“I don’t know how it’s possible, but I, I think my birthday this year was possibly the best one I’ve ever had. It’s certainly one of the most special, and I want to thank everyone for being a part of it. 52 on 5/2 I’m certainly not playing with a full deck it’s more like a deck full of jokers. So thank you everyone for being part of it.”
for the record (and as far as i know you look it up if you don’t believe me) for the past fifty-two years it has been shitty exactly once on my birthday. That was 2001, the year I turned 33 and one of the years I was in and around dating Noel. I’m sure he had just recently broken it off again. Anyway.
my parents built the house I grew up in in 1970. A typical, split-level ranch. Right outside my bedroom window they planted this glorious cherry tree, a Kanzan Sakura, with the big, fat, pale pink marshmallowy blossoms. I love that tree, it’s my favorite flower of all. Blooms every year on my birthday.
I don’t remember how early on but it was early, Itold Gary that when I finally owned my own home I would plant one of those trees in my yard. The first spring that we were in the house we planted our tree. We didn’t plant it in a good spot, it didn’t get anywhere near the kind of sunlight it needed underneath the massive canopy of maple and oak. I could, however, see the blossoms from my bedroom window.
Last year, after the house went into foreclosure, I knew that would be my last birthday with that view, of cherry blossoms from my bedroom window. And then the neighbor went ahead and chopped down the maple and oak, that gorgeous canopy of green that had been protecting my head for 13 years. A full backyard of sunlight meant that the cherry tree would have a chance to grow properly now, reaching up towards the sun instead of slinking around corners to find it. Only I wouldn’t be here.
This year however, with the world on pause, I got one last, magical reprieve to spend with my tree. So I went to my backyard, prepared to see admirers as any queen would, and enjoyed my day under the cherry blossoms.
tootsies!
protecting mah face with g’s hat, sunscreen, maui jims
Chalk whimsy by MK’s Jess
activities for the day: snacks, notebook, cannabis, knitting
Buon Giorno from me & Paolo! (check out Alfalfa)
Is it sunny or am I stoned?
yeah.
Kanzan Sakura never disappoints
heya!
first time i’ve worn bracelets in ages
fairyland
Feelin’ alll of it
🌸🌸🌸
🌸to🌸the🌸sky🌸
🌸🌸🌸
holding hands with bae
wicked little grin
physically distanced birthday seating. hearts to know you’re loved💜💜💜
love is💜
fully lit in 3…2…1…boom!
The Daddiest Daddy: America’s Governor Andrew Cuomo
i cant smoke enough today cant distract from all the love all the couples all of the truly meant “i love you”s not the sweet softness of friends or family but the true deep, desperateness of a real love. the kind of love that has seen pain, felt it within its walls. heard its voices quake in fear.
this pain this absence. this lack.
the isolation makes it more intense more invasive the virus of loneliness manifesting and growing wilder still.
try as i might to quench this beast this monster i sit under the clear skylight under the rain no sound other than the shrieking in my skull the purring of the engine the staccato of the rain on the car.
six thousand five hundred seventy-eight days ago on a day very much like (and completely unlike) today i saw your face for the first time saw you wink for the first time saw that thousand-watt smile for the first time. 6,578 days ago i fell in love with you for the first time. there honestly has not been a single day since that i haven’t had the most incredibly complex thoughts about you.
i wish i could comfort myself with the belief that somehow somehow you know all this that in some way you are hearing me seeing me. still loving me in that complex, fierce way you had.
but this is how i know there is no god. this this is how i know for sure. (nobody fuckin come at me over this you can fuck off and keep your smug shit to yourself i am TIRED)
unrequited love is BULLSHIT and it is roaring inside me like a furnace oh it has places to go (well it used to, now didn’t it) but it is held back it is most definitely restrained
it doesn’t want to be.
everybody EVERYBODY everybody says how strong, how brave, how resilient WHAT CHOICE DO I HAVE. no one is coming to save me. No one.
so i sit and i smoke and i cry and i hold my own hands. and i scream inside my head all day long. and when i do talk to someone anyone mania takes over i have no control. and i scare myself.
gam zeh ya’avor gam zu le tovah / this too shall pass and it is all for the good i know I KNOW but it is killing me NOW.
it’s been almost an hour that i’ve been out here, now, smoking. my plant is finally drenched. my medicine is finally working. i smoked enough to take down a fucking RHINO. there won’t be any ill effect from this, either. my body knows what it needs, i feel clearheaded, if stoned. none of the usual giggliness i usually do but most definitely uplifted. my medicine works hard, i work harder.
this fucking shit is tearing my body apart raking my flesh scissoring my veins shredding my bones…
it is rendering me jellied, puddled.
my body knows this feeling this d e p r e s s i o n. it isn’t the right time for it not like this. all of this laying around and doing nothing AND BEING TOLD ITS OKAY. this is what’s different. i’m not tired i am active. alert. pointy. with no release. no way to let go. no way to succumb.
So I smoke.
and i eat.
and i smoke.
and I have a rich fantasy life and when I do venture out it is with dire regard like a fox I am so aware. I crave human interaction I crave I crave. i need voice. a face. a touch .
i do not know how to explain to rationalize so completely wanting to overwhelm to suffuse myself in another so that perhaps (perhaps) i could regain my self apart.
today began like every other one in our new place. get up, take care of Mojo (we’ve got a new/old meds/food routine! took a minute but it’s so close to same.) take care of momma (coffee and cannabis) it’s fucking frigid out there this morning on the porch twenty-eight fucking degrees (fahrenheit. celsius is what MINUS TWO POINT TWO TWO WHAAAT) come back inside to plan the rest of my day. :switch showerhead :okay then, text building manager about getting that done. and the hello tushy thing. :shower :get Rosie inspected before work
feeling buoyant and happy, I ask Mojo if it’s dance party time. of COURSE it is, momma what playlist… ooh The Delish. THAT one. because he is coming over later. Mojo in my arms, sunlight streaming in the windows, music on the Sonos. “I’ll Be There” by Jess Glynne
“When all the tears are rolling down your face And it feels like yours was the only heart to break When you come back home and all the lights are out, ooh And you're getting used to no one else being around Oh, oh, I'll be there When you need a little love, I got a little love to share Yeah, I'm gonna, I'm gonna, I'm gonna come through You'll never be alone, I'll be there for you I'll be there, I'll be there for you… Oh, I swear, I got enough love for two, ooh, ooh, ooh You'll never be alone, I'll be there for you…”
(I put this song on his playlist because this is 100% the essence of our relationship. It isn’t an all-the-time holding hands and going places thing. rather it is the inherent understanding that when we need each other, we are there. in a somewhat unconventional way but valid just the same.)
what this is REALLY about, howmever, is the 10.628 pounds of fur and fangs and fierceness currently (and usually) the occupant of my left arm. whether it is hormones (it definitely is) or bipolar (haylo!) or grief (can i get a trifecta? sure you can!) music and cannabis and the FUCKING STRESS OF THE ELEPHANTS UPSTAIRS are all coalescing to reduce me to tears thinking how i can’t think about suicide because of Mojo.
reading all this and knowing just how fucking hard today is going to be at work and knowing *that* is going to make it the tiniest bit easier.
having these reminders these unbidden intrusions of HEY LOOK LISTEN don’t go anywhere yet you got stuff to do here, still
i mean it. just hang on. please.
there are so many good things. so many new good things. so many.
you are* the most beautiful lover the most considerate you hold my face in your hands my mouth engaged with yours. i fly so high with you, so close to the sun you keep me sheltered from burning, protected. I never know what piques your temperament, what drives you softly, or insistent. What steers you, my love, my sweet. I know that I do, that when asked “who do I belong to?” your voice, a low growl responds “Me. To do with what I wish.” I know you feel freedom with me unfettered judgeless pure.
As for me, I am unafraid (mostly) to say what I feel to you To whisper “i love you so much you know that, right?” (nodding, your soft hair brushing my forehead) “it’s okay for me to say, right?” (I say this last bit with trepidation, for even though we have continued to make this work, this thing we have this sweetness. I say it with trepidation still because even after all this time, how much do I really know? ((how much more do I really need to know beyond the depth of your loyalty to me?)) more nodding, your soft eyes slowly blinking at me like a big cat. A lynx. Dear heart.)
*(almost always. Would be a lie if I said otherwise and you’ll be the first to agree.)
There is an incredibly talented artist that I love, and who loves me. I am proud to call Jar my friend. They post their work on Instagram here: @artbyjar. In every flash special they post, there’s always at least one piece that catches my eye, but never anything that has spoken to me. Until now. So this little beauty comes up on my screen and I zero in on the whale. Whale! A humpback whale! needneedneed send the DM get your spot. DONE. I look up from my text to see directly above the whale is a bee. a bumble bee. ughneedNEED. Here’s why:
Songs of the Humpback Whale, on vinyl released in 1970, was the first record I was given as a child, I was maybe six or seven. It opened like a double album, had a book inside that talked about the people who recorded it (Roger Payne, after research by Frank Watlington in 1966) and highlighted the problems with the whaling industry. There was a graphic photo of a dockside with the aftermath of a slaughtered whale. There were also five pieces of the most incredible abstract music I had ever heard in my (admittedly short) life. I have since listened to that album countless times, no bullshit new age music muddling the perfect pitch of whalesong, no dumb “inspirational” assholes spewing useless tripe. Pure, mournful, insistent. Funny, at times. Comforting. Reliable.
Over the years, I replaced the album with a CD, then digital download. I still have the album, probably warped from the heat in the attic but still.
1988. I was working at Waldenbooks in the Galleria. We sold movies on VHS and played them on continuous loop on the two overhead monitors above the cash wrap to entice customers. My friend Stef and I had the movies memorized and would run lines along with the videos. National Lampoon’s European Vacation. Dirty Dancing. And Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. Featuring the whalesong discovered in 1967 and recorded by, you got it, Roger Payne.
(somewhere between 2007 and 2014) One day after Gary and I had been at couples’ therapy with a woefully underskilled and underwhelming therapist named Gil, we sat in the car, I’m imagining warming up the interior. I’d just gotten the aforementioned CD in the mail, and wanted to share it. I explained why it was so important to me; Gary, impatient, gestured “all right, already.” I hit play.
I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar cries wash over me, smiling as they filled the cabin. Shortly, I heard an intake of breath, and opened them. Gary was wide-eyed, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Stop it. Please. Make it stop.” his voice breaking. I stopped it immediately, grasping his hands, terrified. “Tell me,” I pleaded. “What’s going on?”
He took time to catch his breath, dry his tears, drink some water. Took another breath, let it out. “It’s absolutely excruciatingly obvious that these are incredibly intelligent creatures, communicating with each other. It is abundantly clear that we have no way of communicating with them. We can’t understand them; they can’t understand us.” The enormity of the parallel intelligence of these beings with no Rosetta Stone was too much to bear for him, that the only thing possible was to appreciate the song for what it was: abstract expression. As we would discover, that was something possibly impossible for him to do.
I never again played that album where he could hear it. I’ve played it a lot in the past twenty-two months. Mojo goes on high alert. I wonder how whalesong translates to him.
Bumble Bee. My nickname for Gary, one of. The Bumbliest Bee. The Mister. Mr. Grumblebee. I was glitterbug to him, his Glitter Girl. He used to mimic John Belushi in the Blue Brothers “King Bee” bit. He could be soft, and fuzzy, and sociable, and helpful, and he also had a very painful sting. It made perfect sense that the only medicine that helped for his allergies was honey, lots of local honey. He was my Bumble Bee for years. Forever.
So I see this juxtaposition, and I dive in. Book the appointment. Right around the 22-month mark. I woke this morning of the appointment after not managing my expectations the night before and am still feeling the sadness of it, even though I know what happened and why. Knowing how to not have that particular scenario play out again, while not scolding myself for allowing it to happen in the first place. The weight of summer is upon me in full: soggy, homicidal, blanketing, dysphoria and depression cycling out of control. My good friend John reached out, early this morning, asking how I was. I was honest. “I can’t get out of bed. I don’t want to.” He was gentle with me, as he always is, asking if I was off work today, what I had planned (not if I had plans. Important distinction), being empathetic as I wound through feeling frozen, not wanting to leave. Listing all the things I still haven’t done. John asked, “Do you feel like leaving means he’s really gone”, to which I replied, “I know he’s really gone. Yes. I won’t be able to look around and see him here, hear his voice here.”
Unprompted, he budgeted my time for me. Told me what to do; gave me guidance. I explained the meaning behind the whale and bee. That I need the physical pain that will come with this new tattoo, this catharsis. Even as I dawdled, started the shower and returned to my bed, John pressed, gently nudging me to get ready. That yes, you need this. I showered, dressed, drove. Started listening to The Ethical Slut on my way. Liking it a lot.
The pain is sharp, and necessary. For the first time ever it doesn’t take my breath away; no, it rides alongside the pain inside, keeping it company, letting it dissolve. Allowing it to be free, to let go. As we talk, as she works, as we work on ideas we’ve shared, plans for a future in which strong women help each other grow. In which good men are welcomed and embraced. This future that I am embracing whole-body, whole mind, whole heart.
I get to Jar’s, walking a few blocks in the 90° heat. It feels like a steam room, the entire Bronx is one big sauna. We can’t even embrace for a hello it’s so hot. Upstairs, their AC on full, greeting friends, settling in, discussing the artwork. Telling them the story I just told you. Feeling the weight and weightlessness at once, knowing that this is perfect. We settle in to our positions, discussing the next piece, and the next. They begin.
I take a few pictures of my new ink, send them to friends of all flavors. Obviously I do this for validation (miss me with your armchair therapist observational diagnosis of codependence, savvy?) and not because I want to share my happiness. OBVS.🙄🙄
I’ve been obsessed with this piece, as I see it as one piece, not two. Whale + Bee, that’s how I have it in my calendar. I’m running through names, permutations for a website, something easy, something memorable. It isn’t gelling. The Whale and The Bee. Nope. Nuh-uh. And then, a question from someone I’ve been spending time with recently. He asks, “Is that like a blessing: Be Well (bee + whale)?”
I didn’t think about the visual pun. That never happens. I don’t know how that happened. I relayed that to him. Then I said, “The whale and the bee are much more personal images with very specific meaning. Be well. It’s fucking brilliant.” The more I sit with this revelation, the happier I become. I promise everyone who asks for context (because I’m not the type to get inked for no reason) that I’m writing a blog post about the meaning. TL:dr “Be well.” It’s something I say to people instead of the ubiquitous “take care” (ugh), or “be good” (vom). Be well.
Be well. I keep saying it. Be well. It hits me again; my current favorite ceramic glaze (well, the past three years, my entire high-fire career anyhow) is a beautifully imperfect thing, a Bruce Dehnert recipe called BwhaleD. Be well.
Here ends the first part of this tale.
Stay tuned. And be well.
Whales Weep Not!
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs. The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages on the depths of the seven seas, and through the salt they reel with drunk delight and in the tropics tremble they with love and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods. Then the great bull lies up against his bride in the blue deep of the sea
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life: and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale blood the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale’s fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale’s strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth, keep passing archangels of bliss from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies. And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat encircling their huddled monsters of love. and all this happiness in the sea, in the salt where God is also love, but without words: and Aphrodite is the wife of whales most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
The Salty Widow 