in·​ter·​view: jell-​o

Is dating harder now?

Well, I am. But I'm also softer than before.

Please don't let me slip.

What makes you feel like you're softer now?

I think I'm less resolute in my claim of knowing what I want and need. I didn't know either, and then I thought I knew both. But I'm repeatedly reminded (or convinced) that I don't. And that makes me feel like a marshmallow too near to a flame. Or like something that's being squeezed and formed and pulled and squished just like it's supposed to - taffy, for example. And it's supposed to undergo that stretchy journey, but to be honest I thought I was going to be a tree. A beautiful red and green tree that soaks up sunshine and gives and gives.

A tree is much firmer than a marshmallow, isn't it?

Something I'm asking myself today is, "Who will give or withhold permission from me?"

Permission to what?

Permission to iterate, I suppose. To keep redefining and exploring my understanding of this world and to demand attention as I delight in it. Permission to shoot my shot at a humorous and empathetic life.

Who will watch me as I blast myself in the chest with a cannon and then stare down incredulously at the perfectly round hole I've made. I stare at the way someone can see behind me, through me now. Does hollowing myself mean they can see inside of me? Or does it make me something to look through, to look past? When I finally look up from my wound -- the wound I inflicted in an attempt at honesty, at vulnerability - who will be already looking into my tearful eyes, asking me whether I want to be helped or held? When I step forward, shaking and gaping, who will give me a kiss on the cheek and say,

"It makes sense what you did just there. I don't think you needed to though; we already see you. Let's wrap you up and let that heal, sunshine," 

Who is we?

The decentralized romantic partner. A partner that takes the form of a single lover and a tribal legion. The daily curtain call, the beaming side-eye, the exhilarating us-versus-them that is really a liberating us-in-and-among-them. I suppose it takes quite some time to be seen by the right people. Waiting for your big break, guessing-and-checking where you seek to be found.

Who will give me permission, and who will withhold permission from me? Do I trust myself to decipher?

These days, my softness is harder. It's in motion and it's setting.

dus•ty

There are tiny children in me made of furious, shifting dust. They’re pushing against my ribs and passing through each other, aware only of their ill intent. They are made of fury and hurt, oblivious to their number’s compounding effects on their host. Their teeth are sharp, and their claws find purchase on every available patch of internal flesh.

I look down and gingerly rub my aching chest, unsure of the remedy. I'm scared to ask & powerless to describe the shape-shifters within me.

I have no authority over them, because I have no jurisdiction in their motherland. A land where people are animals and animals are people, where some lives mean nothing more than space occupied, and greed is a more welcome fuel than peace.

They are shaking me and they are multiplying, so I begin to stow them away in cubbies, crafted in secret of my own muscle and sinew. As more children appear, more cubbies are built.

Years from now, how far down will these rows extend into my body? Legs filled with furious dust, shaking as I age.

Only the most unaffected, or perhaps the most engaged, hosts find themselves still walking gracefully as they grow old, as they lead their grandchildren down the aisle.

As if reaching to pet a puppy, I brace for the nips on my finger, the scratches on my wrist as I reach down into my chest. I wince as I let these scared, filthy children step into my palm. As I carry them up through my throat towards the light of day, I can’t help but dream of hearing, “grandpa, what stable legs you have”.

fluf•fing, 10

I think that We Can Do Hard Things desensitizes its listeners to revelation.

I had a dream last night that I was sitting diagonally back to back with a middle-aged woman. She was waving her glass of wine about as she emphatically told stories. I asked her to be careful, and she was incredulous that I didn't trust her to defy the laws of gravity and stop the wine from splashing out of her remarkably mobile and horizontal glass.

How many people do you think have ring lights for their work-from-home setup? Is that appropriate?

I had a dream last night that I was at the home of my coworker (as a friend? an airbnb guest? perhaps a son?). His wide open kitchen was a charming array of floating wooden shelves, clay vases, and striped hand towels flung on countertops. At first, he was married to someone I didn't recognize--her name may have been Tammi? After we unloaded bags and bags of groceries from his car, he filmed me with a plastic on-the-should camcorder as I slowly walked through his drafty, thin-white-tapestry-swept family room. His wife became Sabrina Impacciatore, crying on the floor as she appeared to be picking up fallen groceries like puzzle pieces, this incident so clearly the straw that broke the back of her aching heart.

Everyone’s a catch if you’re lookin for ‘em.