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junker-town · 6 years ago

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The Ohio State-Penn State live blog by Bill Connelly

The Big Ten season essentially starts Saturday at 7:30 p.m. ET on ABC and WatchESPN.

Third Quarter

3:27

The crowd is alive again. Dobbins is stopped for four yards, then Robert Windsor hurries Haskins into an overthrow. On third down, Haskins is hit as he throws to Hill, who gains just two yards. Three-and-out for OSU. Thompkins can’t do anything with Chrisman’s punt, and the Nittany Lions will start at their 38. OSU 14, PSU 13.

4:39

McSorley is still looking for Hamler on those slants. He fires incomplete to No. 1 on first down, then Sanders goes wide left for five yards to set up a third-and-semi-manageable. Turns out, it’s unmanageable. McSorley scrambles right and looks like he’s going to get the first down easily, but Malik Harrison tracks him down for a one-yard gain.

Another three-and-out for PSU, and the defense doesn’t get much rest. But Gillikin booms the punt, at least, and it’s fair caught at the OSU 10. OSU 14, PSU 13.

6:12

Weber powers his way for 13 yards into PSU territory, then a Haskins-to-Campbell pass gains 12. It’s quickly third-and-6, but PSU’s all-out pressure backfires again as a screen to Hill gains 11 yards to the PSU 16.

The Nittany Lions stiffen from there. Hill loses four yards, OSU commits a false start, then Weber gains eight to set up third-and-11, where Haskins fires too long for Hill. Sean Nuernberger’s 33-yard field goal attempt of the night is good, but the Buckeyes commit a face mask penalty, setting up a 48-yarder, one shy of his career long. He pushes it right, and PSU dodges a bullet. OSU 14, PSU 13.

8:57

Hamler has the green light to return kickoffs instead of fair catching for touchbacks, but he’s cost his team quite a few yards by doing that tonight. His return gets only to the 18, and a holding penalty backs them to the nine. Luckily for PSU, a personal foul penalty on OSU pushes them back to the 24 ... one yard short of the touchback line. Pet peeve of mine.

The Ohio State line picks up where it left off in the first half, stuffing Sanders for a three-yard loss, then McSorley gets nothing on second down. Third-and-long: Chase Young bats down a McSorley pass. Three-and-out, and OSU will start at its 44 after a couple more special teams penalties. Horrid start for the Nittany Lions in the third quarter, and the White Out crowd is totally silent. OSU 14, PSU 13.

10:22

TOUCHDOWN. A much more crisp Ohio State offense emerges from the locker room after halftime. Starting from the 25, Dobbins rushes for eight yards, then Haskins finds Campbell for gains of eight and nine yards. Dobbins rushes for five yards to move the chains again, then Haskins goes deep for Austin Mack but misses. After an eight-yard pass to Binjimen Victor, Dobbins comes up just short on third-and-2.

Fourth-and-inches: Dobbins gets exactly the number of inches needed. First down at the PSU 35.

Rushes by Haskins (five yards) and Dobbins (six) generate another first down and work the Buckeyes solidly into field goal range. Hill runs wide left for eight yards, then makes a one-handed snare of a little flare pass to gain 12 more yards. First-and-goal at the 4, and Dobbins takes it from there. Touchdown. Thirteen plays, 75 yards, 4:38. What a drive to start the half. OSU 14, PSU 13.

Halftime

Some stats:

Total yards: PSU 293, OSU 93

Yards per play: PSU 7.0, OSU 3.1

First downs: PSU 9, OSU 4

PSU’s Trace McSorley: 10-for-19 for 198 yards and one touchdown, plus 10 carries for 76 yards

OSU’s Dwayne Haskins: 7-for-16 for 62 yards, one TD, and one INT.

PSU’s Miles Sanders: 10 carries for 31 yards

OSU’s JK Dobbins and Mike Weber: 10 carries for 30 yards, two catches for 31 yards and a score

Second Quarter

0:00

Hamler’s return comes out to the 18. McSorley and Johnson connect for 10 yards, McSorley runs a QB draw for eight more, and then Johnson catches another short pass as the clock moves under one minute. Sanders gets to midfield, and PSU uses its first timeout with 36 seconds left. Pete Werner stops McSorley short on third-and-2, though, and Gillikin punts. Ohio State kneels it out and heads to the locker room, pretty dang lucky to be in this game. PSU 13, OSU 7.

1:50

TOUCHDOWN. Life for Ohio State. After another Dobbins carry is stuffed, Ohio State perfectly executes a screen pass. Haskins lobs to Dobbins, who explodes down the right sideline. Ohio State has no business being in this game but trails by just six approaching halftime. PSU 13, OSU 7.

2:32

FUMBLE. Tuf Borland separates Sanders from the ball, and Dre’Mont Jones falls on it at the bottom of a huge file. Ohio State’s defense just created a break. PSU 13, OSU 0.

2:44

PSU’s line is just dominating. Rushes by Weber and Campbell gain a combined three yards, and a pressured (yet again) Haskins can only find Weber for five yards on third-and-7. Another damn three-and-out. Chrisman makes another nice punt, and PSU will start at its 25.

4:23

Nothing is more of a tease than a nearly successful wheel route. McSorley and Sanders can’t quite hook up, and after a three-yard run by McSorley, Mac Hippenhammer can’t reel in a third-and-7 pass. Gillikin’s punt is fair caught at the OSU 25. PSU 13, OSU 0.

5:17

OSU creates only its second third-and-manageable of the night after Haskins finds Campbell for seven yards, but the third-down result is the same: PSU blitzes, Haskins rushes his throw, and McLaurin can’t reel it in. ANOTHER three-and-out for the Buckeyes. Goodness. Ohio State is so out of sorts that Chrisman’s punt is even semi-returnable. Hamler takes it to the PSU 29. PSU 13, OSU 0.

5:59

TOUCHDOWN. McSorley again targets Hamler, and again it falls incomplete. Sanders buys space with a five-yard run...

...and then Hamler shows why McSorley is trying so hard to get him the ball and why I should shut up. He finally reels in one of those quick slants and outruns basically every Ohio State defender.

KJ Hamler is the fastest man in the world pic.twitter.com/9mGkYv1s8T

— Sports Illustrated (@SInow) September 30, 2018

A 93-yard lightning bolt, and PSU’s lead just got a lot more comfortable. PSU 13, OSU 0.

7:02

OSU’s offense: also disheveled. Weber gains just two yards on first down, then Haskins has to basically throw the ball away on a well-covered screen pass. Haskins is once again forced to scramble from the pocket, and a trio of Nittany Lions, including Micah Parsons, is waiting to corral him. Another punt.

Another good punt, mind you. Chrisman’s boot is downed at the 1. PSU 6, OSU 0.

8:30

PSU’s offense is disheveled. A McSorley slant to Hamler is nearly picked off — it really feels like he’s forcing the ball to him at this point (and the offense was looking a lot better when he was looking at a lot of guys) — then Chase Young sacks him for a loss of seven. On third-and-long, Johnson suffers his second drop, but he wouldn’t have gotten the first down anyway. Another three-and-out, and Gillikin’s punt (his best of the night) is fair caught at the OSU 40. PSU 6, OSU 0.

9:24

Three J.K. Dobbins rushes gain 16 yards and move the chains, but a fourth gains just two. Haskins throws incomplete to a well-covered Terry McLaurin, and on third-and-8, Haskins is nearly sacked and misfires, almost throwing a second pick. Four of five third downs have been third-and-longs, and the Buckeyes haven’t converted any of them (or come particularly close). PSU will start at its 19. PSU 6, OSU 0. Total Yards: PSU 166, OSU 56.

11:18

FIELD GOAL. Woof. PSU has been miserable in the red zone. Sanders loses three yards on first down, then McSorley drastically overshoots Hamler. On third-and-13, Sanders takes a direct snap off right end but slips about three yards short of the sticks. Pinegar’s 39-yarder is good and doubles Penn State’s lead, but that’s six points in three scoring opportunities. That doesn’t typically get the job done against top-five opponents. PSU 6, OSU 0.

12:48

INTERCEPTION. After an 11-yard Mike Weber run moves the Buckeyes into PSU territory for the first time, Haskins fires over the middle to tight end Rashod Berry. The ball hits him in the hands, then bounces off of them. Garrett Taylor picks it off and takes it 45 yards in the other direction to the OSU 28 before Johnnie Dixon tracks him down and a scuffle ensues. Huge opportunity for the Nittany Lions. PSU 3, OSU 0.

13:27

PSU starts at the 19 after another good Chrisman punts. (I feel like I’ve live-blogged a lot of awesome Chrisman punts in the last 12 months or so.) McSorley rushes for four yards on first down, then, finds Hamler for no gain. His third-and-6 pass to Hamler is broken up by Shaun Wade. Three-and-out. Blake Gillikin’s second punt is better than his first but isn’t great — OSU will start at its 45. PSU 3, OSU 0. Success rate so far: PSU 32% (bad), OSU 10% (horrible).

First Quarter

0:00

Dobbins loses three yards out wide, then Tariq Castro-Fields nearly picks off a misfire from Haskins. A pass to Mack is short of the chains, and Ohio State will begin the second quarter by punting. PSU 3, OSU 0. Total yards: PSU 155, OSU 27. Nittany Lions on pace for 620 yards ... and 12 points.

1:14

Big play No. 2 for PSU: McSorley runs to the right and finds lots of green grass — 51 yards’ worth. He’s pushed out of bounds at the OSU 29. Two Sanders runs gains just three yards, though, and McSorley’s sacked by Chase Young on third-and-7. Pinegar’s 46-yard field goal drifts left. The Nittany Lions lead, but they should be leading by more. OSU isn’t going to be stagnant forever. PSU 3, OSU 0.

3:36

Three-and-out for Ohio State. You don’t see many of those. A short pass to K.J. Hill and a run by Mike Weber gain three yards, then Hill drops a quick slant. Crowd’s into it. Chrisman uncorks a nice punt, though, and PSU will start at its 20. PSU 3, OSU 0.

4:58

FIELD GOAL. McSorley’s getting a lot of guys involved early. After a short run by Sanders, the senior QB hits freshman Pat Freiermuth for 15 yards. He bulls his way into OSU territory for a 13-yard gain, then lobs the ball to Johnson, who makes an absolutely astounding one-handed catch at the OSU 30.

ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE. pic.twitter.com/Ym1PKTwMYX

— CBS Sports (@CBSSports) September 30, 2018

Wow.

The drive de-rails when they try to get Stevens involved again. He drops a lateral and falls on it for a 13-yard loss. Johnson catches two seven-yard passes to set up a makable field goal attempt, at least. Jake Pinegar’s 34-yarder creeps inside the right upright. PSU 3, OSU 0.

8:35

Ohio State certainly trusts Dwayne Haskins. In the sophomore’s first real road start, his first two plays are passes: a 10-yarder to Austin Mack and a ball off of Parris Campbell’s hands. His first third down (after a false start and a five-yard scramble): a screen pass to Campbell that is snarfed up by Shareef Miller. Drue Chrisman’s first punt is fair caught at the 21. PSU 0, OSU 0.

10:10

Penn State wins the toss and elects to take the ball. That’s one way to try to make the electric atmosphere even more electric. KJ Hamler returns the ball to the PSU 21, and we’re underway.

Trace McSorley hits Hamler for nine yards on a play-fake, then finds Brandon Polk wide open on the sideline for 20 more yards to midfield. Miles Sanders’ first carry gains three yards, and after a two-yard loss by Tommy Stevens, McSorley scrambles and dives to within two yards of the chains. Fourth-and-2 from the OSU 42, after an Ohio State timeout and lots of feints: Sanders gains two yards and not an inch more. First down.

It’s quickly third down again after carries by Stevens and McSorley gain just one yard, and Juwan Johnson drops a pass, so after all the hullabaloo, PSU punts ... and it drifts out of bounds at only the 20. PSU 0, OSU 0.

Preview

In a short amount of time, the Penn State White Out game has become one of football’s signature scenes. The size, intensity, and brightness of the crowd, combined with the fact that a big-time rival is in town, tends to make it must-see television.

But historically, the White Out hasn’t tended to benefit the home team.

Compared to the spread, Penn State actually underachieved by an average of about 1.8 points per game before the last two seasons; the Nittany Lions failed to cover five of seven White Out games between 2006 and 2012.

It’s become a perk more recently, though.

In 2013, PSU was a 2.5-point underdog but beat 18th-ranked Michigan in overtime. The next year, the Nittany Lions were a 14-point underdog but took No. 13 Ohio State to overtime before falling. And of course, following a bit of a dud in 2015 (four-point underdogs, they lost to No. 14 Michigan by 12), they ignited in the past two seasons.

Their special teams-aided 24-21 win over No. 2 Ohio State in 2016 set the table for a run to the Big Ten title, and while they were 9.5-point favorites hosting Michigan last season, they won by 29.

For all intents and purposes, then, the Big Ten race begins on Saturday night in Pennsylvania.

Let’s do an old-school SWOT analysis to lay out how this game might play out.

Each team’s strengths

Ohio State: Relentless efficiency

Four teams have beaten Ohio State in the last 24 months. But to do so, you have to find an alternate route. The most direct path to wins and losses — efficiency — is almost permanently tinted scarlet and gray.

In 2015, the Buckeyes ranked 10th in offensive success rate (the amount of plays that remain on schedule toward first downs) and seventh in defensive success rate. In 2016: 18th and 14th, respectively. In 2017: third and 14th. In 2018, so far, with a new starting quarterback: second and 15th. They stay on schedule and make sure you don’t.

Ohio State holds a plus-24 percent success rate advantage over opponents (57.7 percent to 33.3 percent, filtering out garbage time). Granted, the Buckeyes have played only one team ranked higher than 97th in S&P+ (current No. 30 TCU), but even against TCU, they held a solid 6 percent advantage.

Efficiency is replicable. Ohio State forces you to rely on less reliable methods — a blocked kick returned for a touchdown (2016 Penn State), for instance, or a sudden gush of turnovers (2017 Iowa).

Penn State: The offense is still really, really good

This is a different Penn State offense, in some ways the polar opposite of 2016-17, when Joe Moorhead (now Mississippi State’s head coach) was calling the plays and running back Saquon Barkley was a threat to go 80 yards on any snap.

In 2016, the Nittany Lions were big-play dynamos, threats to score every play, but inconsistent and inefficient.

In 2017, they sacrificed some of the big plays for efficiency. They improved from 37.6 to 41.1 points per game and from 18th to 10th in Off. S&P+.

This time, under new coordinator Ricky Rahne, they’ve skewed even further in the direction of efficiency. With a thinner receiving corps, they’ve leaned on junior Miles Sanders and backups Ricky Slade and Mark Allen, who have combined for 120 carries and 741 yards (6.2 per carry) in four games. Quarterback Trace McSorley (38 non-sack carries, 257 yards) is a weapon, too. Allen is out with injury, but Slade could be ready for a larger share of carries.

Despite occasional passing struggles — McSorley is completing 54 percent of his passes, way down from last year’s 67 percent — PSU ranks eighth in overall success rate, 12th in run efficiency, and 13th in standard-downs efficiency. And the Nittany Lions have been good at picking up steam as a game wears on, averaging 18.3 points in the first half and 35.5 in the second.

Each team’s weaknesses

Ohio State: Big plays are not the Buckeyes’ friend

In 14 games last season, the Buckeyes gave up 20 gains of 30-plus yards, or 1.4 per game.

In just four weeks, this year’s defense has already given up 11, 2.8 per game.

And most of the breakdowns have come in defense-friendly situations. They rank fourth in standard-downs explosiveness allowed ... and 129th in passing-downs (second-and-long, third/fourth-and-medium-plus) explosiveness allowed.

The absence of defensive end Nick Bosa, the blue-chip junior who had six tackles for loss in basically 2.5 games, could give McSorley an extra beat for finding big-play opportunities.

PSU is not the big-play machine it was, but if you combine the Nittany Lions’ potential run efficiency with two or three gashes, then that might get the job done, especially if the Buckeyes’ offense can’t match.

When Ohio State has the ball, it’s strength vs. strength and weakness vs. weakness in the explosiveness department. Penn State ranks 61st in standard-downs explosiveness allowed, but OSU’s offense ranks only 90th. OSU ranks a lofty 12th on passing downs, but PSU ranks 15th.

Penn State: The run defense has been awfully shaky

Head coach James Franklin appeared to know he had some leeway last Friday at Illinois, deploying a large rotation of defenders (many freshman or sophomores) while he and his staff continued to try to figure out what they’ve got. The game remained close for a while.

That’s been a theme this year. Twenty-five different PSU defenders have seen the field enough to make at least three tackles (not including special teams tackles), and nine have recorded at least 9.5 (Ohio State, for comparison’s sake: 22 of the former, only six of the latter).

We don’t know what will happen if or when Franklin and coordinator Brent Pry pare down the rotation, but we do know this: with this large rotation, the run defense has kind of stunk. Penn State ranks 73rd in run efficiency allowed and 88th in run explosiveness. A trio of Illinois backs (Reggie Corbin, Mike Epstein, and RaVon Bonner) carried 28 times for 202 yards, while Pitt’s Qadree Ollison and A.J. Davis carried 27 times for 157 yards a few weeks ago.

I just named a few pretty good backs, but Ohio State’s J.K. Dobbins and Mike Weber are better.

Opportunities and threats

(We’ll combine this into one, since one team’s opportunity is the other’s threat. In fact, let’s simply treat this as each team’s most likely path to victory.)

Ohio State’s most likely path to victory is kind of obvious

The Buckeyes’ tendencies have changed since Dwayne Haskins took over at quarterback. While they always leaned toward the run game with JT Barrett, they now throw more than the national average on both standard downs (57 percent run rate, 3 percentage points below the average) and passing downs (25 percent run rate, 10 percentage points below).

Haskins has rewarded this trust with otherworldly numbers. He is completing 76 percent of his passes at nearly 14 yards per completion, and he’s taking few sacks. He’s showing the poise and decision-making of a senior (he’s a sophomore) and distributing evenly — four different receivers have between 205 and 299 receiving yards.

Of course, when there’s a game to put to bed, the Buckeyes still have Dobbins and Weber. If the game reaches that stage, it’s hard to imagine PSU’s young defense getting the stops it needs.

When you’re the better team — and Ohio State is the “better team” against any team besides Alabama and maybe Clemson or Georgia — you don’t have to rely on unlikely events. If the Buckeyes win in Happy Valley, it’s probably because they made too many third-down conversions with Haskins’ arm early on, took advantage of PSU’s occasional mid-game funks, and moved the chains with Dobbins and Weber late.

The S&P+ projection for this game is OSU 35, PSU 32, but that’s the average result. If the Buckeyes win, I’m thinking it’s something close to 35-24.

Penn State’s most likely path to victory: time for the unveil

Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St, Kent St 1-0 mentality, this weeks Super Bowl!!!!!!

— James Franklin (@coachjfranklin) September 10, 2018

Each week, Franklin makes a show of reminding his team not to look ahead. Every game is that week’s Super Bowl. Saturday opponent, Saturday opponent, Saturday opponent.

This is good coaching. Keeping a good team focused — especially a good young team — requires diligence, and even with this public display, his team still nearly slipped up against a good Appalachian State in Week 1.

Still, the Nittany Lions are 4-0 and sixth in S&P+ despite tinkering and a huge rotation. And now we probably get a more sustained glimpse of the real Penn State, the one with the pared-down defensive rotation and the thicker play book.

“1-0 mentality” or not, PSU’s almost undoubtedly been holding some things in reserve for this game. Now we find out if they work.

The formula for beating Ohio State seems simple on paper:

Take full advantage of the three or four big plays the Buckeyes will give you on defense.

Confuse Haskins at least a couple of times and make sure you end up with the ball when you do.

Hey, maybe block a field goal again — that worked pretty well last time.

Ohio State is tremendous at leaning on you until you give out, but a couple of teams per year manage to make the Buckeyes uncomfortable. TCU did for a while.

If Sanders gets to 100 rushing yards, if a veteran receiver like Juwan Johnson, DeAndre Thompkins (only six catches so far), or Brandon Polk (ditto) can reel in a long ball, and if the pass rush, led by end Shareef Miller, can get Haskins to the ground, PSU’s got a healthy shot.

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hairpintvrns · 6 months ago

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STARTER FOR: @bloodbuzzfm LOCATION: terry's residence / forest lake

The most optimal birding season in Illinois was in spring—and fall, too, especially if one were to account for migratory patterns—but it had been a lackluster season for finding lifers so far. They'd assumed their cabin smack-dab in the middle of the woods and well-canopied with an assortment of deciduous shrubs and trees would be quite an ideal habitat for a wood thrush. Yet as with Terry's many travels across the Midwestern United States, the animal eluded them.

Granted, most of those trips were spent in gaudy 4-star hotels that didn't have smoking rooms and whose conference halls held the worst fluorescent lights known to mankind, but they got lucky on occasion—they'd been able to find the rarer hermit thresh in Evanston, of all places, and under a forked tree limb at that.

There was some consolation to be had. Some mornings, the wood thrush's unique birdsong threatened to pull them back to sleep, its trilling underscores reminding her of a guitar's tremolo, or of someone singing both parts of a duet. But rather than entertain, the birdsong only frustrated them to no end. Always there, and yet it wasn't. A presence made known by its absence. Strange, strange, strange...

"So I'm sure they're somewhere close, but their nest must be pretty high up. Or they're foraging way, way down," Terry said—or continued, depending on how much their son had heard of their mumbling.

Closing their journal shut, they sat back up from their slouched position in the seat and removed their feet from the table. "There's a path I haven't quite explored yet a mile northeast of here, but the underbrush gets far too dense to see whether the forest floor is even or not, and my phone service gets cut off. It's not fun at all." They shook their head, visibly disappointed, before meeting Micah's eyes on the opposite end of the room. "Doc, I have an extra pair of binoculars. You are not doing anything today, no?" Terry stood up, already making their way towards the shelving nook on the bottom of the staircase where their birding equipment lay, "If we get lost, worse comes to worst, we'll just follow the birdsong. We can probably find our way back ourselves."

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah

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hairpintvrns · 2 months ago

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(post-event) STARTER FOR: @micahweissberg LOCATION: terry's residence / forest lake

The luncheon was over, and Terry had begun walking back home. The slightly westward light of the afternoon sun cleaved a long shadow across the cabin, impressing a haunting quality on the rough-hewn logs, the chinking between the wood almost producing a sort of shimmer, silver veins threading through the weathered facade.

And on the porch, their son sat, waiting.

Terry walked toward the cabin. He didn’t look up, even as the pebbles scattered across the entryway crackled under her feet.

In the last weeks of his life, their father had told them how much he had pushed the world away—how he’d pressed against whatever half-memories lingered in their 80-year-old mind—for underneath, dark things stirred. Instead, he’d elected to remember the small things, bereft of the details that complicated the memory. The walnut butcher block in the kitchen. An eagle in Southeast Alaska they had seen together, flying overhead, flapping its great wings to keep airborne. The glitter of olive leaves against the summer sky. The thin stray dog who had wandered onto their porch, sighing contentedly at his feet as though he had always belonged there. And, of course, there was the birdsong.

They’d spent those last months trying to understand their father, that attempt to find meaning in fragments. But as they spotted Micah, and immediately felt crushed by the vision of him, they understood why it was easier to look at the disparate pieces of memory, rather than to confront the solid whole of what he had forgotten.

But they couldn’t think of anything as their father had. In their head, there was only the world’s vastness—all they saw now was light and shadow and space. The sky has become a ceiling, and the trees have closed in like walls, and the sun, its round disc hanging just above the forest canopy, no longer feels uplifting but oppressive. To walk is to feel the crushing weight of gravity pulling them down, the stones gnawing at the pit of their stomach.

It had been easier to ignore him amid the noise of the luncheon, to let the image of him fade into the backdrop, burned against the brick and walls and stone. But there is a high tariff to masking. It encourages one to stop seeing. They see him now with a fresh pair of eyes and they can’t stop. The cabin stands ahead like a piece of wood, and everything—their son, their life, and their misery—feels so unbearably small.

“You’re here,” Terry began, words barely a whisper, but they can’t look at him. They glanced downward at their feet, eyes tracing the pebbles on the earth, the gaps between the earthen surface folding into a pattern of convex and concave lines. “Why are you here?”

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah #event. weissberg charity luncheon #//i tried to make this more comprehensible i really did but they've gone all abstract on me again <3

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hairpintvrns · 3 months ago

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TERRY LOWENSTEIN + Birdforum.net profile.

Terry recently celebrated 20 years of engaging in their first birding forum. As an active participant in the community, they enjoy a relatively large following on the platform and have met up with several people on it. (In the first few years, Terry used to be accompanied by Micah, because, well, stranger danger—and they are not the best at reading social cues, to say the least.) In July 2024, they changed their header profile to that of their new Maine coon mix, Samson, replacing their years-long header of the Natural History Museum in Utah, the favorite building they'd ever designed.

EverydayTerry: Supporter / An architect now teaching future architects / 53 / From New York City Joined: August 17, 2004 / Last seen: Today at 10:45 AM / Messages: 28,634 / Gallery: 189 / Reaction score: 14,396 Find: Profile posts / Latest activity / Postings / Gallery / About

Tips and tricks for spotting birds in dense forests

A strategy I've found works best particularly in hilly paths is finding a trail path that sits along a ridge. You will be afforded with a better vantage point, as the trees will have gone down the slope. In some cases you might even be eye level with higher parts of the tree -- perhaps that can be an option… EverydayTerry · Post #539 · Sunday at 9:44 PM · Forum: Tips for New Birders

Instagram problem

Has anyone else had the problem of getting too many followers on Instagram? I'd checked my follower list and very few of them seem to be interested in birds. I'm not sure if "removing followers" is acceptable. Tonight I'd gotten a comment about 'catfishing' for changing my profile picture and I'm almost at the point of giving up … EverydayTerry · Post #28,634 · Saturday at 9:51 PM · Forum: Computers, Birding Software And The Int …

Happy 20th anniversary to our good friend Terry!

Many thanks Jack, Euan, and Ilya for the anniversary wishes. it is hard to believe I've dedicated 20 years towards this forum … and yes, Euan, you are correct in recalling that I've met my ex-partner here. We separated some two years ago. And yes, Ilya, I still recall your invitation to drinks in Chicago. Perhaps we can settle the arrangement soon. Let us talk … EverydayTerry · Post #11,239 · Friday at 10:36 PM · Forum: Members Faces

Happy 20th anniversary to our good friend Terry!

I opted for a smaller celebration. There aren't many folks I know who live in the Chicago area just yet. Terry (yes, we share the same name, we've heard it before … ) and I attempted to take photos of some black-bellied whistling-ducks we spotted over the lake but the ripples on the water seemed to throw the focus off. Think now I might have used so much zoom but we live and learn … EverydayTerry · Media Item · Friday at 9:20 PM · Comments: #23 · Category: Members Faces

#musings. terry #socials. terry #//done for utterly own self-serving purposes thank you. i was inspired by everyone sending me bird stuff.#//my draft count is at the trenches but we push on #//some angst content here if you squint but terry is emotionally constipated. so. <3

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hairpintvrns · 3 months ago

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The biggest mistake one could make about birding is that it privileges the sense of sight. But at least three other senses were engaged holistically in the exercise. Sound, of course, was the second most important sense in terms of efficiency, but smell and touch, too, were vital factors in a search—especially when the bird proved to be solidarity, unmoving, and silent.

Only—in the absence of birdsong, its foraging site, and daylight, the wood thrush was sure to have gone. The moment was over.

They were familiar with these moments of surrender. How, amid the world turning, a bird was instead left to obscurity. In the last few months of his life, their father had wanted to push his lifer list towards an even 7,000—to which he was still about a hundred species short. Tucked between Terry’s blueprint tubes and architectural magazines on the shelves of their cabin were rolled-up and yellowing field guides for places that, in his old age, he wouldn’t have been able to get to alone, notwithstanding the very real possibility that the environmental ramifications since the magazine’s publication would have already destroyed their purported habitats.

There was no poetry in those trips they’d taken. All Terry remembered was driving their father through a banged-up midsize hatchback and bearing the motor sputtering every few minutes as they drove across the United States, looking for birds in the mountains, the riverbanks, and the open country. The frustrated phone calls in the middle of the road as the battery died for the umpteenth time. The cold nights when all Terry and their father had to eat were granola bars and being the only person left in the I-15, save for a passing truck that lit the entire hatchback awash with glaring, white lights.

His half-hearted attempts at completing his goal meant that by the time the trips were over, all they had left were a few lifers and a fruitless journey. Always such a realist, Ketzi, they recounted, but it’s not about the destination, is it? It’s always the journey that matters, in the end. But it wasn’t just that, was it? They would like to assign some meaning to those disparate images, but all it had felt was a long goodbye, stretched out in the hopes that by the end, it would land only as a soft blow. Only the grief had been elastic all the same, hitting them in the cavity of their chest, and then stretched out again as they recited the Kaddish an entire year after his death.

They’d fought their father more often in those last months. They hadn’t been proud of it, but that inward frustration bore recalling now, in face of their child, who had his grandfather’s smile and her own features, who was now on the way to becoming his father’s son. They watched, helplessly, as the great white trilliums that had taken years to grow—in this stock of a forest, in this little town, so displaced from the home they’d made for themselves—were stabbed out of existence. Micah was here. Still here. That ought to count for something.

“We should go back,” they said, standing up abruptly from their seat, “there’s no point. The thrush is gone and the night is here.”

But Terry couldn’t quite shake the gnawing feeling that they were losing him, little by little. That by stretching out these moments, they were left with nothing but the painful recall, stubbornly assigning meaning to what was, in truth, just another failed attempt.

his mother attempts to argue, as she often does, but decides to abandon the cause mid-thought. as she often does. micah doesn't count moments like this as a victory, if only for the lack of trying, though he often only argues for its own sake, anyway. maybe it's embedded into his dna, the constant need to oppose. isn't that the very nature of his parents' relationship? the foundation upon which their marriage was built? two parallel lines decide to marry upon a temporary intersection— what foolishness!

"it's not like i want to, anyway," he says of his future in his father's firm. the truth is that it was just never brought up. he never wanted it to be brought up because then his playing pretend will have to come true and he's not sure he can fulfill that role the way his father might want him to. "and i don't wanna piggyback off what he built for himself. that's his, you know?" and he doesn't want to owe saul weissberg anything.

he can sense that he'd hit a nerve at the way his mother spits his words back at him with an airy sort of sarcasm that hangs in the air between them, mocking him. he's well-familiar with this dance; he'll say something insensitive and instead of telling him why he shouldn't say that, they instead repeat his words to him until they start to sound wrong, until he can think about why they sound wrong, until guilt and embarrassment causes him to choke back on his words just because he lacks a certain filter.

so he doesn't dignify his mother's goading with an answer, instead quietly rolls his eyes away from them, though he's pretty sure they're familiar enough with this routine that they know what he's doing even without looking. your father loves you is met with even more silence than the sentiment should warrant; it feels more like an opinion than a fact, and more a joke than an opinion. other people have it way worse, he thinks, than having a father who forgets about him from time to time, who've chosen to value their careers over their flesh and blood. other people don't have fathers to lament about at all, and others have fathers who do much more unspeakable things. you shouldn't compare your feelings to others, his therapist would remind him, still reminds him, when he doesn't flake out on his appointments, and yet he does anyway, because he has it good, he has it better, so why is he so fucking sad all the time?

stubbornly, he switches the stick over to his other hand when his mother swats his cruel weapon of destruction away. he used to do the same with the fire ants and earthworms and other grub in their garden. his grandfather had threatened him to eat them when he realized why he'd been spending so much time outside. if you're gonna kill them, you better eat them, zevi, daniel would say, already with a pan in hand. d'you feel like a big man when you do that?

his mother, on the other hand, chooses instead to highlight the miracle of life via flower factoid. still doesn't explain why he should care when it has nothing to do with him. stabbing at another wildflower on his opposite side, he smiles.

"good for them."

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah #death mention tw #//wrapped!

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micahweissberg · 3 months ago

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"good for them."

Ever so stubborn. Terry couldn’t recall their brothers being this particularly obtuse, and their father was an even unlikelier story. Their lips formed a thin line as he moved through his argument about texting and FaceTime and online discussions that was supposed to be reassuring but only hammered the point home that Terry was always going to be older. “That isn’t the same, Doc,” they began their argument, but it was hard to explain how absence could be just as palpable as a presence—like the gaps between slabs, between columns, between birdsong. It was hard to tell Micah these things, or to come at their own defense, without inviting herself to a rigorous examination. So they let the argument hang in the air, almost like a concession, and turned their attention towards the ground.

You’ve watched all the growing up I can do for a lifetime. Could that be true? Their gaze shifted from the wildflowers to their son’s face. Some days, Terry might catch his eyes and find their own irises, a curious hazel permutation. Bold but defiant, strong but malleable. On other days, when it hit the sun just right, there was only the solid, striking blue staring back. Electric. His father’s eyes.

And his father’s ever contrarian nature, too. Micah, the son of a lawyer, in turn a lawyer’s son; the son of an architect, in turn a butcher’s daughter. Careers built out of precision. Among the three of them, Terry thought, only Micah had the power to slice them both down, to cut them in one clean sweep. “Is that what he said? No chance for you to take over the firm, then, after he’s gone? Or at least a place in it?” They asked, curious, and aware at how it tread dangerously to the pesky business of planning for the future. They’re certain that his hypothetical funeral would be well-attended—but if Saul died, and Micah was his only son, only he was bound by their faith to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish for a full year.

What was the point if he wasn’t going to extend the courtesy of a promise of a law firm, however false, or empty? They couldn’t stand the idea of Micah wanting for anything that could be so readily given. And even if Micah wouldn’t want it—well, they’d just like Micah to have the option. Did that make Terry a hypocrite, then, wanting for their son to reap the benefits of nepotism now, when they’d raised him with their family’s sensibilities for twenty-nine years?

Maybe his father did only want him for the summer. That had been the arrangement, hadn’t it, and the thing about Micah’s father and his promises was that it always came to an end. Maybe his winning streak, however impeccable, was not so much entirely the product of his merit but in his ability to choose the battles that he could win. And, family? That was always going to be unwinnable, if only because there were no laurels to win, no contract to close, no case by which to render a judgment. Only the restless ambiguity of relationships, and the inevitable sense of loss, even in victory.

The sun hung low on the sky, casting its golden light through the trees, cleaving its way through the trunks and the underbrush and the wildflowers, producing leaflike shadows over their bodies, on the exposed skin that laid there. As they approached the twilight hour, those eyes were incomprehensible. Only pale skin against the cloying dark.

They took offense at Micah’s next words. His chuckle from seconds past felt displaced now; the joke was over. “Is that what you think? That we look like idiots? Or that he doesn’t give a shit?” They echoed, almost goading. Arguments with their son rarely tended to be messy, if only because he’d concede in that way of his, and then bank the conversation for later, and by then they’d already worn out the argument. But, now—was it really so bad to assume that his love for their son was the stabilizing equation, the part that would never be in doubt, if only because he had so few means to show it? “Your father loves you,” but they stopped there, unwilling to go through that familiar exercise of making and rehashing excuses.

“Stop that,” Terry took a deep breath, swatting away Micah’s hand from the direction of the wildflowers, lest they go through a similar fate. They leaned forward abruptly, biting her cheek as the sharp bark against their shoulder provoked a small jolt of pain, and began smoothing over what was left of its petal. Their fingers stroked the trillium's bract, and its engraved venation, and towards the pedicel where the flowers were perched. “Great white trilliums take more than five years to grow out of their rootstock. We should count ourselves lucky, that we’re sitting here, when they’re in bloom.”

#int. micah weissberg #ft. terry lowenstein

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hairpintvrns · 4 months ago

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Ever so stubborn. Terry couldn’t recall their brothers being this particularly obtuse, and their father was an even unlikelier story. Their lips formed a thin line as he moved through his argument about texting and FaceTime and online discussions that was supposed to be reassuring but only hammered the point home that Terry was always going to be older, that their needs were always going to be different. “That isn’t the same, Doc,” they began their argument, but it was hard to explain how absence could be just as palpable as a presence—like the gaps between slabs, between columns, between birdsong. It was hard to tell Micah these things, or to come at their own defense, without inviting herself to a rigorous examination. So they let the argument hang in the air, almost like a concession, and turned their attention towards the ground.

"right, impractical." maybe their tactless disregard for danger is a genetic thing— whether it's knives or living in a dark forest or gallivanting alone to coney island at 17 to meet strange men through the internet, their sense of self-preservation is alarmingly low, if there's any at all. and perhaps micah recognizes this in his mother, and she in him, that leaving the other alone would be like letting them succumb to this congenital disease of self-destruction. therefore he cannot be the one to give the lecture on safety or be the judge that admonishes them for finding the idea of frolicking around the forest more impractical than it is dangerous.

he traces the dirt around his shoes with the stick, carefully, enough to make a little pangea where he sits, a marker for where he should break off from the rest of the world should the ground choose to shatter in the next few minutes. the mention of his late grandfather, especially coming from his mother, still conjures an acute, concentrated kind of ache akin to a migraine of the heart. not just for himself, but for his mother and his uncles. they may talk lightly of it, and notwithstanding the piece of work that his own father is, but he counts himself lucky that he's never had to know the kind of grieving that both his parents have. his father, especially, considering how he'd lost his old man at such a young age, way younger than micah is now. "well, i don't think papa wanted it literally. everything's online now, anyway. texting, facetime... it's all still real-time. it's not like back then," in his usual spirit of speaking like he knows more than he does despite the lack of lived experience, a trait that he'd cultivated from his time on the high school debate team to his career on stage, "you didn't know when you'll get to see your family next. you could forget what they looked like. i wouldn't say it's anybody's fault." he shrugs. "it's a cultural thing, i think. like, ravi still sees his parents at least every other day. if he didn't, then it would be his fault." he remembers the time during college when he and his best friend went to jersey shore for a weekend without telling anyone because, well, did they really have to? and he was banned from the chakravarthy household for one week, though the ban would eventually be lifted because he was him and they couldn't stay mad at him for very long. that was because they hadn't seen ravi's face for two whole days. his household, on the other hand... severine was probably just glad she got his mother to herself for a weekend. "so, i think you've watched all the growing up i can do for a lifetime, ma."

if there was anything normal about the way terry lowenstein had raised a son all on their own, it's that there's sulking. and a lot of it. and it hasn't stopped, not even when that son is fast approaching his thirties. "but i did finish my education," micah reminds his mother sullenly. "wasn't this just the bonus round?" he'd decided to attend law school entirely on his own volition, on the condition that they would be on his own terms. which, just as most things that are asked of him, like house chores, or a little more patience sometimes, is something he becomes less interested in doing when it turns into a requirement. "nobody takes the bonus round seriously, ma." oh, if his father could hear them now. "well, look, i'm not arguing with you, but hypothetically, it's not like i'm gonna take over his firm when he's gone, anyway. his clients will just look for another lawyer and the office will go back to being a furniture warehouse or whatever it used to be before." he gives a perfunctory wave with the stick. perish the thought.

he leans exaggeratedly to the side at his mother's playful chiding, chuckling softly as he straightens up and fixes the hair on the back of his head. noticing how the wildflowers had captivated his mother's attention as they begin to fidget, he pokes at one near their feet, purposefully tearing a petal from its stem, releasing a light, citrusy scent at the breaking of fibers. "yeah, i get that," he says, working on impaling a petal with the branch, the stick thrashing around on the dirt. "it's just... sometimes i don't think he'll really care, is all. and we'll end up looking like idiots, as usual." he moves his gaze up to meet his mother's in earnest. "this kinda stuff just doesn't work when the other person doesn't give a shit."

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah #death mention tw

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micahweissberg · 4 months ago

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Terry pressed themselves more firmly into the bark, shoulders relaxing at the tactile reassurance against their spine. The conversation was veering towards something weightier than either might have intended, sporadically but surely, like fire crackling over the hearth. They were grateful, then, that Micah likened them to some forest cryptid with a huff they’d come to register as him being particularly pleased with himself. “I’m not going to start hiking at night, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s very impractical,” they followed it up with a small quip of their own, leaning back and sighing into the comfort of the forest.

Feeling an abrasive edge of the trunk jutting out just inches below their shoulder, Terry adjusted their position slightly so that its sharpness was rendered only as a dull ache. For a long while, there was only the noisy silence of the forest, the thrush’s lilting song replaced with the cicadas’ trills, piercing and abrasive, the song of summer.

And he isn’t wrong. Micah’s childhood had been anything but conventional. A family being split in two was a grief shared by half of the families in the country, to be sure, only—the hurt carried on, and on, and on, and soon they were also navigating the spoils of the fight. The great pain could only last so long. What came next were the tiny thousand pinpricks: the mortgage, the town taxes, the meager salary of an entry-level profession, the private grade school tuition, the credit card bills run up during the first few years of single parenthood. They could have asked for help from Saul in those days, but it had felt like a defeat. What the Lowensteins had lacked in capital they’d made up for in pride, and they were too much of their father’s daughter to beg for the crumbs of another’s family’s supposed kindness. And Micah? He’d taken into the role of an adult far too naturally, far too quickly, without having ever asked him.

He must’ve resented me, having to take care of me when we were still reeling.

“It’s what Papa would’ve wanted, I think.” So what business did they have to invoke family now? “It’s me and my siblings’ fault that we’ve grown so fractured. I doubt he’d have liked the family reunion to be when we sat shiva.” Deciding it was useless to put blame, they excised the thought. And, anyway, thinking about their family and the fractured units they had become over the decades exhausted them. Separation was only natural, she thought, and indeed, the only way to achieve growth. So why did it always feel like they were carrying a phantom limb? And Micah’s reference to Saul—of the hurting kind—cut the point further home, through muscle, through bone. “There’s no ‘we’ll see’, here, Doc. Just finish your education. And he is going to die earlier, believe me. With his sedentary lifestyle, drugs, and drinking? The math is very simple.”

They don’t mean to be morbid. Sometimes, it was just easier to picture Saul Weissberg gone. To drive to his graveyard somewhere in New England, to rake away the leaves built up from the mother and son’s last visit, to ask Micah to find the smoothest rocks he could find in a nearby shallow pond, and to place them above his tombstone. The grief of love lost would have been definable and heavy but final—and not a sharp edge that longed to pierce through them, like the tree bark perched over their shoulder.

Micah’s last quip brought them out of their musings, though, perhaps for the best. “Henry David Thoreau. Oy gutinu, Micah Weissberg, why do you even have an English degree…” They smacked the back of his head, the pressure light, but admonishing.

Amid the darkening sky, the great white trilliums appeared to float. It must have been here for a while. Wildflowers like these could live on for decades, but they withered anyway. Stones, though, they stood still.

“I think…” Terry exhaled, gaze drifting to the ground, and ran their fingers through the wildflowers. They recalled an earlier part of the conversation—I don’t want him to take me back. Maybe I just want him to know what it feels like. “…part of me did want to twist the knife a little bit, by coming here.” They sighed the confession into the air. “I think it’s a little selfish. But—” How would he like it, they thought, if he were delegated with the task of keeping the world together while keeping things the same? “—maybe I’d like to be.”

#int. micah weissberg #ft. terry lowenstein #death mention tw

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hairpintvrns · 4 months ago

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He must’ve resented me, having to take care of me when we were still reeling.

his mother can be so stubbornly set in their ways. micah doesn't want to change them (he'd probably be freaked out if they started going out to party every weekend) but he had spent a sizable chunk of his childhood being a forty-year old kid making decisions for himself where a valid id isn't required or navigating the perilous waters of social conventions and situations when his mother becomes too overwhelmed. but each time, he returned to her, because he had to, legally, and because they were still his mother. he needed her, and they needed him.

the introduction of severine into her life—both their lives, as much as he wanted nothing to do with the woman—had been for the better, though he would never openly admit such a thing. her presence couldn't have had better timing, either, as micah was starting to form his own relationships, map out his future, and with his mother's companion around, there was some relief to be had at the idea that he would be leaving them in good, capable hands. then, of course, came the guilt, that he'd be leaving them at all. and jealousy, each time they'd call about that dinner they went to with severine's friends, how they spent a weekend at a ski town with severine, the new coffee machine severine got them. severine, severine, severine.

and then severine was gone. and he hadn't realized how much his mother had hinged on her, or the idea of her, that in her absence, there was nothing. or, at least, there wasn't a plan. aren't adults supposed to have everything figured out? what was the point of growing up, then?

"no, no, mom, i get that-" he tries to interrupt when they run down the list of people who've left (her ex-husband's name, of course, needed no mention). the curse of object permanence is knowing that something will continue to exist even if it is no longer there and all you're left with is the wretched feeling of being left. and micah sympathizes with his mother, though he knows that pity is the last thing she would want him to feel for her. but there has to be more to this than following your son and ex-husband around just because there's nobody else. "i guess... if you're gonna stay here, i don't want you to be like some forest cryptid people try to look for at night." he says this lovingly, of course, with a mildly amused huff at the mental imagery he provides. though, he supposes, it's more likely that people will try to pin down saul weissberg's three ex-wives in blue harbor like they're playing pokemon go.

"wait, since when are we so concerned about what family does?" it's not a rhetorical question meant to humiliate his mother. he really is curious to know. despite the presence of his maternal grandparents and uncles and cousins, he didn't exactly feel like he had a normal childhood growing up. and while he never held that against any of his family members (he'd embraced it, really), he didn't think 'the things that families do' were in the forefront of his mother's mind this whole time. "well, maybe i don't want him to take me back," he says at the mention of his father. "maybe i just want him to know what it feels like." the desire to hurt his father by spending an entire summer with him only to disappear once the leaves turn brown wasn't initially the plan. he never pegged himself to be the exacting vengeance type, but- "we'll see." like many times before, and with different people in his life, he makes no concrete promises, only vague statements in place of a lie. you really should be a lawyer, an ex had said after he'd won an argument on a technicality. he wasn't much different with his mother. he wonders if it's the same with his father.

tossing aside all the broken up pieces of leaf, he reaches for a long, skinny branch by his feet and starts drawing trenches for the ants on the ground. his mother takes their place beside him, a proverbial white flag raised as the summer cicadas usher in the evening with it sweeping chorus. the birds have likely gone deeper into the forest to roost. the thrushes have won this round.

he makes a face at the way his mother paints a morbid picture of death. not because it's a disturbing thought, but more because he'd been challenged. "if we're talkin' about those statistics, you should probably leave the house more often first." he pokes at his mother's leg with the stick. "and who the fuck is thoreau?"

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah #death mention tw #drug use mention tw #//icb this started as a birdwatching thread. vas happenin now

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hairpintvrns · 4 months ago

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As Micah sat on the ground, Terry stood above him. It was a rare picture, one that became fewer and farther between over the years, owing a myriad of reasons. His height, partly. His long stretches of absences. Then: their own. In lieu of joining him, Terry rested their back flat against the bark, its rough, jagged edges of it almost wielding a certain comfort. The thrush had stopped singing, settled perhaps for foraging at this late hour close to sunset. Each party would have to make their way back home eventually.

Below the white oak tree stood an abundance of great white trilliums, contrasting the soil of the forest floor, the dark of their jeans, and their leather-clad feet.

It was always easier to exist, here, unfettered by the mundanities and little distractions of their everyday life. Still, Micah’s words still rang in their brain, disrupting the comfort of the forest, or maybe just pulling her back to harbor. Maybe he realizes how she’s already retreating further back into herself, impossible in their stillness. What’s the plan? “The plan is the same,” they said, bore the same insistent inflection from earlier, when they’d abandoned his nickname.

But then they’d repeat the exercise: Micah’s argument, Terry’s mild defense, his belligerent concession. So they opted for something else instead. “Micah, I don’t know where else I should go.” The truth punctured—stabbed—the forest air. “Abe and Ezra have left Manhattan. Mama, too. And your grandfather, and Sev…” They don’t quite know why they leave her for last. The wound was fresher, maybe. Or if the gravity of the breakup had felt just as heavy as a passing. Neither options were particularly satisfying to them.

“The plan is to see you grow up and grow old, because that’s what family should do,” they repeated their argument, appending the moral clause. “Your father shouldn’t take you back because you should’ve never been left.” It was all too easy to put the blame on Saul, but Terry had faults of their own. It had been far easier to go at their own pace when everything at all at once was calling your attention, when everything demanded to be retranslated before it could be understood—and then they’d have to recalibrate their response, their own way of living, in kind. “I know that it’s strange that we’re here. It shouldn’t be. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to see that. I just need you to finish this internship, your schooling, and then you can decide from there.”

In his last years, their Pa’s eyes would catch her own and Terry would find something like regret, or pity, in them, and they wondered if he’d ever wanted to ask if she was ever lonely, or frightened, but those abstract thoughts were constantly pushed down in favor of something more tangible until an answer was no longer in the table. “And I don’t want you to come home anymore and see that you’ve broken into two parts again,” they cautioned, absently, but the moment was over.

Terry chose that moment to finally sit down on the patch of earth, brushing down the damp soil with the back of their hand, freeing the space of any small twigs or branches before settling in. Whatever calculations they might have concocted to make sense of the world paled to the forest’s own: trees, flowers, the sigh of the wind, the leaves rustling, the faint weave of birdsong. It was more than enough to keep an architect humble.

“Don’t be stupid, Doc. It’s statistically more likely that I will die before you,” they snapped a twig underfoot, but returned his quip anyway with a ghoulish thought of their own, “and your father will die earlier than I will. There are more widows than widowers, you know.”

Careful not to intrude on the wildflowers’ growth, Terry brought their knees close to their chest, further into herself, into the earth. “The backup plan is that I live like Thoreau,” they shrugged, “maybe it can be my late-in-life nickname. It sounds a bit close, after all.”

his mother's assurance—despite the reticent one-word response indicating that he was ready to move on from the subject of dropping the i live here now! bomb on his father—is unnecessary, and one that no longer merits the kind of validation that she must think she deserves from him, to have to convince him that they will do the right thing and inform their ex-husband, the father of their child, that they will be living in such close proximity to each other. you don't have to be sorry, micah wants to say, but he also wants them to know that he will not be playing messenger boy for them this time around. so instead, he acknowledges with a huff, leaves the truth of the statement up to his mother's conscience.

another large tree marks another stop, affording the pair a moment to catch their breath and look for any signs of the slippery thrush. micah situates himself between two protruding roots, like arms inviting a weary traveler to rest. despite his initial trepidations of the forest at dark, his concerns appear to have been forgotten for the moment. it's nice out here. he understands why his mother had chosen to take residence in the forest. he might've initially found it ironic that an architect might seek solace in a formless void if not for some respite from their world of meticulous planning, designing, and building, but the more time he spends in the woods, the more he realizes that it is not entirely without structure. his mother had been good at seeing patterns where most people might find none, after all.

and of his father's marriages, the pattern was as clear as day — it was the fibonacci sequence of relationships, though each left with its own unique brand of hurt and disappointment. so micah can't fault his mother for not concerning themself with the affairs of their ex-husband. there was no need for a post-mortem, not twenty-five years after the fact. though, he wouldn't put it past them to feel some type of way that his succeeding wives had been younger, the relationships lasting longer. "sure," he concedes, not wanting to dwell further on that comparison. and he's sure that if he'd voiced out his thoughts, his mother would spare no second thoughts in leaving him in the middle of the forest to find his own way out.

he looks up at where his mother had laid her hand against the tree trunk, how their fingers, long and bony and delicate, stretch against the bark. "i'm not saying it's a bad thing," he argues, his gaze then flitting towards his mother's face, dark hair framing their strong, stoic features. "but you know i'm not gonna stay here long." he says this like it's something they're meant to have considered a long time ago. "i guess i'm saying... of all the small towns you could've uprooted your whole life to, did it really have to be where your ex-husband is living? what's the plan?" he repeats the question, unsatisfied with their initial answer. "is this a petty thing? like, what is it? what are we doing here, exactly? what are we hopin' for? for him to take you back, take us back? he's happy where he is, ma. he's in love with his career and he takes time off to see his friends whenever he wants. he's set for life. and this is his turf now. it just... feels kinda weird that we're just orbiting around him, you know?"

sighing, he picks up a piece of dried leaf and starts fidgeting with it in his hands, tearing at the edges and letting the bits get carried away by the wind. "and i wouldn't count too much on the whole watching me grow old part. millennial mortality rates are surging like you wouldn't believe. you got a backup plan?" he smiles. it's a joke, an unfortunate one, though tinged with an obscure sincerity he's sure his mother is familiar with.

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah #death mention tw #//lmao this is how i say good morning to you frankie :)

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hairpintvrns · 16 days ago

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An edge to his voice, now. Terry knew that it had always been there, that same stubborn streak stemming from pride or self-preservation. It took only half a second to remember that they were made of the same stuff. The stubbornness of a Lowenstein, who always paid their debts and yielded to no one, not even—especially even—the upper-crested ilk. Micah’s arms were crossed over his chest in that familiar stance: too proud, perhaps, or too afraid. The difference then: when Terry crossed their arms, it was to stop the fury from coming out.

“So you’re going to pay for it, then? With what money?” They weren’t so cruel to point out the rest. His middling stand-up career, meager salary at his father’s firm, law school payments, living arrangements. Still, they let the silence settle in, commensurate to the beats it would have taken to say their piece, silence just as weighted and sharp as any word. “I don’t want to owe Ravi anything. You’ve put him through enough already.”

They gripped the navel of the porch’s stairway. Micah’s figure was too tall that it blocked the light. It always did.

Well, why?

They did not entertain his question. They glanced downward. The wood of the porch could stand a repolishing.

So that’s it?

Behind him, Terry could spot their door, painted a bright red, almost bloody against the mid-afternoon sun.

That’s not fair.

So they gazed, finally, at him.

“Fair!?” They bellowed out. The noise hit the forest, drawn in one exacting syllable. One fluid motion; one clean sweep. Their father had taught them well. “Let’s talk about fair.”

Above them, above the log cabin, above the trees and and their sturdy trunks, they could hear a rustle of wings flying past. Birds departing their nest. “You walk out for a month and don’t bother to let your mother know you’re alive.” The muscles in her jaw were set tight as they gritted their teeth, “and you think I owe you, what, my forgiveness!? You think I owe you comfort?”

No amusement in these peals of laughter. Only the hardness of gravel as it cracked underfoot.

“No, you came here to unload your guilt, and then you expect me to forgive you.” Their words glide through their tongue like ice. No friction, no hesitation. “I think you leave because you want people to come after you. And I will always come after you, Micah, because I care for you. I stay. I take care of everything. Even if each time you come back, there’s part of you that’s missing.” A broken arm, a broken leg. What would come next? Limb after limb, branch after branch? The whole of the trunk felled and forgotten?

They stopped to exhale sharply. The world rising despite themselves, and their fist was balled so tight that their fingers ached. “And I’m supposed to take this disrespect because—what? Because that’s just how you are!?” Their gaze was pointed now at him, through sinew and bone. The hazel of his eyes was almost blue against the afternoon light. His father’s eyes. His father’s nose. The shared proud stance of a man who never thought he’d be challenged. “You’re just like your father.”

Their hand, balled into fists, shook against the pressure. “You’ve made your choice,” they began, “So I’m making mine.”

‎ micah narrows his eyes at his mother when she mentions rochester. ravi had told his parents about his stay at that ranch house with the totally unassuming driveway that looked like it housed a large nuclear family rather than a dozen mentally ill strangers looking for a less sterile-white-walls and a more homey treatment approach for a rather hefty price. micah, however, couldn't speak much for its effectivity. the place smelled too much like wet cardboard and lavender, which didn't help with the feeling like death was the thirteenth patient.

"it's not your debt to pay." arms defensively folded against his chest, he narrows his eyes at his mother. she looks so much smaller from where he's standing, elevated by the porch like he's a king accosting a poor peasant woman for stealing a loaf of bread rather than a son who should be begging for his mother's forgiveness. whatever tenderness he'd reserved for his initial apology is now slowly weathered by his weissbergian pride. the pride that is further maimed by the notion that he needs a ride to get home. besides, what was his father going to do? watch them from the car? "i can find weaver inn on my own."

and it's one thing for his mother to not be able to look at him, but for her to not want to look at him, and to say it out loud, the conviction cutting through the dense air between them like it's the only thing in the world they're certain of—micah can only assume it's meant to hurt him. it's a fair trade for what he'd done to them, to both his parents, but he'd come here feeling entitled to that absolution like it's a birthright; that nothing he'll ever do will compare to a pair of twenty-somethings eloping just months after first meeting each other and from it, bringing forth a child that never asked to be born.

which was the crux of his existence and now they wouldn't even look at him.

"well... why?" a stupid, stupid question, meant only to get under her skin. he remains unmoving even as his mother appears to want passage to the door leading to the home he was no longer welcomed to. "so that's it?" holding back the stinging sensation in his eyes and the teetering way in which the words escape his throat, he holds his ground.

"that's not fair."

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah #mental health tw #//happy premiere day!!! have another mom and son tandem <3

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hairpintvrns · 2 months ago

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“Okay,” Terry replied, if a bit absently, as he moved to set the table. They began placing the used kitchenware in the sink so that it could be washed later, fingers expertly balancing the steel skillet and their knife, before following their son toward the dining room.

Though it was no longer summer, the dining room was warm. A dining room would—should—always be warm. If a kitchen underscored what living in a house should have meant—water running, food cooking, sustenance, warmth—then a dining room represented the ritual of the congregation, of human bodies moving through the space. One of the first lessons they’d been taught in building a home was to craft lived-in rooms towards the south or southwest areas, such that they would benefit from the merits of natural light.

Terry first opened the double-hung windows, the air carving its way past their ears and toward the room, before they sat on the dining chair directly in front of Micah. They took a generous dollop from the skillet and put it on their plate. It was only moments later when they realized their gaffe. “Micah, I’m sorry. I just realized we didn’t have bread. You don’t mind if we eat without a side dish?”

How could they forget? The picture was all wrong, now. No pita bread, even a bagel. Terry really ought to get them glasses of water, in anticipation of the spices. And, as they took their first bite of the shakshuka, they found that they were less precise with the measurements of the spices as they would like. The cayenne pepper stood out, rendering the whole dish spicier than intended. The fire dancing in their tongue prompted them to stand up and take a pitcher of water and two glasses from the kitchen.

The dish itself wasn’t disappointing but it could be better. That distinction made all the difference.

For a long time, there was only the clatter of silverware. Micah hadn’t been keen on breaking the silence, and neither did she. There was little to talk about these days, but they found themselves with that rare impulse anyway to cleave through the silence. “I spoke with—” A pause. But which ghost to invoke? Would Micah appreciate it if they recalled his father? Sev? Goddamn Berenice? Their lips pressed together, searching for some memory not brimming with complication, only to land on—

“I spoke with Cassie some weeks back,” they settled on a safe—or, at the very least, a less knotty—subject, “I didn’t realize she was in town.” They pressed their lips together and glanced downward at their dish, scraping the plate with their fork, recalling Cassie’s hair once kissed by fire, now more muted, dried, like the color of earth. “Have you talked with her yet?”

‎ CRUSHING THE TOMATOES SEEMS LIKE THE EASIEST TASK, delegated to him with what he thinks is the dish's best interest in his mother's mind. besides, cutting stuff up is really more their thing than his. and so they get to work in comfortable silence, each in their own corner producing a steady sort of rhythm, an irregular pulse with their knives and various other kitchenware. there really isn't a whole lot to shakshuka, being such a simple meal that he could've put together in his own apartment without having to cross an entire neighborhood just to have it for dinner.

except he didn't come here for dinner. he came here, without really knowing where here was, really, only set the compass on his feet and it had brought him here. it must be biological, then, to want your mother in times of distress, to follow the invisible navel string still connecting the mother and the clump of cells now identified as their 29-year old son to each other. an impulse that contradicts the very nature of terry lowenstein, and an irony that micah recognizes even now, as he watches them, their back turned to him as they work their knife through the other ingredients with a remarkable efficiency and craftsmanship -- instincts that, through no fault of their own, probably come before anything else.

his mother starts to poach the eggs. samson, in the interim, has was wandered into the kitchen, providing some light entertainment while their meal ooks. micah crouches on the ground and samson has taken to this gesture by rolling on his back, presenting his belly. and it's such a surprisingly amusing visual that micah couldn't help but to laugh - a low frequency, but the occurrence of which within the quiet space somehow breaks the sound barrier - as he pets samson's fluffy stomach.

perhaps we should have gotten a cat after all.

micah doesn't humor the thought. it has less to do with an actual cat than it does the implication of this later-in-life admission from his mother. there are many things, micah would love to enumerate, that they could've done differently than keep a pet. and while there really is no use in crying over spilled milk, inflation has made grocery shopping a harrowing experience and new zealand isn't exporting their dairy products for cheap. it's still spilled fucking milk.

"i'll set the table." and off he goes, disappearing past the archway with samson trailing behind. just as it doesn't take much to make shakshuka, it also takes very little to eat them. micah grabs the plates and some forks while their mother brings the skillet into the dining room. then they take their places, micah waiting first for his mother to grab a serving.

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah

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hairpintvrns · 5 months ago

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Terry had thought the conversation was flowing smoothly until Micah's sigh cut through the air with an almost elegant precision, like a chalif. It pierced the calm with a strange, violent intensity, and it held in the wind, amid the leaves and trees rustling, the underbrush at her feet.

Communicating with anyone had always been difficult, but communicating with her son, almost doubly so. They could never quite tell when it was time to criticize him or to console him, to offer practical advice or to love him without reserve, as his father might have. The wordless ferocity of it cut deep, and the impact left them stunned—and they slowed in their sleeps, the twigs crunching softly on the forest floor as they did. “Micah.” Terry began, abandoning his nickname, just as they’d done in the past when he was being particularly obtuse. Their tone might’ve been measured, but it was coarse, like an old blade that failed to cut through. “I will tell him I’m here, alright? I’m sorry I haven’t been able to.”

They stopped at a tall, nearby tree, which they quickly recognized to be a mature white oak. The state tree of Illinois was as good of a place to stop as any, she figured. They realized the extent of the tree growth only when they tilted their head upward, with the branches and leaves stretching impressively across the sky and casting shadows just as varied below them—and even across them, Terry realized, as she paid witness to the shadows of the deep, rounded lobes of its leaves dancing across her skin.

“Your dad’s ex-wives.” Terry remarked, completing his sentence. And girlfriends and boyfriends and partners of all kinds. It had never bothered them, not really. It had taken them years to realize it, but Saul had a lot of love to give—and both of them, admittedly, had been ill-fit in an entirely monogamous marriage. Why he’d chosen to make the same mistake thrice over had confused her, but it was ultimately his decision to make, not hers. “I don’t want to sound crass. I don’t think about Thalia, because she’s just not…” Just not part of her and Micah’s life, not really. Just not Tamara, the person who’d stood in as Micah’s mother best. Just not Severine, the person she’d loved so indiscriminately that, by the tail-end, loving her became almost synonymous to forgiving her. “You understand.”

Maybe Micah did. Maybe Micah didn’t. But memories were being unrooted, over and over and everywhere all at once, and it was overwhelming. “I did leave one of the busiest cities in the world, Doc,” they commented, a half-defense. They’d pressed their palm against the pale, jagged barks of the oak tree, almost flaky against their hand. The older bark must have begun chipping away, making room for new growth.

If they’d clawed through the bark enough, would it yield to the touch? Or would they need to get a serrated blade off their pouch to cut through it? Perhaps the point was moot. Their father had always said a knife could only ever be an extension of one’s hand. No matter the material of the knife, no matter the finish of its handle, it was one’s grip that mattered most.

“That is the plan, yes. Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.” And their father told them, once, that they ought to feel comfortable in getting lost, that getting lost was as deliberate of a choice as trying to carve a path for oneself. The weight of the statement was dampened, of course, by virtue of their father delivering the poignant words when they’d lost themselves in a hiking trail and only finding the tree whose bark they’d cut against a small cross almost an entire day later, but it had stayed with her—all the way here, decades later, hundreds of miles upon miles away from home. To consciously lose yourself to the world and then fade in it: wasn’t that its own kind of presence? “I’ve accomplished most of what I’ve set out to do. There’s nothing else to do but…”

But what? What’s left but the bitter exhale, the backward ache, the long goodbye. And it occurred to her that they might not as brave as Saul was, trying his hand at a new law firm, or even as Micah was, finding his footing in a career making jokes, however incomprehensible that had been. A sigh left their lips. “Beyond that, the plan is to see you is to grow up and grow old.” They’d been a good wife, a decent mother. Where was there left to go but to pay quiet witness, until they could finally move further into the woods, to take the steps into somewhere deeper, more unknown, and eventually fade into the earth. “Simple as that.”

"i thought so, too," micah says, feeling satisfaction that the mention of the dinner had brought amusement to his mother, even at his father's expense. especially at his father's expense. at least he knows where he gets his grotesque sense of humor from. and yet, even as they both look at that night at the diner with levity, it was still saul who had that dinner with him. who'd sat there, in that booth, picking micah's brain. and sure, the guy still had a long way to go where making up for all that lost time is concerned, but micah can't help but feel like he's betraying his mother in a way. "um... yeah, sure, we can go there." the offer is made more as a way to even the odds, as it were, than a genuine promise to spend time with his mother. and he feels even worse that he knows he's just throwing them a bone. but he's here now, isn't he? trekking through a forest, looking for a damn bird just because they felt like it. and anyway, hasn't he skewed in his mother's favor for three decades already?

three decades. god, he's exhausted.

he sighs, audibly, in a manner that he knows his mother will hear, at her nonchalant compliance to telling his father that they're gonna be living in the same city as him. frankly, he has no plans of being the one to break the news. he'd only really agreed to the part where he moves to blue harbor for the internship. what good does being a nepo baby do for him if he doesn't claim the benefits every once in a while? "fine," he says, eyes cast downward as they continued the arduous journey north.

and right, of course, why would they think about thalia at all? other than the fact that she was, after all, the reason why his dad had left new york when his mother couldn't even get him to leave manhattan? or that there's more than one of them calling the same person their ex-husband? maybe his mother just has more important things to think about. he coughs up a choked sort of laugh, "complicated, sure," shaking his head as he steps on a particularly crunchy leaf on purpose. since when was life not complicated by things like tiptoeing around his father's marriages and his mother's relationships and wondering if he was meant to say this or if he should've lied about that. "we get along. i mean... i've never not liked any of dad's..." and he makes a gesture with his hand, overturning his palm upwards as a means of finishing the thought for him. he shrugs. it's different with his dad. he doesn't see him as often. he's not as involved. and so, by extension, he doesn't spend as much time with whoever he's married to at a given time. he just doesn't have enough reason to not like them. with mother's partners, however... let's just say he could've been more pleasant. "you know. whatever."

shifting his gaze from the dirt path towards his mother, "but did you seriously move to another state just so you can leave everyone alone? i mean, you have to admit, that's kind of ironic." and the stuff college bar gigs are made of, but he'll let this one sit for a while. the joke will write itself in time. "so, what is the plan now, exactly? live in the forest, teach at a university, go home, look for birds?" he recalls a similar conversation, not too long ago, sitting at the dining room table with his arm in a cast, still a little loopy from the painkillers that he'd wondered afterwards if the whole thing was just a dream. that is, until he was buying a plane ticket to chicago with his mother's credit card.

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah

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hairpintvrns · 29 days ago

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The afternoon sun sat directly overhead, intense and strong, casting patchy dabs on the forest floor. Terry squinted against the light, drawing their gaze to the burning disc rather than the image of their son whose silhouette burned just as so.

At once, Micah began mapping his day and supplied them with answers to questions that Terry had not even asked. He’d set a stage for her, at least. A motel room at the Weaver Inn, no doubt shared—and financed—by his best friend. Saul, host of the luncheon and hero of the hour, bringing his son home. And Terry, again relegated to the work that no one noticed.

“Before Ravi leaves,” before you leave, “tell Ravi that I need to speak with him. I assume he, or his family, paid for your expenses in Rochester?” Their gravel of a voice lilted slightly, but it was not a question. “You should’ve asked your father to stay. He could’ve driven you back. Weaver Inn is a long way from here.”

Behind their eyes, there was a dull throbbing that often came when they stared too long at something bright.

A chill skimmed across their skin. It’s begun to settle now, through skin and bone, upon the onset of fall. If they’d stood still here, Terry could imagine their body giving out, and nature would not hesitate to claim them: log cabin walls sagging, ivy breaking through the boards, wild vines up through the floor until every part of them became part of the woods. The blood crept up their chest, knotting at the sternum, where their father had once pressed a steadying hand—gone now. All gone now. They squeezed their right hand to hold the cold still.

Mom, can you look at me, please?

“No, I don’t want to look at you,” they said through gritted teeth, “I don’t want to even see you.”

They could not—would not—quite look at him, unable to bear the weight of his sadness, his hollow eyes, high cheekbones and strong features. Of Terry’s own face staring back.

Their cup had run over. Every compromise, rule broken, reshaped part of herself—they’d done it all for naught. Because the rot had started with her, hadn’t it? When something shatters, you do not blame the absence of a force but rather the presence of it. Nothing left now but to remove themselves from the equation.

They moved forward, near the porch now, inhaling deeply, trying to control the tremors. “If that’s all you have to say, then you can go.”

of all the things his mom could've asked for—an explanation, a better apology—they instead bring up the EDC pouch. micah doesn't realize right away what they were talking about, thought they were just imagining things that never happened, until he remembers the night before he left: the dinner they had, how they made shakshuka under the pretense that he just wanted a nice, warm, homecooked meal. maybe that's why the mention of the pouch did not immediately ring any bells; his mind was preoccupied over dinner, about his plans, fighting with himself whether he should tell them about his leaving or not.

he didn't, in the end. and now it's been over a month and several missed calls and ignored texts later, and he somehow expects his mother to adjust to his return like he hadn't just ripped himself out of her always so carefully balanced equation without warning. now, they stand in front of their house, statuesque in the way their body turns rigid at the sight of him (or his mere presence as they resolutely refuse to look him in the eye— in fact, he thinks she might prefer to stab him in it, just from the way they appear to be holding an invisible knife in their white-knuckled fist) at his sheer audacity.

"i... i don't have it with me right now." he looks around, as if to make sure that he hadn't brought it with him. "it's in my bag, i think. at the motel room." he pauses, waits for her to ask, what motel room? though gives up after a few beats of silence. "i'm staying at the weaver inn. with ravi." waits, again, for her to ask about ravi. "ravi's in town, too." he thinks the mention of his best friend, the one his parents had dinner with back in new york, who'd filled them in on the gaps micah left, might elicit a reaction from her, until he thinks of somebody else. someone who bears more weight in his mother's heart. "dad drove me here. i asked him to stay, but..." does it really matter what the decision was in the end? sighing, he reaches for the wooden post, one of the four holding up the pavilion, scratching at the untreated wood, collecting its fibers under his nail. "mom, can you look at me, please?"

#threads. terry #int. terry & micah

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