked the flames over a period of weeks.  

I knew you were gay, but it wasn’t the normal hookup situation.  I didn’t feel like I could make a move, cop a feel, arch a brow, have you sucking me off the in the showers before you knew what was good for you.  You were different somehow.  

On the day we first exchanged words, there was a massive weather pattern shifting and sliding over the city.  The Saturday morning was bright, passive, and breezy.  By noon, the sky was swirling with cruciferous heads of cloud.  By mid-afternoon, the thunder rolled & splayed warningly.  I don’t mind a rainstorm - I even love a great thunderstorm - and I headed out to the gym for my daily workout in just a sleeveless tee, basketball shorts, and my Nikes.  The humidity had balled itself up to a stifling percentage, and I found myself soaked with sweat before I even got to the front door of the gym.

I had been jogging in place on the treadmill for about five minutes, eyes on the ceiling-mounted televisions.  Our President was up to his normal dramatic shenanigans on one.  An episode of SVU was on another.  Recaps of NFL games blinked back and forth on the other.  I don’t actually remember when it was that you were beside me, but I remember you had the first word.

“Hey,” you said.  Your voice wasn’t reedy, wasn’t thin, but it wasn’t deep, either.  For all that, it had a steadiness and even had a wry twist to it, as though you had already seen the future of the conversation.

“Hi,” I replied, neutrally, not looking away from the screens.

“I’m Tucker.”

“Jordan,” I replied.  Edged my speed up a little.

“This might sound a little weird, but, um, I’ve noticed you around here a bit, and, well - I like your form, you know, when you lift.  Do you think you could, I dunno, help me out a little?”

You had a unique way of speaking.  It wasn’t hesitant, but it did involve a lot more words than I judged necessary.  But I was able to pay attention to the words that mattered.  Kind of like when all the letters are mixed up in a printed word except for the first and the last, but you can still see and understand what the actual word is.  

If anyone else had asked me that, I probably would have spit out some kind of laugh or awkwardly referred them to a personal trainer.  I’m not a personal trainer, and I don’t know how to make anyone else’s muscles grow.  But for you, well - like I said, you were different.  I was curious.

“Sure,” I said between breaths, maybe even surprising myself a little.  “I’m just warming up here, then I’m gonna head down to do some arms.”

“Ah,” you said, face falling a little.  “I was gonna do legs.  Well, maybe another time.”

“Well, I guess I could do legs today,” I found myself saying.  “Arms are a bit sore from yesterday.”  I flexed, to show you, and I remember seeing your eyes widen a little.

“We could compromise,” you said.  “Chest?”

“Deal.”

And just like that, our first workout session as bros started.  

We didn’t talk much, which I liked.  You went someplace deep inside of yourself when you lifted - as though it took intense amounts of energy to spark that mind-muscle connection.  You seemed to stare through your reflection as you sat on the bench, performing the pectoral flyes.  When we did talk, it was cursory.  Shoulders back, down.  Engage your abs.  Breathe.

And when it was my turn, you were the same way.  Focused on my body the way you had focused on yours.  Quick, instinctive comments.  By the end of our session, my chest ached like it hadn’t in a long time, and I could tell that you were exhausted, too.  You didn’t exclaim about it, you didn’t even groan.  When we stretched out to cool down, the only reaction you had to our workout was a squeeze of your eyes & a slight grit of your jaw as the muscle fibers stretched beneath your skin.

You pushed your glasses up on your nose as you slid out of your shirt and blinked in the light.  You were solider in the core than I’d imagined - even had the shadowed ridges of a four-pack beginning.  “Wow,” I said, impressed despite myself.

You grimaced, but flexed, and smiled bashfully.  It was at that moment that I fell in love with you.  

Well, maybe not you.  Maybe the you I could see in the future.  My boy.  

More like the guy you see there, in the pictures.

TWO

I could tell you were smart.  There was no denying that.  We started going for food after our workouts, which were at least twice a week, if not more.  It helped that there was an amazing Thai place just steps from the gym, and we could order a huge helping of chicken and rice from the kitchen.  A few of the other regular gym-goers would go there as well, some even of bodybuilder status, and I remember feeling a glow of welcome as we ordered for the first time.

There’s a nice, heady feeling that comes with a post-workout ache.  It’s a glimmer, an aura, almost like being drunk.  Tongues loosen, bodies are uncoiled.  More primal desires are closer to the surface of the body than other worldly concerns.  You spoke a little more freely - told me about your life.  You’d grown up in New England, you’d always been a loner, you liked books and TV shows, you smoked pot, you drank craft beers.  I had yet to see you out of gym clothes, but that was because we only met at and after the gym.  You’d been coming along nicely, and I’d mentioned that.  Your form was strong, your lifts were becoming smoother, we’d even added plates on the bench press.  But when you talked about your life outside the gym, your eyes skated around restlessly.  You picked at the neckline of your shirt.  You shifted in your skin.  

For me, that was like a vole rustling through the grass to a hawk on a branch above.  Everyone has their secret unhappiness.  For you, that was a sort of disappointment in yourself - you’d never really “found” yourself, you admitted.  That was part of the reason you’d started coming to the gym.  As a child, your father disappeared and you were left with only a wounded mother to give you guidance.  You never learned how to form your own opinions, for fear that they would damage the delicate balance of the household.  You found yourself, later in life, able to agree with any viewpoint - something that was both valuable, but also a massive handicap.  

To me, it was the way in.

Identity is a tricky thing.  You can either create it yourself, and defend it as best you can against the cynical hurricane of society; or you can collapse and let society give you an identity.  This last way is often the quickest way to unhappiness, and I surmised this was your quandary.  

I smiled, and leaned in.  “Dude, you’re doing fine.  Who cares about all that shit?”  I injected a good amount of masculinity into my phrasing, squared my shoulders.  Flexed, for good effect.  Grinned.  “Who you are is who you make yourself, right?”

“Sure,” you said.  And before I could believe it, you looked up from your protein and grinned back at me.  Flexed back.

“That’s the spirit!”  I held out my fist for a bump, and you laughed, but you bumped back with vigor.  “You wanna know a secret?”

“Sure!”  You were eager to hear my magic.  I savored how your eyes developed a hunger, how the blood pumped a little faster through your dilated veins.  Your pupils even opened a little wider, as if ready to take in anything and everything I was about to offer.  

I leaned back, clasped my hands behind my head - maybe winced once as my sore pecs felt the stretch.  “The secret is ... there is no secret.”

Your face fell.  “That’s ... it?”

“Hear me out.”

“Okay.”  You were a little wary.  Deer in the forest, but still rapt.  Maybe you were even a little hypnotized, even then, before anything.

“You make your own identity.  You gotta ask yourself, bro -- who do you wanna be?”

You sighed.  “That’s just it, man.  I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.”  I laughed, easily, for good affect, and reached over to squeeze your forearm.  I knew I had you, then.  “You know what you don’t like about your life, right?  You just told me.  You hate feeling like the guy who has all the answers.  You hate the constant barrage of news and politics.  You feel depressed and frustrated.  You can’t figure out how to make opinions.”

“Yeah...”

“Isn’t that how you felt when you started working out?  Confused, lost, overwhelmed?”

“Yeah...”  But something was dawning in your eyes.  I felt your forearm flex in my grip.  I didn’t let up on your eyes.

“And how do you feel now?”

“Stronger,” you said, immediately.   

“Nothing has to stay the same forever,” I concluded, letting my hand fall back, crossing my arms over my chest and shrugging.  “You have the power to change whatever you want about yourself.”

You sighed, and narrowed your eyes at me, unconsciously crossing your arms over your chest - just like I had, without even knowing it.  “So that’s it?  I just have to ... will myself into being a different person?”

“Is that what you want?”

You blinked at me.  This was the crucial moment.  I could almost feel the strong under-current of your desires, battering at your hesitation like a rain-swollen river at the banks.  If I’d done it right, if I’d led up to this moment perfectly, I’d hear -

“Yes.  It is what I want.”

I nodded.  “Okay, then.  You’ve taken the first step.”

You nodded, too.  “So what now?”

I spread my hands, then my mouth, into a wolfish smile.  “Now we begin.”

[To be continued.]

[interdimensionalpeacekeepin-blog]

Burn.

The air was hot, even for what I had experienced so far in Thanalan, which was further confusing me as it was twilight.  Weren’t deserts supposed to be cooler at night?  My head still rung from the introduction of my face to the ground, my vision swimming in and out of focus.  There was definitely a concussion up in my brainpan, but I was not likely to get any kind of medical treatment from my captors.

They had other plans.

Fuller wasn’t in the cage with me, but I could see him in another cage nearby.  The cartmaster was nowhere to be seen, and one of the merchants was in the cage with me, hugging his knees, rocking back and forth.  When I touched his shoulder, he flinched, and stared at me.  The look he had was haunting; very little of his iris could be seen, the pupils almost completely swallowing all color out the the sclera, and after staring at me wordlessly for a moment, he looked back into space in front of him.  The only words he was saying were a repeated prayer for Nald to free him, and Thal to find him.

As the night dragged on, I leaned against the side of the cage closest to Fuller and the other merchant.  “What happened?” I whispered to him, when I thought the eyes of the lizard beasts holding us captive were pointed another way.  “Where are we?”

“My guess… Zan’rak,” Fuller said, glumly.  “They killed Oberd and his chocobos.  One of their arrows caught me in the thigh as I tried to run, got taken down.  The merchants didn’t even bother trying to fight back.”  He stared out the bars of the cage, all the fight out of the archer.  “My guess is it’s a matter of time before we’re brought before their primal bastard of a god, now.”

Primal.

My lessons swam up from the depths of my still fuzzy brain, as I tried to piece together the information Arront had impressed upon me.  A primal is a blight upon the land.  A summoned creature, grown fat on aether, in the image of a beastfolk god.  So long as one exists, it drains the lands of aether to feed its voracious appetite.  Its very essence can infect those brought before it, warping their minds into feeding the creature with their own aether and fervent prayers, becoming little more than thralls in-

“.. oh fuck me.”

It felt like the earth below was opening up to swallow me.  Was this going to be my fate?  Brought before some.. thing… made a slave?  No more free will, just… serving some alien monstrosity for the rest of my days?  Despair gripped my heart and I started to shiver, despite the hot desert air.

I was snapped out of my inner turmoil by the cage starting to move.  Wheels were on the cages themselves, and both of the cages were being carted towards the back of this encampment.  I thrashed about in the cell like a trapped animal, trying everything to break it open, tip it over, anything.  All it earned was a mocking laugh from the two amalj’aa pulling the prison deeper into their complex.

The cages were left in the company of two large amalj’aa, and the other guards retreated.  The two here were arguing, about what, I couldn’t tell.  I could barely make out what they were saying; something about ‘not enough crystals’.  To be fair, in my current state, I wasn’t paying any attention to the exact words.  The merchant in my cage started praying louder, squeezing his eyes shut.  Fuller was trying to make himself part of the bars in the back of his cage, the oher merchant was almost catatonic.

I was simply frozen in abject terror.

The larger of the two, with the more elaborate headdress, backhanded the other one and pointed towards the entrance of the cave.  I assume he had pulled rank and banished the smaller amalj’aa from the ritual.  Giving us barely a look, he turned to the center of the cave, raising his staff and beginning to chant; a crucible large enough to hold a baby was before him, filled to the brim with angry, red crystals.

The heat in the cave rose to uncomfortable levels.  As the Amalj’aa continued to chant, the crystals started to glow brighter.  Ash filled the air, finding its way into my lungs, stealing more breath from me as I coughed again and again.  Streams of energy flowed from the crystals into a slowly growing ball of fire that hovered in the air before the shaman… the crystals starting to dim, some even starting to fade out of existence, as a palpable form took shape.  Spindly limbs, covered in burnt hide, covering cable-like muscle.  Horns, glowing as bright as the crystals that were now gone from the bowl.  A hideous, baleful glare that looked beyond the shaman that had summoned it, the creature standing barely a head over the amalj’aa, gazing directly at us.

“Ifrit!  Lord of the Inferno, Champion of Sun!”  The shaman turned.  “Forgive us the meager offering, as we call upon your power.  These souls are yours!  May your cleansing flame temper them anew, to serve your glorious will!”

I suspect the words were not for the creature before him, but to instill even more terror into his captives.   It was working.

My eyes were watering from the heat, the ash, and from the fear gripping my heart.  The creature was gazing at us, no words being said, until the light around us faded, as if the thing was drawing from the fires set about the cave themselves.  Its horns blazed with power as it roared towards us all.. An image that will haunt my dreams forever.

A weight came from that roar.  It carried forward on a harsh, heated wind, blasting over both cages, slamming into me and forcing me off my feet.  The merchant in my cage wailed helplessly, and I could hear Fuller screaming.  As for the other caravan member, he was completely silent, as if he’d accepted his fate.

I fell to my knees, staring at the floor of the cage.  This couldn’t be happening.  It was impossible.  I couldn’t comprehend anything that was happening, as the merchant in my cage ceased his wailing, and began to chant.

“May the fires of Ifrit keep me warm, as my heart swells in his presence.  Praise the Lord of Inferno…”  This had become his new mantra, replacing his pleas for Nald’Thal.

I tilted my head upwards.  The merchant was staring forward at the image of the amalj’aan primal, even as the creature had begun to fade.  Was the ‘meager offering’ the shaman speaking of only enough to keep the thing briefly summoned, enough to do what had been done here?  My mind was racing, even as I heard Fuller repeat nearby,  “Lord of the Inferno, your will shall be done.”

A slight turn of my head, and I saw the other merchant there as well, staring towards where the primal had been, and almost euphoric grin on his face.  “My lord Ifrit!  Let this one serve you until my dying breath!  May your flames cleanse this world!”

What the hell…?  Is this what tempering is?  And why was I not saying the same things as the others?

I was dimly aware of the Amal’jaa shaman stepping to the cage, peering intently at myself and my cage-mate.  Satisfied with the other’s state, I felt his judging eyes on me, and I knew I had to act.  I had but one chance…

“Praise Lord Ifrit!”  I tried to sound as convincing as possible, letting a wide grin cross my face.   It took every ounce of willpower I had to stop my terrified shaking, holding onto it as much as possible.   This seemed to satisfy the shaman.  

Our cages were wheeled out, and then opened.  My every muscle felt cold and numb.  Fuller and the two merchants bowed their heads in reverence to the shaman, and I did the same, to keep up the act.   Our possessions were returned to us, as I suppose they viewed us as no more real threat.

Bound in the service of their nightmare.

It took a week of acting like a thrall before I could finally be unsupervised enough to make my escape, running off into the night.  I left them all behind, keeping little more than my notebook and my spear, running in terror, wanting to put as much distance between myself and Southern Thanalan as possible.  I saw what looked like a settlement, but I avoided it, having no idea who or what it was, even as I saw a few highlander men around it.

How could I know if they were not like Fuller and the others?

I have a few theories as to what may have happened that day.  As I learned more about Eorzea, and my own research, I heard of something called the Echo, a ‘gift of light’ so to speak, that granted some people immunity to the tempering influence of the primals.  Could it have been possible that the circumstances that brought me here granted me that?  Or could it have been due to my unique nature, alien to this world, separate from the ‘life stream’ that E-Sumi-Yan and Arront had schooled me on, that the primals could not hold onto me as easily as they could natives of Hydaelyn?  Was the summoning of Ifrit that day weaker due to the small amount of crystals, and only able to temper three people, and I just lucked out?

I really don’t know.

All I knew, as I collapsed in Camp Drybone, suffering from dehydration and exhaustion, was that I would rather die than go to Southern Thanalan again.

And as I slept in a hospice bed to recover, my brain kept replaying that horrific moment over and over.

[nimueriesa]

THE IDYLLS OF THE QUEEN →  SENTENCE MEME [ 2 / 3  ]

Part two of a three part series of lines and dialogue taken from The IDYLLS OF THE QUEEN by Phyllis Ann Karr, an Arthurian murder mystery featuring Sir Kay and Sir Mordred as Begrudging Buddy Cops ™. Feel free to change pronouns or anything else to better suit your needs.

_____’s interested in justice, not revenge.

Justice, revenge --- two words for the same thing.

You’ll be all unprepared when the nuns attack.

I see your noble worships be wondering at my Beauty.

Nay then, she’s mine, free and honest.

Be ye willing to hear tale, your noble worships?

I name him in my prayers morn and night.

God and Holy Mother bless you twice over!

Someday, when I’m more of the mood to meet you in battle, I can use that slander as well as any other excuse to fight.

An hour’s combat with _____ is the safest practice a man can take with unblunted weapons.

Nevertheless, if you should end this evening killed or laid up in bed, nursing an improbable wound, do you fully trust me to continue our quest?

When you’re forty years older, you might know a little something of what you’re talking about.

A joust in friendship hardly fulfills a vow of vengeance.

And you accuse us women of over-romancing.

A man who would hang forty knights for love of a dame should have loved her enough to go back to her.

Only a guiltless man would be so willing to accept the appearance of guilt.

We know you would have offered yourself up as her champion if you had thought of these things before _____.

They don’t teach ‘em vengefulness and poison at the Castle of the Graile, lad.

Ambition may twist a man’s thoughts into strange patterns.

You’ll have to work harder than that if you want to throw the Sword in the Stone back in my teeth.

I have most of the work and none of the glory.

When you start accusing your own brothers, then it’s plain the serious talk is done.

I’ve carved this ring too large for my fingers. It may fit yours.

And will you not do something to prevent its coming true?

The reason you got into my dream is because I’ve had to look at your face all day, every day for the last four days.

I do suffer from a fascination with serpents, do I not?

It looks like an ordinary lake.

Somewhere beneath that water is a city richer than Caerleon.

Will we see the blue sky and the clouds, too? Or will we see little fishes instead of birds swimming over our heads?

The City in the Lake, ruled always by a lady --- sometimes a wicked dame, sometimes a kindly one, always a powerful one.

I think the first Lady of the Lake must have been Adam’s paramour Lilith.

They say that much of the old magic can only be taught to a man by a woman, and to a woman by a man.

You’re waxing poetic this evening.

I hardly expected ever to see this night.

What in Ihesu’s Holy Name are you talking about?

What is your plan, now you’ve brought me this far?

Damn you, ____, have you gone completely out of your mind?

I could not allow my thoughts to stagnate in an obsession with my own encroaching death.

Your brains are even more rattled than we thought.

What gave you the idea you were important enough to attract an assassin?

God, don’t you have enemies of your own to kill you in open tourney or ambush?

What truth? If you’re talking about your lunatic fancies as ‘truth’ they’re a pile of dead flies!

You risked no more than one or two lives at most.

Come out from the water and arm yourself!

Now, repeat your slander of the Queen.

Strike me quickly, _____. Now, while we’re both in the mood.

Let’s get out of here before our armor rusts off our bodies.

The King will not thank you for this.

I don’t appreciate being played the fool and goaded into attacking you like another one of your bloody puppets.

If you want to be murdered on command, you’re going to have to tell me why.

You can just lie down, drown, and damn yourself, for all I care.

I assume that a knight seeking the company of the Lady of the Lake should hail her with no less care and courtesy than one seeking admittance into a lesser stronghold.

You rely a great deal on your influence over the Dame of the Lake. Do you truly expect her to do your beck and call?

My brothers inherited the sound of life from her, I the sound of death.

I am more fully my mother’s son than any of my brothers.

Do you remember when I first came to _____’s court? I was bright and eager then, was I not? Filled with pure ideals and noble aspirations --- too noble, perhaps.

I was very young and very innocent then, aside from being in love with two or three fair dames and damsels at once.

You do not even know us. How do you know our fate?

You are the fruit of incest, heinous in the sight of God and man.

God! You’ve killed him, and he had a prophecy for me!

No doubt his prophecy for you was that you would kill me.

That would make me a fortunate knight, not an unfortunate one.

I tried to be killed in that day’s tourney --- Ihesu, how I tried!

I knew I was fated to fulfill the prophecy somehow, as surely as Judas was fated to betray Our Lord.

For the last time, I did not try to poison you.

For years I have been waiting for the stroke to fall, wondering whether they would find their chance to murder me.

If you decide you’re going to live up to some foul prophecy, that’s your choice.

How did you get there without us seeing you? Invisibility?

Why should I tell you my craft?

I watch the battles of knights, but I do not eavesdrop on their private conversations.

Would you have saved him in the last moment?

I was reasonably confident you would not strike him down.

You would not have come here, stood on the beach calling me, and threatened to throw stones into the streets of my city, if you did not intend to tell me the reason.

Oh, no --- you’re not going to walk away from us like this!

I have saved your King’s life. I have saved it three times.

I do not need to demonstrate my reliability at your command. No, not even at the command of the High King himself.

I have always known well enough when to come and save your King.

Would you prefer I hovered constantly about your corrupt court, muttering in the King’s ear?

Best go back, before you drown. 

I know all that was in your head, and you should know now why I dislike gaining such knowledge. It was not pleasant for you, and it was still less pleasant for me.

To see all the private sins and passions of another in a single moment! If sacramental confession were a tenth part so revealing, no man would ever turn priest.

Next time, at least do it on dry land.

Ihesu, Dame, there must be something you can do!

We’d all have been better off without these damn prophecies.

Aren’t you going to offer us your hospitality?

My Lake? You wish to come down into my Lake and drown? Wet lodgings you would have with my mermaids, Sir Knight!

It is not my fault you wounded one another in your silly quarrel.

Poor man! Is your curiosity so hot for what you’ve been denied?

And you men put the blame on Eve and excuse Adam.

Any woman as reluctant as you to welcome guests must be ashamed of her household. 

Your famous city must not live up to its reputation.

You forget he’s not aware that I know of the prophecy. Shall we tell him?

A man entering his fourth decade is old enough to choose for himself whether or not to bind his soul to a prophecy. 

You must look for other safeguards against _____ than coddling him.

You might try bullying _____ into a better state of soul. That would be more your style than sweet words and soft treatment.

I suppose you can see everything that’s in my mind now?

Goodnight now, sweet knight.

You must have had a pleasant tete-a-tete. Does the Lady’s dear husband know?

Felt something like getting your brainpan stirred with a hot poker.

Well, she may search my head if she wishes. The secret’s festered long enough.

I would have been very sure of your guilt indeed if you had swapped off my head as I expected.

Dame _____ may be a chaste witch, but she need not impose her rules on all her pretty damsels.

Go to sleep. You’ll need your rest for the morning.

Your pardon, pure _____. It was the carnal appetites of my father speaking. 

Not all of us can subsist on the idyllic worship of an unattainable lady.

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

Top five favorite productions you’ve been in?

1. The Play That Goes Wrong

2. Romeo and Juliet

3. A Midsummer Night’s Dream

4. See How They Run

5. Tales of Darkness

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

A glooming peace the morning with it brings. It is now Tboy Tempting Tuesday

Male Whimper Monday

[arodrwho]

critrole lb 2.29

“you don’t have to do this caleb if you don’t want to” aaaAAAA good supportive friend!!

humming.bird.

dude? white-afro dude?? cool-name-i-can-never-remember white-afro blind dude??? --shAKASTE, yeah, that’s it, him

caleb. handflapped

i love him

every time this happens i love him more

yyyyESSSSS

“shakaste! what are u doing here?” “oh, u know, vacationing,” i love him

“...........i got this for u” “u’ve always been so thoughtful” god i love their interactions

why don’t u just mage hand the switch

amazing. u mage handed the switch

“they. are. going. to. die.” lmao

“eat shit you rusty spoon!!” nott i love you

it wasn’t even his final form,,,,

y ikes caleb how are u alive

aw hell yeah nott murdered her. good job

“this is going very well” ha h

“this is just like titanic. just me and you, floating...” “keg is....in love?” amazing

y e ssssss

stunned

fuCK yes

“it’s going very well. shakaste will get to u in a second” a) i love that caleb talks to hisself, & b) i love this recurring “it’s going very well” thing he’s got going on currently, & c) both of those things are autistic, & d) someone pls heal this boy

everyone. but caleb.

that poor grimy wizard friend

“you could’ve fucked off days ago” o caleb ily

“i probably won’t hit but” “14″ “oh wait no 16″ “eleven points of damage” c’monnnnn

“fuck.” aaaaaaAAAAAAAAA

“how do u wanna do this?” y EA H!!!

“ohhhhh well fuck me running it worked” g OD caleb i love u so much

“and eat away through the back of his head and burn. through. his. eyes!!” that was so detailed i’m dying

also Fuck that’s a fire death so is caleb gonna be ok or

like he’s already Super Fucked physically is his brainpan gonna make it ok or

“what the fuck” i am both dying & dead

“you shouldn’t’ve killed my cat” caleb is so good & also i’m so glad that thread came back form earlier

“do u think u could make some tea from this?” .......... “definitely don’t wanna make tea from this” hAH

“in the meantime, dm, um--” ohhh are u bout to ask bout that wisdom saving throw or

announce some actions or

??????? what do

“natural 20″ to pick the lockkkkkkk hell yeaH that’s some narratively satisfying shit right there

“i rolled a voluntary wisdom save for--” i knew it --o u saved! neat

“shakaste, did you say something about making it all better than it was?” oh shit--oh shit, that’s a molly thing. and caleb said it a minute ago i’m pretty sure--was caleb quoting molly? or--quoting beau quoting molly? hot diggity dang

“are you kidding? that’s not how it works. people aren’t good. things you do are good or bad, but people are just people. you guys keep doing good things and all i’ve seen is you doing good things. i’m not sure what the confusion is about” hey dude u said some good words. congrats, i love u

“whether you realize it or not, i gave you that gold. people don’t take money from shakaste” i’m giggling but also that’s a very nice blend of sweet & badass, which possibly sums him up as a person p well

smooth beau....real smoothe.......... meanwhile keg is so awkward

i love them

[theliterateape]

Skip Taylor and The Devil Dog

by Don Hall

The following was written as a character monologue for the first live performance of Pleasuretown at Stage 773 in Chicago. The concept quickly grew and became a WBEZ Podcast and was one of the first live podcast events I showcased when I created the WBEZ Podcast Passport Series back in the day.

✶

I hadn't seen Skip Taylor in ten years.

Skip and his common law wife, Trisha, were a troubled couple.  You know - made for one another as some kind of cosmic joke because they were the only pieces that fit each other but were destined to have almost non-stop friction in spite of the fit.  Case of two people who loved each other but couldn't stand to be around each other at the same time.

She drank.  A LOT.  Trisha was the sort who started in on her homebrew at 8:30 in the morning and graduated to grain alcohol by noon.  I'm not sure anyone in town has ever seen her sober even once.  And alcohol (or maybe it was just her - who could say) made her the Gatekeeper of Dante's Special Level of Hell devoted to Manhaters.  Not so much witty but caustic and with an ability to rip out a man's self worth in less than three words.

Skip was a beaten man.  All of his steam had long since been depleted by Trisha and he could often be seen skulking around, his shoulders slightly hunched with a hollow look in his eyes.  He'd come over to my place and smoke a bit and complain about how he planned to kill himself.  Hanging was a Big One for him.  He figured it was sort of poetic to hang himself.  He also thought that hanging would really piss Trisha off because it was so much less efficient than drowning himself and less painful than shooting himself in the brainpan.

One afternoon, one of hundreds of afternoons populated by one or another in Pleasuretown seeking guidance or solace or just some quality tobacco product, Skip came by with a different look in his eye.  It was almost upbeat.  Almost defiant.  Almost human.

That afternoon, he didn't talk about hanging himself in between heavy drags from my pipe.  That afternoon, he wanted to talk about my dog.  Everyone knows my dog.  Cyrus is a legend in town.  Cyrus was Delilah's dog before she met me and we became us and after I became known as "The Widower" or "The Devil's Bane" or "The Fella with the Magic Smoke"

I loved Delilah more than most people love anything ever.  When she passed, all I had left of her was some clothing, some pictures, and Cyrus.  All the love I held for D got transferred to him.  He was my one living, breathing reminder that she wasn't just the hollow dream of a prisoner - one who can see but never feel the heat of the sun.  And, when Cyrus wandered into the road and got his body broken by a stupid man on a horse, my mind couldn't conceive of it.

But I got Cyrus back - you've heard the stories.  The most I'll tell you here is that they are true.  Like Orpheus, I travelled through Hell and brought my dog back.  And I didn't look back to make sure.

Skip wanted to talk about the dead coming back to life.  He wanted to ask me about my trip through Hell and compared it to his own daily life.  "Trisha is a demon, man, " he told me. "She is a succubus sent to torture me for eternity.  How does someone escape from that?"  As almost always, I just listened.  Skip rarely needed to hear what I had to say and talking usually just took more energy than I wanted to extend.  Pretty much the same for most folks in town.

"What if I'm dead, right now?  What if I'm dead and found a way to resurrect myself?  What if I'm lying somewhere in a hole in the woods, dying of exposure and this - this life imprisonment - is some kind of dying fever dream?  If I don't escape from death or at least try then what was the fucking point of existing in the first place?"

"Good question.  Or questions."

"You're goddamn right it's a good question!"  He became incredibly animated in a way I'd never seen.  He didn't look like Skip anymore - he looked a little insane but full of life.  "And I HAVE THE ANSWER!!!"

He sat back down, beaming this crooked half smile and staring a thousand yards beyond me and Cyrus and Pleasuretown.

After about four minutes, I asked him "You gonna tell me the fucking answer or what?"

He took one last big, healthy hit, held it for a moment, blew the smoke up in the air.  "You'll see.  You'll understand.  I don't know if anyone else in this godforsaken berg will, but you will.  You've been there.  You've seen it."  And he split, walking - no, strutting - up and out and away.

Cyrus wagged his tail approvingly.  I had seen.  I had been there.  And ever since I brought him back with me, he seemed like he was smarter - maybe smarter than me.  Hell, maybe smarter than most people.  Maybe dying and coming back gives dogs a better grasp on things.  Hard to say.  He still couldn't talk but he sure seemed to listen.  And that tail was wagging with gusto.

Sometimes it was downright eerie looking at that dog.  He was still Cyrus - all muscle and grin - but he was MORE than.  It was like he had been somehow imbued with an otherworldly intelligence.  He had seen things that, when I crossed over to retrieve him, I could only see blurry renditions of.  A sea of heads of the most despairing faces imaginable.  Thousands of heads squashed next to one another as if each person had been buried up to his or her neck in blood soaked soil.  Crying out.  Trying to connect with something or someone who made sense.  I closed my eyes and walked among (and sometimes on) these faces.  Cyrus was right down in there with them.  And the black waters.  Not black from lack of light but actually black water that didn't reflect anything from my torch.  Did Cyrus drink some?  I wanted to - Hell, I would've killed Delilah at the time to get a drink of that water.

But Cyrus WANTED to come back.  Delilah couldn't bring herself to come.  In the wager I won from the Landlord of that Hole, the prize was her.  I won that fucking battle of wills but my prize was so fargone, so filled with emptiness, that she wouldn't even recognize me.  , however, did.  I begged her to come for what seemed like a hundred years.  Even though I'd beaten that Unholy Fucker at his own game (did he really think he could beat me in a series of tobacco related tests?) her sadness almost held me there.  And then I felt Cyrus casually lick my face.  And I came back.

And now he knows things.  He has no fear.  He is my companion, my protector and my keeper all at once.  I can't say I believe Skip's life was even close to Cyrus time in the Deep Dark but I can understand that he saw it that way.

Two weeks later, it hit me that I hadn't heard from Skip.  He owed me a few bucks and was usually pretty good about that sort of thing so I put on my cap, whistled for Cyrus, and headed over to his place.  Trisha answered the door.

"Whaddya want, Hellspawn?"

Her breath was so alcohol laden, it was like being spit on by pure fermentation and her beady eyes were bloodshot and angry.  Her hair was matted and stringy and a black cigar hung loosely from the corner of her lower lip, the saliva cementing it in place.  Succubus, indeed.  Cyrus emitted a low, barely audible growl.

"Hey, Trisha.  Just looking for Skip, you know..."

"Haven't seen that worthless piece of shit for two weeks at least.  Good riddance says I!" and started to slam the door in my face.

"Wait, now." and I put my foot in the door.  "Two weeks?  Did he say where he was going?"

"He took the trash out.  Never came back.  Hope he's fucking dying in a gutter that lazy asswipe."  She and Cyrus locked eyes for a hot second.  They both growled audibly.  Her eyes grew wide with fear and recognition.  And she shoved me back and got the door shut.  I heard the deadbolt turn.

"Good riddance says I!" she barked through the door.

And like that kid at school that gets transferred to another school because his dad got a different job or something, Skip became just one of those people we all once knew.  No one really looked for him.  Once in a while someone would bring his name up when telling a funny story or whenever Trisha stirred up trouble in town.  "That Skip." someone would say reverently.  "He got out while the gettin' was good."  And we'd all smile for a beat.

Last week, I took the train to Oregon to talk to a man about a new plant.  I got off the train with Cyrus - for a quarter he gets to sit with me as long as he's in the corner - and we sauntered up the depot.  A couple of conductors were headed in the opposite direction and  barked what sounded like a greeting.  I looked up and there, standing upright, looking tanned and alive, was none other than Skip Taylor.  His eyes grew wide and I caught a whiff of panic.  Then he relaxed and held out his hand.

"Skip?  Really?  What the fuck?"

"How you doing, man?"

"Me?  How the fuck are YOU doing?  Where you been?  What?  Ten...?

"Years?  Yeah.  That's about right.  I'm flying the rails now, brother.  Locomotive locomotion."

It turns out that Skip decided that fated night to carry out the trash.  He dragged the heavy wooden crate down to the alley and looked up at the house.  She couldn't see him from the window - the side of the place blocked her view.  And he turned South and just started walking.  He walked for almost two days, one foot in front of the other.  He walked himself straight out of Hell and got himself some wings.

"Just like you, man.  I never looked back.  I just kept walking until the edges of the world went from crimson and black to blue and white.  Just like you."

And Cyrus's tail wagged like the Devil.

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

Favorite color: A steely blue.

Last song: A Little Priest from the original cast recording of Sweeney Todd.

Currently reading: A Midsummer Night's Dream, blu by Virginia Grise, Respect For Acting by Uta Hagen, and hoping to start Uncle Vanya (can you tell I'm in theatre school).

Currently watching: Nothing, but I recently saw The Terror and it was delicious.

Craving: Lemonade.

Coffee or Tea: Tea forever.

open tags

​༉‧₊˚.​ get to know me better !! ♡

— 𝜗𝜚 thank u @cosmiiwrites nd @queenofmistresses for the tags, my lovies <3 i love u both

favorite color? pink!! i love pink!! you know the colour of hello kitty’s bow? pink!! my melo? pink!! my socks rn? pink!! did i mention my favourite colour is pink?

last song? someday - from the zombies soundtrack (banger)

currently reading? i finished the hurricane wars by thea guanzon a few days ago so im using this as an excuse to tell you to read it n i loved it so much but im currently starting (only a chapter in) a feather so black by lyra selene

currently watching? i don’t think i am watching anything… i last watched the zombies movies though… (im not obsessed you are)

currently craving? NOODS ugh i could demolish some noodles rn

coffee or tea? yes.

@nebulacrumbs @blooming-crimson-flower @hellsgreatestslut @lilsleepybear1029 @ustulia tag you’re it <3

[apairofcrepeswiththerarestape]

Food friends I have been streeeessssseeedddd out recently, not anything major just an accumulation of various things, things that I want to do even, things that I asked to do every even! But still the pile of things inside the old brainpan was starting to get very high! So I turned to my old friend POTATO, the least stressful foodstuff in the world. POTATO is like the warmth of a fire in a fireplace that is not too hot and you don't have to argue with someone about how many logs to put on it. POTATO can be cooked pretty much anyway and almost unfudgupable. POTATO, the perfect vehicle for salt and also cool for vegetarians. POTATO, the culinary equivalent of a sleeping bag that you can use inside because camping sucks. I'm not proud of just making a potato thing and then eating that potato thing and then going to bed because that is not a healthy choice but sometime you have to sacrifice the health of the body for the health of the mind, SO I DID. I made Scalloped Potatoes with Meat Stock and Cheese or as the french put it Gratin Savoyard! Once again the shopping for this was simple, it is a dish that's pretty much just potatoes, swiss cheese, and beef stock. There are many Scalloped Potatoes variations in Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child but I chose this one because we already had beef stock in the house and I wanted to use it rather than throw it away two months from now. So I checked that one off the list toot sweet. I had to go to the grocery store that renovated to make it look fancier in our gentrifying neighborhood but is pretty much exactly the same grocery store because the grocery store that is a block from our house has nightmare cheese. I also got a head of garlic and some butter and the requisite two pounds of heaven's food, potatoes (the book called for "boiling potatoes" which, yes, I did google image search. There was not a definitive potato image that persuaded me but it was made plain that small, red, or purple potatoes were out) . I stuffed it all in my backpack and left the unnecessarily spruced up supermarket and made my way home. When you're stressed you don't want anything with too many moving parts so this recipe that is pretty much cut things up and then bake them till they are cooked to hell was perfect. I sliced my 2 pounds of potatoes with an attempt at making the slices 1/8 inch thick but I didn't get out a tape measure or anything and I'm for sure not willing to spend like $400 on a "knife skills" class (if you spend $400 on a knife skills class and you are not a professional kitchen worker you should be forced to tell people, though I'm sure you already have). I dropped my somewhat uniform potato slices into a bowl full of cold water and let that sit for a bit. In the meantime I rubbed my baking dish with half a clove of garlic which frankly was a reallllllll bulshit amouth of garlic, what am I supposed to do with the other half of a ding dang clove of garlic? It may have been the stress but this made me VERY angry. Then I rubbed that same baking dish with 1 tablespoon of butter and it was alternatingly gross and satisfying as it always is. Then I dried my potato discs to a somewhat limited degree, that is to say not enough. If you want to have a potato dish that is hot and kind of mushy on the bottom but then crispy on top, which is what you want in this dish, you need some very dried out potatoes and I failed, I FAILED! After that I just stacked half the potatoes with half of the 1 cup of swiss cheese I grated, half of a teaspoon of salt, 1/8 a teaspoon of pepper (the recipe calls for 1/8 total of pepper but I'm not going to measure out 1/16 tablespoon of pepper), and 2 1/2 of butter cut up into bits. Then I put the rest of the not dry enough potatoes and then rest of that other stuff on top. I boiled a cup of that not going to be thrown away this time beef stock and poured that in there. Then I brought that whole mess to a nice simmer and threw it all into an oven heated to 425 degress. I was supposed to cook these wonderful chill the fudge out potatoes for "20 to 30 minutes or until the potatoes are tender, the beef stock has been absorbed, and the top is nicely browned". This is where my immense potato drying failure came home to roost because the top was never nicely browned. I cooked them for 30 minutes and then for another ten minutes AND THEN FOR ANOTHER TEN MINUTES AND THE TOP WAS NEVER NICELY BROWNED! This was a bit of a bummer and did not help my stress. You know what did though? EATING THESE POTATOES! They were good and mushy and salty and cheesy and sure the top wasn't nicely browned or the level of crispness that I pictured in my head but sometimes life gives you potatoes that you don't dry thoroughly and then they come out less crispy than desired! Still, I was able to forget about my stresses (also, hey everybody, I'm not as stressed now, so like don't call the stress police to come visit my house) and float away on a cloud of eating only potatoes and cheese for dinner! However I did not feel great the next day! So don't actually do this unless you are cool with having your next day stomach feel kind of not great. But I will say that you should make this and serve with other things to other people as well as yourself! So do it my ipals! Make Scalloped Potatoes with Meat Stock and Cheese aka Gratin Savoyard! Just do it as a side dish with some like vegetables at least! See you next week! #tdandjulia #scalllopedpotatoeswithmeatstockandcheese #gratinsavoyard #iknowhowitfeelstobestressedoutstressedout #comfortfood #potatofoodofheaven #campingsucks #IFAILED #stresspolice #eatitwithotherthings

[raystart]

In Praise of the Home Office

Early on a Sunday morning I’m sitting in my favorite space, a small outbuilding behind my house, in my favorite chair, a twenty-five year-old, medium-sized Aeron with a few small burn holes in the mesh seat. Even though it’s spring, it’s still cool outside. I’ve got my hoody pulled over my head, keeping the ole brainpan warm. I have nowhere to be but here. The red second hand of the school room clock mounted high on the wall ticks audibly, counting off the progression of moments, every one of which belongs to me.

Through the several windows I can see that the sun has begun to burn through the layer of clouds, revealing a patch of light blue sky—I’ll leave the exact color to my visual artist friends; to me it is reminiscent of the powder paint we used for skies in elementary school. A plane streaks overhead, gleaming and metallic, rumbling through the atmosphere like thunder. In the middle distance, a red-tail hawk circles, searching the canyon for breakfast; hummingbirds hover and dart, flirting and issuing their odd squeaks. A breeze plays through my neighbor’s invasive stand of tall bamboo. The stalks sway and knock together, making woody sounds like a marimba. From over the hill I can hear the throaty engines of powerboats and other personal watercraft churning circles around nearby bay, weekend warriors at play.

Here in my home office, the line between pleasure and duty is blurred. Weekend or weekday, there is no difference to me. Nobody counts my hours. My work is also my hobby. It takes as long as it takes. That someone is or is not paying me at any particular time is sort of secondary. Like most people, I work to live. But I also live to work.

This is where I do it—a 900-square foot patch of universe chock-a-block with photos, keepsakes, books and other familiar objects of personal history, most of it qualified as tax deductible, all of it mine to command.

Like nowhere else, when I am here I know who I am.  

***

Now it’s a little after noon. I’ve just returned from the house, where I threw together leftovers for my typical 15-minute lunch. Afterwards, I folded the whites and stuck the darks in to the dryer.

When I think about it, I come from a tradition of home offices. Both of my grandfathers—a lawyer and the owner of a clothing and shoe store—had offices in their homes, satellites to their more traditional workplaces. I remember being a little boy and swiveling around in their desk chairs, hunt-and-pecking on their clunky antique typewriters. In part I believe I owe my love of writing to the happiness of these times, my unexplainable attraction to the physical act of typing—the wonderful rachet-sound of the platen, the percussive clack of the keys against 20-pound bond, the ding at the end of each line heralding the need for the cleansing physical action of the carriage return. To type is to have the world at your fingertips—twenty-six neutral symbols to endlessly recombine. It is a task that requires both whimsy and precision. Another universe to command.

My father was an OBGYN. He had a home office, strictly for paperwork, in the basement of our rancher, the only place in the house he was allowed to smoke his cigars. The centerpiece of my dad’s home office was a desk his parents bought him for use in medical school—a blonde mahogany, Midcentury Modern kneehole desk with curved drawers by Heywood Wakefield, according to my research on the web. There is a matching Tambour door cabinet, on the back of which is stamped the manufacture date, May 1, 1954, two years before my birth. (The desk is too heavy to move.) As a boy I remember stealing down to the office when my parents were out for the evening. In the deep, double-drawer on the left side of the desk, my dad kept a stash of racy gag gifts given to him by friends—an oversize toothbrush with two plastic breasts instead of bristles, a windup penis with feet, a deck of cards with naked ladies instead of kings and queens.

When I went law school, my Dad gave me the desk and the hutch, for both practical and symbolic reasons. Hopefully, he said, it would see me through grad school with the same kind of success as he.

Of course, law school only lasted three weeks, but I was allowed to keep the furniture, which has traveled with me through forty years of home office incarnations. In Arlington Virginia, the desk was in the second bedroom of an apartment situated just beneath the flight path to what was then called National Airport—the entire building would shake. In Washington D.C., I lived in a basement apartment, and then in a loft, and then in a townhouse, the last for 12 years. My office was on the third floor; the desk had a nook within the front bay window, which looked out on the cityscape of a still-untamed section of town (in present times the Theater District), where hookers and crack dealers worked the dark corners, a different kind of natural show playing at all hours of the day and night.

Now my father’s desk has outlived him. For the past twenty years it’s been in this room, in San Diego, at the bottom-left corner of the continental United States, twenty-five miles north of the Mexican Border. The deep drawer is now full of vintage reporter’s equipment—defunct tape recorders, film cameras, old pads and other office supplies, not nearly so much fun as the booby toothbrush and other naughty bits of yore. In the hutch I have a ton of tear sheets from my years as a newspaper reporter and a few copies of the literary magazines I edited in college. I still remember sliding it open one time and finding multiple copies of a sex manual my father must have given out to patients. The authors were a husband and wife team. The photos were black and white. Naked, and without expression, the authors demonstrated dozens of positions, a sort of humorless kama sutra for the Masters and Johnson set.

In order to better accommodate the various pieces of hardware associated with today’s modern office, I have since added around the desk an eclectic mix of work tables and equipment stands, so that I’m nearly surrounded with surfaces—imagine a closeout sale in the office furniture department at Staples and you get the idea. (My original typing table, which used to hold a used, IBM Selectric typewriter, now holds the laser printer.) Swiveling around,  rolling my chair (over a plastic floor mat), I can attend to the different tasks and projects I have going simultaneously. Sometimes I imagine myself sitting in the command pod of a space ship, all the controls of my great solo enterprise at my fingertips—look at that, another reference to control.

Clearly a theme is emerging here. I am my own man, yes. But that also makes me nobody else’s man. Responsible to, and responsible for, only myself. Powerful and powerless at once.   

***

Nighttime now. These things take time, another reason I suppose I’ve spent so much time in my home office. The sky is dark. Stars have appeared. Somewhere across the canyon an owl is hooting. If I listen carefully I can hear the waves break quietly on the coastline, a half mile away.

After making myself a simple dinner of steak and greens, I’ve put up the dishes and returned the fifty or so steps to my office. Yesterday, I left the house to go to the post office. Today I didn’t leave the house at all; most of my time was spent in this chair. And yes, I am still wearing the sweatpants I put on this morning when I rolled out of bed. I will make sure to shower at the night’s end. I’m a home-based worker but I’m no misanthrope.

For the last few minutes, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tally the number of hours I’ve spent in proximity to this desk, alone in a room with my thoughts and labors. With all the travel for work it’s hard to say, though I also know that for every week in the field doing research, I’ve generally spent several more weeks at my desk—making calls and arrangements, transcribing, doing further research, composing, rewriting and editing.

Struggling to find the right formula, I went to the doorway and looked into the darkness, in the direction of the hooting. One hot summer evening the owl had overflown me by only a foot or two—the whoosh was palpable in the immediate airspace and kind of freaked me out.

Standing there, I noticed one of the many photos of my son. A decade ago, he was working hard to become a point guard on the middle school basketball team. At an age where many boys dream of becoming pro athletes, he had a Lakers jersey with his name—SAGER—custom printed on the back. He was taking extra practices, working out with a coach, running several miles every day.

One afternoon when he was off at practice, I was sitting here in my home office, thinking I wished I could do something to help. One thing you (hopefully) learn as a parent—the kid has to take the all the practice shots and do all the math problems himself. You can’t do it for him. All you can really do is cheer them on.

In that instant, an idea came to me. I walked over to the desk and picked up a pen. I wrote it like this:

  Hard work

Well enjoyed

Builds a man

Makes a life

Day by day

  Though I wrote this with myself and my son in mind, the same can be said for building a woman as well.

It’s what I’ve learned after forty years of sitting in my home office, doing what I love.   

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

“Peking duck” you’re not wrong, they do do that

I’m hungry. Can u get me Chinese food?

Yeah sure Peking duck be upon ye

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

Doing a uquiz is a trip because I will completely forget what the original point of the test was while I’m led through the creator’s favorite niche poems/worldviews, then I press “see results” and it tells me I’m Megamind.

[get-spatterlighted-idiot]

In my dream, you had texted me something really important and I saw the notification with a few words, but didn’t get to open the text.

This morning, when I got downstairs, I checked my phone and went to the text app and then was really confused when I didn’t have any texts from you.

Woahh. Should have texted me to ask why I was somnambulistically influencing you