Rebel at Heart, Obliger by Nature

In The Four Tendencies, author Gretchen Rubin filters the population into four personality types: Upholder, Questioner, Rebel, and Obliger. To describe the Obliger as “conflict-averse” would be hitting the nail on the head with a hydrogen bomb. Obligers are far and away the most passive of the personality types—these are your silent sufferers. That friend of yours who will change planned weekend getaway to meet you for coffee because you had a stressful week? She’s an Obliger. She may have just lost her arms in a thresher accident, but since she’s an Obliger, she won’t bother you with her own travails, she’ll just nod and listen, wishing she was at home bleeding out in the privacy of her own bathtub. Then she will pick up the bill, because you are such a good friend. 

I am an Obliger, by nature. 

I am eleven years old. There’s this bully named Geirke. Big ears, bad breath, a foot and a half taller than every other fifth grader. He’s been relentlessly antagonizing my friends and me for weeks. On the playground, Geirke gives me an atomic wedgie. I emit a high-pitched squeal and need to visit the school nurse immediately after. Another day, I’m standing in line at the lunchroom, talking to my secret crush Marissa, when Geirke pulls my sweatpants down around my ankles. I drop my lunch tray in a frantic maneuver to cover my exposed bare ass-cheeks. Tuna noodle casserole, green beans, and chocolate pudding splatter to the floor. Geirke steals plastic straws from McDonalds and then spends Social Studies pelting me in the back of the neck with spitballs he made from moistened pages of his textbook. I silently oblige all Geirke’s bad behavior as a penance—in Sunday School that year, the nuns taught me all about penance. If I didn’t confess my sins to Father Halverson and perform a penance for those sins, I was guaranteed to go to Hell. Getting bullied by Geirke was probably my penance for not cleaning the litter box or for calling the neighbor lady a “cock-whore” that time in second grade.

Adolescent Obliger (sauvagicus obligicus) in the wild, no doubt doing an acquaintance’s homework

The Obliger sees their needs as less important than those of others—these are your door-mats, your Iditarod dogs. The Obliger willingly takes on more external obligations than a reasonable person would care to shoulder, but in so doing, often fail to take care of themselves. They eat Taco Bell because they are too busy cooking for others to plan a healthy meal for themselves. They skip the gym because they are too busy reviewing their coworker’s presentation notes. When happy-go-lucky non-Obligers try to intervene—You need a spa day! or I use meditation as a way to ground myself in the present moment!—the Obliger laughs out loud. The concept of having enough time to do something nice for themselves is a riot. “If only there were 36 hours in a day...” they smile wryly, while secretly acknowledging they would spend 35 of those hours obliging others.

 I am thirty-two years old and I’m composing the score for a short film, gratis. The director/writer/lead actor calls it a “Western Noir”. The story is bad, the acting is worse, and the music is bordering on maniacal, but I am dedicated to doing the job. I know I will receive no pay, or even recognition for my work, but I am obliged to finish what I started. During the eight months I spend composing, orchestrating, performing, recording, and revising the music, I lose, over and over. I commit to band practices but fail to show up because I’m working on a picture-lock deadline for Savage Noir. This happens often enough that I finally get a terse text from Rob, who is obviously an Upholder: “Sounds like the band isn’t really a priority for you anymore, Josh.” I begin to wonder exactly what my priorities are once my rocky marriage reaches a crevice of no return, culminating in divorce. I can’t even commit to carving out the last half-hour of my day to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, because I’m too tired from overcommitting. It’s pretty, pretty, pretty…not good.

The Obliger is prone to snapping. These are your glue huffers, your bar brawlers. Granted, as far as brawling is concerned, Rebels are equally as culpable. If you’re looking for someone to break up a bar brawl, locate an Upholder (these are your saints, your Eagle Scouts), or at the very least, a Questioner (your naïfs, your exploitative middle managers). When neighbors later proclaim I never would have guessed she had it in her, or he seemed like such a kind, quiet lad, they’re referring to Obligers. 

I am thirty-five years old and I’ve unceremoniously walked out on a promising new career as a government bureaucrat. I’m giving it all up to enroll in yoga teacher training. I picture myself shirtless, on a beach in Belize, leading sun salutations to a group of wealthy British tourists. My parents are both frowning at me from the couch. Sleet pelts their living room window like Geirke’s spitballs pelted my neck in fifth grade. I know this is serious though, because it’s 6:30 and they’ve turned off Wheel of Fortune. This feels like that time in high school when I careened into their driveway behind the wheel of a new Chevy Cavalier I purchased on a high-interest MasterCard. Or that time I told them my first choice, backup, and safety colleges were all in Hawaii. 

“What about retirement, son?” My Dad, retired for ten years, pleads (he’s an Upholder).

“Retirement!” I laugh obnoxiously, and for too long. “My generation doesn’t get to retire!” 

Boomers. Amirite?

“Well, as long as you’re happy...” my Mom shrugs. She’s an Obliger too. 

RUTH

Mom, Lace and I moved back in with Dad in Minot, midway through my eighth-grade year. I played sousaphone in the marching band, wore tee shirts bearing the logo of my previous school, tucked into ill-fitting Lee jeans that Grandma and Grandpa purchased from the Dakota Boys Ranch thrift store. I often tied a long-sleeve flannel around my waist, à la Joey Lawrence’s character (“Joey”) on Blossom. The popular kids at my new school would wait long enough for my back to be turned before letting out a loud, sarcastic “WHOA!” At home, I’d listen to my Boyz II Men and The Bodyguard cassettes, alone in my bedroom.

Even though attending the middle school soirées had been my favorite activity at Dilworth-Glyndon-Felton Junior High, I have yet to make an appearance at any of the Erik Ramstad dances. In Spring, when the eighth-grade formal comes around, I have no intention of attending. On the drive to school one morning, Mom asks me, out of the blue, “Are there any girls you have your eye on?” My face turns red as I shrug and stare out the back seat window. Mom is persistent though, and at some point over the following days, I reveal that I have a minor crush on Ruth, who plays clarinet in the school band. Ruth’s often unkempt hair is the color of the bear pelt in Dad’s den. She has braces and a charmingly self-conscious smile. We have never spoken. There is no overlap between her friend group and mine. In fact, my friend “group” only consists of Aaron, a guy from my Social Studies class who wears a Nirvana Incesticide shirt and doodles in his textbook rather than taking notes.

On the evening of the formal, I am in my bedroom, shirtless in Zubaz and watching Cops on a tiny, hand-me-down black and white TV while playing on a 3D vision board: a “bass guitar” I have constructed from an empty Kleenex box, a cardboard paper towel tube, and four rubber bands. Mom raps on my door and tells me to get dressed up in a hurry—she has a surprise for me. I hear unfamiliar voices in the living room as I don my black silk shirt and a clip-on tie patterned with dueling electric guitars against a neon blue background. As I walk into the living room, I am stunned to see Ruth, who appears as bewildered as I am. I look at Mom and then at Ruth, who stares at our stained carpet. Our black longhaired cat, Circe, rubs herself against Ruth’s bare shins. Ruth takes a pronounced step backwards.

Mom clasps her hands to her chest and coos. “Let me get a picture of you two over by the TV set.” Reluctantly, Ruth comes alongside me. We exchange fleeting, embarrassed eye contact before I return my gaze to my feet. Ruth presses her hands along her knee-length floral-print skirt, and looks up long enough for Mom to snap her photos. Ruth’s dad is idling in the driveway. She sits up front with her dad, while I hop in the backseat. The vehicle is completely silent as he drives us to the school. Once Ruth and I walk through the doors of the cafeteria/gym/dancefloor, she joins her friends and I sit alone in the bleachers, wondering how Mom got Ruth’s phone number.

I never speak to Ruth again.

Like Playing Your Life Savings on Pull-Tabs

I’ve been waiting 

so long 

for this moment.

Through Mondays cramped with meetings.

Through Tuesdays of unending paperwork. 

Through Wednesdays of pointless errands..

Through Thursdays too scattered to think.

Through Fridays filled with anticipation.

Through evenings too tired to raise the remote.

Past chores that double into the infinite,

and boggle the mind at their insignificance.

I’ve been waiting 

so long 

for this moment

and now I feel it

running out; circling

like brown toilet water,

before clear water

fills it again.

But the odor lingers.^

^Eat your fucking heart out, Emily Dickinson

Photo by Bradley Stemke

Still Life in Red, White, & Blue

On the morning of September 26, 2016, I was making my morning bike commute down Damen Ave in Chicago. I whizzed past stalled traffic, wondering why the street was uncommonly jammed, but soon noticed flashing lights in the distance. As I approached the intersection of Damen and Addison, I came across a scene that will haunt me forever. A bicyclist’s worst nightmare. A fatal accident. Everything became very quiet, very still. I got off my bike and walked it across the intersection as a cop directing traffic told me to “be careful out there.” My eye was drawn to the driver of the truck which caused the fatality. Disheveled, distraught, soiling himself. I can only imagine the trauma that he experienced and continues to experience to this day.

We lean along the fog

like Otis Redding’s airplane.

Horns honk.

Traffic is packed like 

passengers on the Doña Paz.

EMTs stand and stare 

into the mist

like veal calves.

A man in soiled blue jeans,

eyes rimmed red,

like the moon in Revelations, 

breathing hard, receiving oxygen 

in the back of an ambulance, 

white as an avalanche.

The Schwinn,

like a robin’s egg 

smashed flat

upon the asphalt, 

something sticky, 

(not quite yolk) 

squeezed around it.

Nearby, a white vinyl sheet 

with a cooling heap

piled beneath.

An unpluggable leak 

laps against the grime.

January 29 Journal Journey

29JAN2025 - I must be the dumbest fuck in my entire circle of friends. Hmm. This is what I have to say after spending an absolutely lovely weekend with my dearest compadres? F that. I had a day off Monday—a whole day to be creative, if I wanted to be—alas, I am a hack. When I have time to be creative, I end up doing something that makes ZERO impact. All the energy I have wasted on music projects. All the time I have wasted writing words that nobody cares to read, or shooting and editing stupid videos for twos and threes of views. Nobody. I am nobody.

29JAN2024 - Brainstorming for Minot Punk Zine/chapbook in the works:

Activities I enjoyed as a teenager

—Walking around Minot, ND with Aaron Davis and Kolin Thompson, before we had vehicles

—Attending shows, getting close to the stage, or back in the peripheries, eardrums ringing through the next morning. Buying tapes, patches, 7”s

—Making friends with my Burger King co-workers. Listening to CDs of the Misfits and Green Day in the back and getting chewed out by our bosses.

—Going to Jon Seright’s home and bleaching each other’s hair while watching Reservoir Dogs or Return of the Living Dead 3

—Playing bass all the time: in bands, alone with cassettes in the basement, in BJ’s parents’ garage and getting the cops called on us for noise

—Making out in RB’s bedroom with Violent Femmes playing on her bookshelf cassette player. To this day, I can’t hear “Blister in the Sun” without thinking about that. She always knew when her mom was coming home because she could hear her Blazer crunching down the gravel driveway. God, her mom was younger then than I am today.

29JAN2022 - It’s been a good week on the writing front. My essay, “The Home Depot Buddha” was workshopped in my Advanced Creative Non-Fiction class on Monday. To a person, they loved it! Some were “astonished by the honesty” in it. Others said they “Feel like it’s a gift to be able to read anything I write.” So many complements! The next morning, my professor, Dr Sarah Fay emailed to tell me she wanted me to submit it to Longreads and other journals. She told me to look in the back of Best American Essays and submit it to at least ten publications listed there, and she would help me write an introductory email! Two weeks earlier, she had praised my classroom presentation, saying she asked me to present first because she “knew I would set the bar high”. I am feeling like an actual writer, lately.

29JAN2021 - Writing, writing, writing…what a week! On Tuesday, I got an email from Pest Control Magazine stating that they had chosen to publish my poem titled “Prey”!! I am so thrilled that something I wrote will finally, for the first time, be in print! It’s been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember, and at long last, it has become reality. Yes yes, perhaps taking a writing workshop via Zoom from the editors of the journal may have improved my standing, yes yes yes, it’s a small, independent, relatively new publication. All of this is true, but it doesn’t take the bloom off the coffee. I am thrilled.

Aside from that, I’ve been working on a new poem and revising other pieces to submit elsewhere. Poetry is a hard gig.

29JAN2020 - Dear Diary, more complaints coming your way! Shocker! I have been in a perpetual foul mood for days/weeks. Work stress has really gotten to me. So much so that I’m actually thinking about other positions available elsewhere. The shit storm never ends. Things are constantly breaking. I’m getting texts and emails and phone calls all hours of the day and night. I am on-call 24/7 and since we started implementing Wide Orbit, the trouble calls have been coming fast and furious. FML.

29JAN2019 - Obstructive Sleep Apnea is the diagnosis. Bad for the heart. Causes depression, irritability, erectile dysfunction. Not so bad on the list of diseases. This is like North Dakota Salsa: extra mild. The GI doctor called to tell me my colon looked good. No cancer, no polyps, no sign of Celiac Disease. So why do I have a fatty liver? Why do I have signs of anemia? I did my week 3 weigh-in for the EDGE six-week challenge, and I’m at 179.6 lbs and 15.6% body fat. Depressing to know that I’m halfway through this challenge and have only lost 1% of my body fat. My goal is to be under 10%. I am confident that I can get there, but it won’t be easy [it wasn’t, and I didn’t “get there”]

29JAN2018 - So much to catch up on. Birthday weekend was great. Went bowling and ice skating with Leah. Ate at Chicago Diner. Wore my crazy kimono-print satin pants, danced at the Whistler, had delicious brunch of Fruity Pebbles french toast. I’ve been teaching some very popular yoga classes recently. I had 25 people in Meditation, 45 in Vinyasa, and 26 in Yin. Larissa [my supervisor] was stoked!

And the BIG NEWS: last Monday, my boss Mike Tompary showed up outside my cubicle and asked me to sit down with him in Don Mueller’s old office. He shut the door as I took a seat, and I felt very nervous right away. He asked “Do you still want the Chief Engineer position?” I had expressed interest in it months ago, but we had pivoted to other candidates, outside hires, and it had been so long since we had discussed it that I was shocked to hear him ask about it. I doubted my own abilities, and told him so: “Well, yes, if everyone here is on board with my shortcomings…” and he said he had just gotten out of a meeting with the station Program Director David, and Network Director Tony and they were on board. Our interim CEO Reese had promised to approve it, “…so, if you want the job, it’s yours!” I stood up and extended my hand, with a big smile on my face. I am Chief Engineer of WFMT. I can hardly believe it. Mike said Al Skierkiwicz would be delaying his retirement for a little while longer so he could show me some of the ropes, and encouraged me to take copious notes as I shadowed him. I am feeling like a rock star lately. Yoga classes going well, work is progressing in a great way, I am in love with a beautiful, brilliant woman. Feeling strong and balanced.

29JAN2017 - My godmother Julie’s son Spencer passed away yesterday. Cancer. He was younger than me, and had two or three young kids. I was following Julie’s Caring Bridge posts, and learned that he had hung on longer than the doctors expected, but it’s devastating to read how such a strong, smart, talented, good man can be decimated by an illness.

Grandma Sauvageau is not doing well either. Her 94th birthday was spent in the hospital. She had taken a fall at home and broke her hip. Lacey visited her at the hospital on her birthday and reported to me that she doesn’t look good. Said Grandma wasn’t aware of her surroundings and looked very weak. Doris flew in from Denver on Friday and Dad flew home from Arizona yesterday. Doris posted a few pictures on Facebook of her kids visiting her. Grandma was awake, but there was worry on the faces of my aunts and uncles in the room with her. I am an imbecile—I spent $1500 on that cheap Chinese double-bass on Friday, when in reality, I should be saving for moments like these.

29JAN2016 - There is time enough for everything, if we allow ourselves to utilize that precious commodity in the correct way. I am feeling very free this weekend after months and months with seemingly no time for my self. This will be my first weekend alone in my new apartment. Today and tomorrow are for me, aside from the small detail of recording WFMT’s Introductions this morning with a 16-year-old violist. I’m excited to get my home in order: do some laundry, unpack a box or two, arrange things, clean and clear out my space. I’ll go for a 6-mile run tonight, then bike tomorrow, get a haircut tomorrow afternoon and maybe take Malin’s Hot Vinyasa class at Lifetime. I have to figure out what the hell to do with my piano though. It kills me that the movers had to leave it outside! In January! At least it’s under the eaves of the detached garage.

Addendum, later that day: Currently sitting at the laundromat down the block because I don’t yet have keys to the laundry room in the basement at my new place. Feeling fried from lack of sleep and ready to pass out already. I shouldn’t have agreed to work this morning, spinning my tires there, wondering why in the world I agreed to give up half my day (a full quarter of my weekend) for net zero. When will you learn it’s okay to say “no”?

29JAN2015 - I have been allowing myself time to “space out” and be bored. My days have been incredibly busy this past month, and I am proud of what I have accomplished. I’ve been giving myself time to work out, time for yoga, allowing copious amounts of time for work. I do feel like I have been spending far too much time on the internet. I miss writing, making music, and social time with friends, but I am reading more. I have been voluntarily unemployed now since the end of September, so I can devote my time to freelance recording gigs and my yoga teacher training. Working on my own schedule was challenging at first, working only about 4h/day for the first week, then 5h/day for the next two weeks, 6 a day for two weeks and I’m now up to 7 to 9 hours each day. I never imagined I could hold myself accountable for this much work. Last week was a little harder as I tried to alter my routine from mornings to afternoons so I could work out and do yoga in the mornings.

I had birthday dinner with Jack Brett last Monday. Among other things, we discussed Jess. I wanted to know if she was doing okay, and he confirmed that she was, but said she was hurt to see some photos of V and me on Facebook. Hard to believe it’s been a year since she moved out. Jack said she is doing better now, and even dating someone who Jack likes, but wasn’t sure how serious they are, stating that they made an arrangement to date “only one day out of every seven.” Interesting…

29JAN2014 -

29JAN2013 - [Facebook post] This ain't no cuppa Joe. It's Cafe Sauvageau. Step 1: Select only the finest Julius Meinl Costa Rican Tarrazu beans. Step 2: Hand grind using mortar & pestle. Step 3: Boil purified water. Step 4: French press that bad boy. Step 5: Commence workday [8 Likes]

29JAN2012 - Mixing some of the Tiger Cry songs today. We’ve been recording this album for weeks in my spare bedroom. Loving the “bee” sound I was able to get from manically strumming a soft percussion mallet along the low strings of my upright piano.

29JAN2011 -

29JAN2010 - My first-ever solo classical recording gig is today with International Chamber Artists!! $75! SWEET!

29JAN2005 - I shall return to the habit of generating my thoughts into this journal. Much has occurred since last I bothered about these pages, but I will come to that in time. We are 16 days into a six and a half month voyage around the world, and July 29th seems like eons afield.

I have been pressured into qualifying ESWS [Enlisted Surface Warfare Specialist] by my chain-of-command. I have been all but promised an “early promote” evaluation if I indeed qualify by March 1st. February shall prove to be either a rude awakening or a new and good beginning for me. Time will tell. We have a list of prospective port calls — all subject to the whims of Mother Navy: Guam in February. Singapore in March. Dubai in April. Bahrain in May. Dubai again in June. Italy in June. England, Florida, and Norfolk, VA in July. Will be interested to see if this route goes as planned (which I doubt) or is altered drastically.

I’ve been planning a budget for music instrument purchases. If I continue to be paid my BAH [Basic Allowance for Housing], I will be able to save quite a bit, of course with that list of ports above, certain purchases may be delayed. I purchased a Takamine 12-string acoustic guitar last Christmas. Mom and Dad just received a brand-new Rickenbacker 4003 bass that I ordered on Jan 6, bringing my tally to:

• Dean Exotica Acoustic Guitar - red flame maple, 2000

• Danelectro Hodad Electric Guitar - gold sparkle, 2002

• Epiphone El Capitan Elec/Acou 5-String Bass - ebony, 2003

• Fender Banjo - natural, 2004

• Carvin LPF70 Fretless Elec Bass - blueburst, custom, 2004

• Takamine 12-string Acoustic Guitar - natural, 2004

• Fender Rhodes Electric Piano, 2004

• Rickenbacker 4003 Elec Bass - jetglo, 2005

[denotes that I still own these in 2025]

Planned purchases for this deployment include:

• Epiphone Casino Electric Guitar ($660)

• Musicman Stingray Electric Bass ($1200)

• Digidesign 002 recording interface + ProTools recording software ($2200)

• Fender American Telecaster ($880)

• Ampeg tube bass amplifier ($1500)

[denotes that I purchased these items during this deployment]

I would also like to get an Apple laptop with the ultimate goal having a fully-functional home recording studio paid for and functioning by the time I’m out of the Navy in January, 2007. Less than two years from now, thank Christ.

Several weeks ago, Tim sent me my journal from our previous deployment. I am beginning to fear that it has been lost in the mail. That would be a dreadful scenario, because it contained several musical riffs that I have been working on, poetry that hasn’t yet been transferred to my blue spiral-bound book, and my Westpac 2003 journal in it’s entirety. I do hope it arrives soon.

29JAN1999 - The Malady of One

Introspectively, I wait together,

lessons given, lessons learned,

striving on despite my failures.

Hoping hopelessly her hand inspects the inner,

icicled, whitened walls of winter.

Is the interest homogenic,

hear me?

With she out me, I mean—

I get confused, and

and, I dedicate this simple despair to her

with an aftertaste of embryonic leather.

Apple silence sliced symmetrically,

carefully careless candied comments.

Did you—me—some justice make,

or did I—you—your virtues take?

Rambunctious play reinvents the day:

obnoxious Pythagoras floor-falling.

Irrepressible instincts acknowledging

your presence as the square root of a^2 and b^2.

I just want to die in your embrace,

is that too much to ask?

Allow me to perish near your face,

I’m getting down to bronze tax.

Intestinal infantile blue lights

switch syrupy strength in you,

Your offer of outward exposure

fits into my technicolor torture.

January 2025 Recap!

Happy New Year, dear readers.

How long do you leave your holiday decorations up? On a New Year’s Eve walk with Churro, I counted several limp Frasier Firs piled up next to garbage cans. I heard on the radio that January 6 is one “traditional date” for taking down the Christmas tree and removing the lights from the eaves. My birthday is January 7, so in our home, Mom always left the decorations up until January 8, at my insistence. This year, we took ours down on the 18th. I always prefer to hold out longer than most, because winter is just so damn long. The darkness is so damn long. Christmas and the New Year come so early in the winter. What’s the rush to remove all the lovely decor?

RIP Christmas tree

For me, this month has been marred by trepidation. Trepidation about the state of our country and of the world. Trepidation about Mother Nature. Trepidation about social media and about AI. And—least importantly of all—trepidation about writing.

Social media use is on the decline it seems. At least in the circles I run in, the Meta-verse has become too odious to endure. Hear hear. It’s about fucking time. For someone who posts as often as I do (which is on the order of twice a day!), I am at last abandoning Facebook and Instagram. Threads was initially lauded as a viable alternative to X, but I am already tired of it’s vacuous algorithm. The fate of TikTok seemed sealed for a moment, but I’ve never understood the attraction, nor had any interest in creating an account. I spent some time this month starting up a Bluesky account and a Substack—which I’ve been putting off for too long. And I’ve been communicating with other friends on Discord and Signal. My only reason for remaining on the old-fashioned Facebooks and Instagrams was to keep in touch with my friends and family. Those platforms have obviously become less about connection and more about unchecked aggression, anonymous trolling, and an obscene amount of marketing for sub-standard consumer goods. YOU know what I’m talking about. Part of the reason I wanted to start this website was to spend less time on social media, and ideally, bring some of you along with me. (Thanks for reading this, by the way)

Speaking of my Substack, I posted a few older pieces there: a poem from 2022, a flash fiction piece from 2021, this prose piece from the same year, and a relatively new poem.

With the inauguration and all, I felt it fitting to post this Propagandhi song which I covered/recorded in 2020. It describes the gravitas our “leaders” should experience, but too often do not.

Nipples-deep

>>

Nipples-deep >>

Running? Yes. I’m nipples-deep in training for a spring 50k, which my Trail Pushers Alysha and Tommy dragooned upon me. Seriously, I’ve been needing the nudge to sign up for something longer than a 10k, so I was grateful to hear that they were signing up and urged me to join them. It will be my first ultra since Tommy and I ran the Grand Canyon in 2019. The 2025 Ice Age 50k takes place May 10, two weeks after Leah runs the Big Sur Marathon.

2019

Another race that has been on my radar since 2018 is the Superior Trail Race. This one takes place north of Duluth, through scenic Crosby Manitou State Park, up through the Caribou Highlands and finishing in Lutsen. I haven’t run a 50-miler since September 2019, but I put my name in the hat for the lottery. On 1/18 I was notified of my acceptance to the race(!), which takes place September 6. Looks like a boatload of training coming up in 2025.

In keeping with the theme of trepidation, I applied for acceptance at a writing retreat here in our fair state. The Tofte Lake Center hosts two week-long residencies—one in June and one in September. It’s been a decades-long dream to spend time in nature, writing—without the distractions of work or social media (see above). I won’t be notified one way or the other until May 1.

I have also been working on a long-form essay to post here, dealing with my somewhat traumatic New Year’s Eve 2016. However, I’m not sure I am ready to share this one with the world yet.

I took myself to see a $5 matinee showing of Nosferatu on my birthday. I highly recommend it. I was particularly struck by the sound design as well as the camera-work and lighting. The last scene is beautiful and will haunt your dreams.

I’ve also been shooting film, and playing with double-exposures. Here’s one of my favorites that came from processing my most recent roll:

Frozen Mississippi / Christmas lights

While I haven’t written much, I have made some bonkers videos over the past couple of months. I bought a 35mm / f0.95 lens last summer, Leah gave me a sweet little Aputure light for my birthday, and I’ve mainly been filming these abominations in order to get some post-production reps on both DaVinci Resolve and ProTools. Incidentally, I HATE shooting and editing 9:16—another symptom of our society’s hopeless addiction to TikTok and our devices. Make Landscape Sexy Again!

One clear highlight for the month was a visit from four dear Chicago friends: Tommy, Margaret, Alysha, and Chris. They were here in the Twin Cities for the annual Pond Hockey Tournament on Lake Nokomis. Tommy and I went on a couple of runs, wandered around the Como Conservatory and Zoo for the first time, and saw Frank Black at First Ave (Tommy’s first time there). We all cheered Chris’s hockey team, the Skateful Dead, and drank Labatt 1% over 18” of frozen lake ice. It’s always a special occasion when we can get together, along with our Saint Paul friends, Peter and Kristen, but this visit deserved a proper toasting, so we had cocktails at Gori Gori Peku (a Japanese whiskey bar), followed by a stunning meal at Owamni. I am still doubled over in pain from laughing, which is typical whenever this group assembles. 

With all the trepidation in our individual lives and in the world, it’s nice to recall that spending time with loved ones can ease the burden—however fleetingly. Until next time, try to find peaceful moments and stay well, friends.

Owamni! Thank you, Lacey!!

dying

Unhoused Woman Encounters Micropenis Energy Outside the Golden Nugget

The sun has yet to set and

here you are, slurring your words.

Your girlfriend is too, but

she is savvy enough

to distance herself from you.

She paces half a block away,

sweaty, arms crossed.

She wanders near and calls

your name, Tad. Why don’t you

leave her be, Tad? Sleep it off,

Tad. Let’s bang it out, Tad.

(Better yet, don’t, Tad.) What

daggers did this dirty-faced,

tattered-trousered grandmother

sling, that sliced you so, Tad?

Was it her cabbage-scented

perfume which seduced you

to bray—swine-like—into

the cheeks of this “Fucking Hag”?

You tower above her, your

fatback moist, your jowls pink

from lack of air to your

middling brain, veins in your neck

and hamhocks bulging. Did she

take your last twenty bucks at

the Blackjack table? Did she

refill all your empties

at the casino bar? Did she

run away with the butcher

when you were six? (And what if

she did? If your dad was

the bore that you are, Tad, I

would too.) And what’s wrong with

these passers-by, who just pass by

you, casting their gaze aside—

myself included?

Annie’s News

Annie’s fingers were sinewy, overcooked chicken wings which delicately stirred seven sugar cubes into her roadside diner Folgers. She lifted the mug to herpes-scarred lips which slithered past blackened, crooked teeth and away from mottled gums. Annie’s lashless, pinpoint eyes—wide set in that mangy, misshapen skull—were slivers of cool coal jutting from a jagged canyon of cheekbones. A stench of curdled milk mixed with dumpster cabbage wafted across the table as she spoke. Her slurping, sucking, wheezing words slammed into me with the force of a Mack truck T-boning a nun: “Baby, we’re pregnant!”

I’ve never been happier.

It Happens

Here, your mind is a wide open prairie on a smooth spring morning. This is your favorite place: there are no distractions, no work, no phone, no music; only momentum.

You exchange pleasantries with another swimmer as you wade in, knee-deep. “How is it?” You ask her.

“Nice this morning. Not too cold. Not wavy.” She bends an arm back to unzip her wetsuit. “Cops pulled a body out just as I was arriving.”

“What? You’re kidding.” You stand stunned, heels sinking into the silty bottom.

She shrugs. “It happens. Enjoy your swim.”

The city slouches heavily on one shoulder. The low commotion of early morning traffic noise, like a fog that never dissipates, is punctured by the roar of motorcycles or the lamentation of an ambulance. Engines and rubber and tons of steel clatter and rumble along Lake Shore Drive, an eight-lane highway that spoons the shoreline. 

On your other shoulder, the soft, quiet pull of a gauzy sky. Lake Michigan is a slate flag undulating in a brisk breeze. The head of a golden retriever glides closer to shore, stick firmly clenched in jaw. Mute sailboats bob at the edge of the earth, like opal pyramids pointing towards Heaven. The vast maw of the lake sucks the sound from the city.

The balance is off.

You wade deeper, pulling the drawstring of your wetsuit zipper up your spine. You fasten the velcro tab at the nape of your neck. You dip your hot pink latex swim cap into the lake and open it up, turn it inside out, then stretch it over your head. The brightly-colored cap highlights your whereabouts for boats and for the lifeguards who will arrive later when the beaches begin to crowd with vacationing families and suburban teens.

Waist-deep, you bend your knees and stretch the rubber collar of your wetsuit to let the lake in. The cold water shocks your flesh. Your heart skips two beats. You spit into your goggles, rinse them, and suction them to your face, inhale deeply and thrust forward. Your arms crawl, pulling you through the lake, legs kick rhythmically, toes pointed to maximize efficiency. Your heart rate spikes. Five strokes, breathe—you open your mouth at the corner to keep from swallowing a wave. Five strokes, breathe—the odd intervals keep you looking at alternating sides. 

To your left is the steel-reinforced concrete lake wall, slimy and barnacled. Above it, the Lakefront Path: an artery often clogged by bicyclists, runners, sightseeing tourists, and sauntering downtown workers staring at their phones. Beyond that is Lake Shore Drive and seven-figure condos with floor-to-ceiling windows which glint in the glow of a rising sun. In the afternoon, the skyscrapers cast deep shadows into this stretch of lake. To your right, an empty expanse of harbor. “The Playground” will soon fill with idling powerboats, piloted by spoiled north shore kids. They wear floral-print board shorts and monokinis, and spend hours sipping Old Style or White Claw, flashing toothy selfies for Instagram.

Most days, the lake is cloudy and you can’t see five feet. Here, disaster lurks. Your head is up more than down, looking around for stronger swimmers who might barrel towards you through the din like an eighteen-wheeler rounding a switchback on a narrow mountain pass. You watch for drunks on Sea-Doos, veering too close to shore. You imagine the aftermath: concussed and drowning, no lifeguards nearby to save you. Far-fetched, sure, but possible—it happens. 

Today though, the lake is crystalline. In the close hug of your wetsuit, through foggy goggles, you see the downed light post resting on the bottom. You wonder what kind of car wreck launches a light post that far: careening over a guardrail and past a sloping concrete beach, fully fifty yards from Lake Shore Drive. You shiver through a cold pocket and try to regain your rhythm—five strokes, breathe, five strokes, breathe. Garbage litters the rocks, twenty feet below your nose. You see shapeless plastic and metallic things, sun-faded and sand-covered; beer bottles, soda cans, and an entire park district trash can. You spy a solitary fish sucking between stones and debris. It’s a sallow and pitted creature, not even worth a second glance. You become tangled in a fishnet of weeds, so you pause briefly, treading water as you remove them from your face and between your fingers. Your wetsuit buoys you; you bob at the surface like the beacon that marks your turnaround point. You think again about the body. It happens.

The waves push and pull. You gain speed. Your arms are tiring, shoulders burning with the effort. Your neck is raw where you mismatched the velcro. You find your rhythm. You no longer need to count your strokes to breathe. It happens: your body remembers. It’s like writing a letter to an old friend, or fingering a C-major scale on your junior high trumpet. 

A pair of swimmers pass you on their way back to shore. You envy the efficiency of their stroke, the power in their arms. You rock gently in their wake. You sneak a peek back—they’re already disappearing into the distance. 

You crawl towards the marker, the furthest you’ve made it this season. The waves are getting choppy as you take a wide turn around the beacon and head towards the beach. Eight hundred meters down, eight hundred to go.

Like a calf without gold

Like gold without blood

Like blood without creamy fat

Like fat without salt

Like salt without a shaker

Like a Shaker without a psalm

Like psalms without palms

Like palms of plaited brass

Like a brass band without a battlefield

Like a field without cattle

Like a battle without fire

Like fire without air

Like air without the soft slurp

of purple lungs

Like lungs without ribs

Like ribs without tips

Like a tip without a top

Like a top-hat without a song

Like songs without words

Like words without starlight

Like starlight without 

the velvet-curtained dark

Like curtains drown the dawn

Like dawn without wings

Like wings without a tail

Like a tail without the comet

Like a comet without ice

Like ice without cream

Like cream without the cow

Like a cow without her calf

bleeding in the grass

A folk healer tends to a sick cow in Muurame, Finland 1929

I haven’t written much (poetry or otherwise) lately. This poem dates from late 2022. I got a new job in Saint Paul, so I packed up a U-Haul with a few house plants and musical instruments and moved in with Leah’s Dad in the suburbs, while Leah finished packing up our place in Chicago. This poem comes from that period; while I was eager to begin a new job and explore a new city, I was certainly missing Leah, missing my friends, missing Chicago. It’s a poem of love and loss and hope.

Kids All Over Hell

Shrewsbury Sentinel Factory children's party (Geoff Charles, 1950)

So anyway, we drove over

to that main drag there

and there’s a bank

and well everything looks closed

and where in the Sam hell?

We’re in the middle of nowhere.

We walk past the VFW

I thought we were goin to the VFW

and we get to some little shop,

like an individual

an individual individualized 

little shop

—a bakery!—

Well, we still don’t know 

what the hell’s goin on.

We walk into that shop and

BOOM!—

The lights turn on

and there’s all kindsa people,

must’ve been twenty,

twenty-five people there—

your sister’s friends,

Adam called all of ‘em.

And kids all over Hell,

and there was a smorgasbord.

2024 Highlights!

Aura

〰️

Rizz

〰️

Simp

〰️

Ick

〰️

Aura 〰️ Rizz 〰️ Simp 〰️ Ick 〰️

**NOLA with friends. Technically Dec 27-30 2023, but who’s counting? What a time to travel. No Christmas closings, no New Years mobs. Idealistic. Best friends, better times in that historic, jazz-filled jelly roll of a southern town.

**Receiving a Third Place (CASH PRIZE) in the Deanna Tulley Memorial Multimedia Poetry contest for my piece: “A Lonely Undergrad Wanders Into Gorilla Sushi on a Friday Night”.

**Many of these highlights are work-related. Please forgive me, but I feel immense gratitude that I get to work in a field (and for an organization) that allows me to use my creativity. I know that not everyone can say that about their work. I am honored to have this position. In February, I trekked to Duluth with my colleagues Derek and Evan. There, we set up shop in an old Masonic Lodge which we converted into a concert hall for one evening. Among the three musical acts we recorded: Aby Wolf and Eric Mayson (performing on the Masonic Lodge’s pipe organ!). I directed video, operated cameras and did the video post-production for this. Derek Ramirez captured audio and was FOH audio engineer, and Evan Clark piloted the ship, setting up all the lighting, operating cameras, and making sure I wasn’t fucking anything up too badly.

Check out “Eyes On Me” at 38:33

**Later in February, more work colleagues Evan Clark, Alex Simpson, Megan Lundberg and I set up at a Minneapolis bar—the Hook and Ladder—for The Current’s Winter Digout with local band Kiss the Tiger and two Chicago groups that blew my socks off: Friko and Brigitte Calls Me Baby. I was on audio for this one and did the mixes for Friko and Kiss the Tiger:

**Only a couple of weeks after the Winter Digout, I got to do a live classical broadcast, again with my colleagues Evan Clark and Megan Lundberg. This was the Before Bach’s Birthday Bash Banger with Michael Barone (host of Pipedreams). I did the audio capture and mix for live broadcast on YourClassical and YouTube live.

**April was a busy month at the office! It was Minnesota Music Month, so we had a plethora of live music events to capture and produce over that month. Governor Tim Walz (before becoming Kamala Harris’s VP pick) stopped by MPR HQ and declared April 10 Minnesota Music Day. But five days before that, my colleagues and I ventured to the Turf Club in Saint Paul to record four music acts, including the legendary Minnesotan, and co-founder of Low, Alan Sparhawk. This was only a few short months after the passing of his beloved wife and partner Mimi. I was a camera operator and did the video post-production for Sparhawk’s performance. I wish we could have captured some of the more sublime moments (his haunting songs to Mimi), but due to some unforeseen technical issues, we were only able to release a few of the songs.

**Another highlight of April was my brother-in-law Adam and 9-year-old nephew Fischer coming to town to see the World Series 2024-bound Dodgers beat up on the Twinkies. We had great seats to watch Mookie Betts and Shohei Ohtani knock the Twins around.

Moments before Fischer took a leak in the Metro bus stop

**Still in April…on a Saturday, I was asked to come into the studio to record Frank Turner on our glorious Neve console at MPR. He was a good dude. My colleague Peter was on video for this one.

**It wasn’t ALL work, of course. On the last weekend of April, I ran the Chippewa Trail 20-miler in northwestern Wisconsin. Leah and Churro were my support squad as I finished my longest race since 2019!

**We also got to go to Chicago twice, for a pair of weddings! Once in May for Lily and EZ and again in July to witness the wedding of dear-dear friends Margaret & Tommy. These were some of the happiest times of the year!

**Leah and I like to treat each other to nice dinners out every so often, and 2024 was filled with new and delicious restaurants. Monteverde in Chicago with Russell and Stephanie, High Five ramen and Pequods (in the same day!) with Leah, Peter, and Kris, then in Minneapolis: Nixta, Kim’s (RIP), Owamni (the best meal I’ve had since we moved to the Twin Cities), and Kahluna…even though I forgot my Lactaid at home and subsequently destroyed their restroom, it was a delicious meal. Would definitely go again.

**One of my proudest moments of 2024 was releasing an album in June. Even before I could afford my first piece of recording gear, I dreamed of one day recording an album. 2024 was the thirtieth anniversary of playing in my first band and discovering shows at the Minot Collective Cultural Centre, so I planned my album An Echo in the Dark around bands that I have played in through the years. It was a fun project, but I don’t think I’ll be undertaking another any time soon. You can hear the album wherever you listen to music, but my Electronic Press Kit video may have gotten the best reception of all:

**Another work-related highlight was recording the band Shannon & The Clams at the Current studios. I was unfamiliar with their music at the time I recorded the audio, but instantly fell in love with their sound, and even more so, the heart-wrenching story behind their new album. You’ve got to see the interview here:

**I told you my job was rad, right? So then the day after Shannon & The Clams, I got to direct and post-produce a video for Iron & Wine in our studio. I loved this song in particular. Sam was such a humble, sweet dude.

**One week after Iron & Wine, Leah and I set out on our annual June pilgrimage to Duluth. 3RUN2 crew was there {in force} for Grandma’s Marathon and the Garry Bjorlund Half. So nice to see old friends that weekend and run a race in favorable conditions.

**During the first week of August, I flew to Vermont with my colleague Jeanne to record some content for YourClassical MPR’s Performance Today. I was directing video for these interviews between host Fred Child and many of the classical luminaries who attended Marlboro Music Festival 2024. Vermont was gorgeous!

**In late summer, I got to see some dear friends from Minot, who I haven’t seen in 23 years! Best buddy from high school days, BJ Moore was in town playing with his excellent band Oriska. It was so nice to reconnect with him. Then old friends Brent Braniff and Nick Leet visited me in September. I took them on a tour of MPR and Brent took some pictures of me back at our home. Man, these visits were food for the soul.

**Also in September, I got to direct and post-produce video of LEGENDS Gillian Welch and David Rawlings for Radio Heartland. They were amazing to work with! This video has already received over 60,000 views on YouTube:

**October 6 was a busy day! Leah and I ran the TC 10 miler that morning. She was running ahead of me until the last half mile, at which point I managed to catch up to her and we crossed the finish line together…

**But we only had a few hours to recover because I had my first-ever poetry reading that afternoon! Thanks to Paul VanDyke from Veterans Telling Stories, who invited me to read during the Sogn Valley Art Festival at the Cannon Falls VFW. What an experience. I loved sharing my poetry with the small crowd there and meeting the other veteran writers.

…and then later that evening, we saw Michael Kiwanuka and Brittney Howard at The Palace. Speaking of concerts, so much good live music in 2024: Arlo Parks, Scrunchies, Carnage the Executioner, Monica LaPlante with Tommy, Christy Costello with cousin Adam, Mates of State, Al Church at the MN State Fair, Vikingur Olafson playing the Goldberg Variations! Dillinger Four with Adam & Peter, Charles Lloyd at Ordway with Peter and Tommy. Great year for concerts.

**In October, we had a visit from Tommy (Margaret was very busy working with the election on the horizon), and in November, Rick & Jenny were here. So nice to see Chicago friends in Saint Paul.

**On the writing front, it’s been a relatively quiet year, however, in October, I had my first-ever prose piece published in Slippery Elm {2024}. The editor of the journal really must have enjoyed the piece, because I learned in late November that he nominated it for a Pushcart Prize! Quite an honor to be nominated, and truly a highlight of my year.

**In November, I traveled twice to Duluth and once to Moorhead for work and then again to Fargo for Thanksgiving Day at Lacey and Adam’s place. I can’t remember the last time I was home for Thanksgiving. But no highlight reel would be complete without mentioning all the family time we were fortunate to have this past year. Thanksgiving with Mom, Dad, Lacey, Adam, Fischer & Selah, Christmases with Leah’s family, Leah’s grandma’s 90th birthday celebration/family reunion in South Dakota, lake time with Lacey, Adam, Mom and Dad, lake time with Leah’s aunt and uncle, drop-ins and visits from Mom, Leah’s family, and more, were all reminders of why living in Minnesota is so important. Although we couldn’t go to Las Vegas in November for a family reunion due to Election season and all, it was nice to see family on the regular.

**A final highlight I’ll mention is the Quilt of Valor ceremony that I got to experience with Dad at Thanksgiving. Big thanks to George and Denise for bringing our family together in that way. It was a very proud moment for me, and I’m sure for Dad as well.

Aura

〰️

Simp

〰️

Ick

〰️

Rizz

〰️

Aura 〰️ Simp 〰️ Ick 〰️ Rizz 〰️

X-Mas Storytime with Shimmering Cinnamon!

Celibate Still Life

Art installation at Maison des Sauvageaux, circa 2016

Procrastination

Misery

CDs

Friday, 9pm

NYE Kisses

Rehearsal Space

Wall Art

Essentials

The Cupboard Where Dreams Die

Reservation for One

Bedside Manner

1 Procrastination

2 Misery

3 CDs

4 Friday, 9pm

5 NYE Kisses

6 Rehearsal Space

7 Wall Art

8 Essentials

9 The Cupboard Where Dreams Die

10 Reservation for One

11 Bedside Manner

On this day: 12/14/2016

—La Colombe (Damen Ave, Chicago, IL)

I am enjoying this new Sunday morning routine. I have been waking up at 6am and riding Wolfy to Stan’s Donuts and thence to La Colombe for a coffee prior to leading the weekly 3RIDE2 adventure. This morning, the girl behind the counter at Stan’s <<CHECKS PHONE>> asked for my name, because she sees me there every Sunday. I’m trying to create routines that encourage fitness:

• Monday morning recovery boots at Edge, coffee and working on my yoga class for that night.

• Tuesday morning Edge plyometric workout

• Saturday morning Bang Bang 3RUN2 crew run followed by yoga at Tula from 11 to 12:30

• Sunday morning Stans, Colombe, 3RIDE2 <<CHECKS PHONE>>

How many minutes did I just lose there, looking at my device? Checking for hidden notifications? I’m addicted. Yesterday, my little Andorinha came home from the Turin Hospital for Children. She is beautiful. I named her after those beautiful Portuguese birdies and the even more lovely song about them sung by Amalia Rodrigues and Carminho <<CHECKS PHONE>>. We took our maiden flight together from Turin to Lifetime yesterday afternoon. She rides like a little dream. <<CHECKS PHONE>> It’s no wonder that I can never finish anything, can never write anything worthy if I am constantly being pulled from the present moment to see who LIKED my most recent post. What a waste. I miss writing so much <<CHECKS PHONE>> I think I’ve got a problem. What was happening in my life last year on this date? I wrote bad poetry. I wrote about how Tall Rob told me after yoga that he was chatting with another one of my regular attendees at the gym who told Tall Rob: “I love Josh’s classes. Josh is like a SOFT MOUNTAIN.” I loved that so much <<CHECKS PHONE>> Wednesday is the anniversary of my writing “We All” arguably the best, most rambling and schizophrenic poem I’ve penned to date. I’ll need to issue a special revision for the anniversary <<CHECKS PHONE>>. I got drunk on Dewars white label scotch and wrote for about three solid pages, of which I revised and edited to what I thought was the best lines of the bunch. In fact, while I’m thinking about it, I should <<CHECKS PHONE>> What I was going to say is: perhaps I should revise it now as I am thinking about it. I have the master version saved on Medium. I will perhaps make time this morning—while I’m in recovery boots—to further revise. <<CHECKS PHONE>> I can’t believe how much has changed in one year since writing that piece. Last year I was flying to Tampa for a pre-Christmas trip someplace warm. I was unemployed, or had actually just been hired as Operations Manager at WFMT. I feel like I am a more confident yoga teacher today and that I am in a better place emotionally, though still a long way from where <<CHECKS PHONE>> I hope to see myself.

CHECKS PHONE

<<>>

CHECKS PHONE <<>>

Andorinha

On this day: 12/7/2015

Every so often, I’ll dip back into my Morning Pages to find an entry from this day in my history, and reproduce it here. On this particular day, I was flying from Chicago to Florida. Flying is often where I get most of my good writing done, because it offers so few distractions, comparativley. This entry directly sparked my poem “We All”.

Leaving today for Tampa, visiting V’s Mom and Charles there this week. It will be nice to get the hell out of Chicago for a few days of sun and beach. I’m going to do my best to enjoy the trip and not get pulled back into Chicago bullshit for a few days, at least.

Another rejection letter. This time from the SIXFOLD contest, in which a poem is rated against six others, through three rounds of voting by other poets. My “Leatherbacks” didn’t make it past Round 1, earning a score of 3.6 out of 6. Oh well…keep trying. [“The Leatherbacks” later titled “Prey” would eventually be published in Pest Control Issue 2, March 2021]

redemption

---

<——— Oliver Minnall, 2001

Thinking about Brian Kennelly today, as I was telling V about my Navy days. I haven’t thought about him in years—an outrageous character—who roomed with Vincent Mak in “A” School. Mak would become one of my closest friends on the Vinson. Then there’s Oliver Minnall, Mark Howard, Lloyd Colgin, all ghosts from my past. Names with nothing else attached to them. How insane is that? I spent over a year with these guys, hanging out every day. We watched the towers fall together in real time on 9/11, and now all I retain is a faint recollection of their names. Some, not even that much: the hulking MM mechanic with the square, bald head, who I shared a bathroom with, who I was slightly terrified of, who drove me to downtown Charleston one night to party, where we got completely hammered on $5 Long Island Iced Teas, and on the way home I thought I was certainly going to piss myself, and he got into the bathroom first, and Minnall [my roommate] was playing Dreamcast—or whatever game system was en vogue at the time—at 2 in the morning. Or the 1980s movie marathon that I held in our room one weekend, people popping in and out at all times of the day. Jesus. It was another lifetime. Playing sand volleyball on a Sunday afternoon, going to the beach when I was in Prototype—which beach? I know it had a name—drunk on Smirnoff Ice and boogie boarding, and the strap of the thing getting caught between my thighs somehow as a fucking riptide pulled me out to sea, towards the pier. I surely thought I would die that day. Or the other time at the beach, covering myself in Coppertone Classic—essentially COOKING OIL—and falling asleep in the sun, getting burned so badly that my entire forehead erupted into a billion blisters and I looked like Freddy Krueger for two weeks. Or that blonde instructor at Prototype [Timothy Croak, RIP 8/29/2024] who was so goddamn cocky and hated everything and all of us and was the meanest 2nd Class Petty Officer I ever met in the six years I served.

How is it possible that all that exists in this INSTANT?

Staggering to think about, really. Everything goes. Nothing lasts—and we all act as if it really will last forever. Like we have an eternity to do the things we want, like we have all the money to do everything we want. Life is a short bus. Suddenly, all the stress about giving up a full-time job to explore yoga teacher training seems TRIVIAL. But isn’t everything trivial, extended out to a long enough timeline? The older I get, the more convinced I become that trying to make a thing last is the definition of futility, Nothing lasts. That is the only truth I know. Every day we wake up, we are infinitely different than we were the previous day. It’s impossible to remain the same, day in and day out. We are trapped inside these humyn bodies—which is such a relief, because at least we have that as an anchor point—the same face staring back at us from the looking glass each morning; something recognizable. I could wake up tomorrow an accountant living in a remote yurt in Mongolia, and the only thing that would surprise me is if I no longer recognized the face in the mirror.

This hippy, sitting kitty-corner from me has been in his stocking-feet since he sat down; plane still attached to the jetway, baggage still being tossed into the compartment below—stocking-footed. I have to laugh. It’s only a two-hour flight, brah.

Why am I terrified to write what is actually concerning me? You know why. People read over shoulders, that is why. I am a bad person, aren’t I?

No, I am not. This is life.

We all make mistakes, we all make friends, we all make a mess. We all clean it up. We all write. We all swipe left. We all pick our noses when nobody’s looking. We all cry. We all avoid those we don’t want to see. We all seek out those we want. We all drink scotch before noon. We all see our therapists daily. We all take our medicine. We all experience turbulence. We all get cancer. We all kill sheep ritualistically on the Autumnal Equinox. We all stab one another in dark alleyways for 20 cents and a bus pass.

We all sit in crowded airplanes in our stocking feet. We all sing. We all laugh. We all shoot heroin. We all soil ourselves. We’ve all been to Lisbon. We’ve all been to Reykjavik. We’ve all been to the laundromat. We’ve all run a marathon. We all are made of comets. We all are bloodsacks. We all speak to aliens. We all believe in Santa. We all turn our TV on, watch it for hours, and never learn a goddamn thing. We all cook eggs. We all cheat. We all lie. We all roast in the flames of a fire we all built. We all store our dryer lint in a sandwich baggie by the DVDs, so we can use it for kindling to start that fire. We all drink an entire bottle of bourbon by that fire when we should be at home with hubby. We all pet someone else’s kitty behind the ears. We all brag about it later to our friends, or anyone who’ll listen. We all glisten. We all glow. We all shine. We all swim. We all drown.

We all

〰️

We all 〰️

We all believe the Olmecs were the best. We all burn at the stake. We all set the stakes too high. We all play ping pong with the neighbor boy. We all flunk algebra. We all write “poetry” when we’ve had a little too much to drink. We all eat far too much cheese. We all chew our food with our mouths hanging open. We all wish we were cabana boys. We all love fado. We all love Larry David. We all love Donald Trump. We all are gay. We all are Muslim. We all are salmon. We all are Kodiak bears. We all play the bass fiddle in folk-rock bands. We all read magazines when we wait in the lobby for our turn in the dentist’s chair. we all drive Vespas from the café to the lycée with our teeth chattering in the cold. We all watch our friendships die. We all watch our friends die. We all play the radio a little too loudly for our own good.

We all buy houses we can’t possibly afford. We all run up our credit card debt. We all have a 401k. We all get two weeks for vacation. We all sip mimosas on the beach in Cancún as the sun rises. We all black out. We all forget who we are. We all forget who we were. We all forget whomever we were supposed to be. We all regret. We all paint in the style of the modern man. We all get accepted to the Ivy League. We all make six figures. We all winter in Istanbul. We all watch airplanes fall from the sky. We all fly with the angels. We all smoke too much. We all have an app for that. We all Just Do It. We all Enjoy Responsibly. We all refresh our Facebook feeds. We all swim with sharks. We all hunt giraffes. We all know how to sling a sledgehammer. We all have a Hall of Champions. We all have won a Grammy. We all belong in Cooperstown. We all died on the Titanic. We all would love a Toblerone, if you’re offering. We all play Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah” on repeat and cry ourselves to sleep. We all take hemlock when the time comes. We all write our memoirs prematurely. We all snuggle under the covers as we watch our lives slip away. We all hike the AT. We all re-enact the Battle of Bull Run. We all break down screaming on the floors of airports. We all blow our brains out on live TV. We all grunt. We all moan. We all laugh until our sides hurt. We all sing XMas Carols. We all have favorites. We all have enemies. We all have a hard time with it. We all hope for the best. We all prepare for the worst. We all wish we had more time.

We don’t.

Blue-Collar Fugue

Originally published in Sobotka Literary Magazine issue 10

Publications and Honors

ESSAYS

“Remember to Forget” — Slippery Elm 2024 (nominated for a Pushcart)

POETRY

“Blue-Collar Fugue” — Sobotka Literary Magazine issue 10

“Last Letter Home” — North Dakota Quarterly issue 90.3/4

“Mirror in Mirror” — Honorable mention in Hal Poetry Prize

“Stickball Cemetery” — Fish Anthology 2022 (Honorable mention in Fish Poetry Prize 2022, judged by Billy Collins)

“Prey” — Pest Control issue 2

“Nelson Cruz at 41: Pelotero, Astronaut” — Cobalt (finalist in Cobalt’s “Extra-Innings” Prize)

HYBRID

“A Lonely Undergrad Wanders into Gorilla Sushi on a Friday Night” — third place in Deanna Tulley Memorial Prize 2023

“Why Not, Minot?” — Finalist in Brink Literary Journal Award for Hybrid Writing

November 2024 Recap!

A Pushcart Nomination! A poetry reading! A published essay! Work travel! And more!

If I knew then that I would end up spending my whole life behind a keyboard, I’d have gone outside to play.

Order your copy here: https://slipperyelm.findlay.edu/buy-a-copy/

Almost forgot that I recorded this music video at the beginning of the month as well. Check it out below or follow my YouTube channel.

On this day: 11/27-28/2002

Every so often, I’ll dip back into my Morning Pages to find an entry from this day in history, and reproduce it here. On these particular days, November 27th and 28th, 2002, I was checking in to the USS Carl Vinson for the first time.

11/27/2002: Woke up at 3am to check out of TPU [Transient Personnel Unit] San Diego. What a joke! It only took five minutes to check out and now we must wait hours before the bus comes to take us to the ship. I heard the USS Carl Vinson is due to pull into San Diego between 1300 and 1600 today. Bus takes us to a large warehouse where we wait. At about 1230, the Carl Vinson first comes into sight. As it approaches, I am absolutely dumbfounded at the size of the ship. We wait two-plus hours until they finally let all fifty of us new check-ins onboard. A lot of paperwork and finally they show me to my “pit” or bed. It is about six and a half feet long, three feet wide, and two feet between my mattress and the lower frame of the bunk above mine. There are two sliding blue curtains for privacy.

11/28/2002: Woke up at 0600. It’s Thanksgiving morning. Went to breakfast, which consisted of hard pancakes. Mustered with my division at 0730. We were released around 0900 to go to the flight deck as CVN-70 got underway. Stood atop as we transitioned out of the harbor. Quite a strange feeling to be that high off the water, watching the tiny kayaks below. The ship is so large that I don’t think I’ll ever see all of it. In a bit of a dilemma though, as I don’t have enough space for all my belongings and have had to sleep with my backpack crammed into my pit with me, restricted my already minimal space to sleep. Apparently, somebody else is using my locker, so I can’t put my things away until that is sorted. The ship begins to rock and it is becomes obvious that we have left the relatively calm harbor waters.

Wish I could call Mom and Dad and say Happy Thanksgiving, but I’ll wish it to them anyway. Slept for a long time during the day. Woke up at 11pm! They were serving Thanksgiving dinner for mid-rats (midnight rations), and since I slept through it earlier, I helped myself. There was turkey, ham, mashed potatoes and gravy. I was eating my mid-rats alone, missing home, and feeling lonely and sad. Someone came and sat next to me and asked me if I was okay. That was nice of them. I think I’ll like it here.