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Kinky Boots

At nearly thirty-four, I’m inching into a neoprene harness behind a sex shop’s three-quarter changing room wall.

I glance to my left, expecting to see this failed experiment reflected in a cracked, distorted mirror. But instead, I look out onto the shop floor and make disturbingly prolonged eye contact with a man holding up a black shirt that features a “1” outlined in dripping yellow.

With one arm tucked awkwardly beneath two straps, I duck out of view and commence muttering to myself.

How the fuck does this thing work?

Is there a front?

This is so disempowering.

Moments later, the overly attentive clerk sidles up to the wall, and peers over.

“Is that the right size for you?”

Crouched Gollum-like in the corner whilst fumbling with the clasps, I know my stricken expression will belie any hints of knowledgeable enthusiasm I can possibly muster.

“OH, YEP. EVERYTHING’S FINE. HAHAHA. YEP. JUST FINE.”

Unfazed, he pivots left—walking over to the discount shirt section where two twenty-somethings banter back and forth about their options.

“Oooh, we can really slut this up in time for Pride. And look, there’s even an otter on it for you!”

“Wait, you think I’m an otter?”

“Of course you’re a fucking otter. Jesus, Todd.”

With arms twisted in opposite directions and my neck arched like an arabesque origami crane, I feel like Pinocchio’s uncoordinated gay brother, Parker—and consider re-shelving the entire getup. But as I unwind myself, I lean into the fearful discomfort burbling in my mind, and push past it—reaching for the potential I know lies just beyond.

I slide the dressing room’s daisy duke jean short drape to one side, and notice the chatty twink rolling his eyes at Todd, who’s holding up a shirt that reads “Bad Puppy.”

“Goddammit, Todd! It’s like you’re not even trying.”

Opposite them, in a mirror-lined alcove, two forty-something Microsofties debate the flogging merits of elk leather over cowhide.

“I dunno, Jason. You know how welted my skin can get,” she says, running her hand along the flogger’s coarse underside, her French tips glinting brilliantly beneath the track lighting.

Jason nods his agreement, and adjusts his wide-rimmed glasses.

I skirt around them, trip over a cock ring display, and knock into a wall, causing upright dildos on the shelves above to jiggle like dashboard bobble heads. For a moment, I watch them sway, thinking about how lively this place would be during an earthquake.

At the counter, an older man scans my items like they’re produce, and slides them into a generic paper bag.

“Do you need any lube?”

That definitely beats a shopper savings readout. 

“Nope, I’m good.”

As the card processes, I think back to my first solo sex shop foray—working up the courage to cross the threshold after passing by the storefront twice. But the moment I walked in, the friendly staffer wholly disarmed me with his kindness and tact, so much so that I gutted up enough confidence to flirt with him, but promptly tripped and fell into a lube display—bottles sliding across the floor and into the door. I didn’t get his number.

After the card reader beeps, the man pushes the bag over to me.

“Thanks for coming in.”

I wait to see if there’s a punchline, but he turns to help the Microsofties, who’ve decided to go with the elk leather. So I gather my bag and inch past Todd, who’s migrated over to mesh tops—the same display I careened into when I scurried in, a pair of assless chaps swatting me across the face as the clerks welcomed me.

Back in the car, I cram the bag into the floorboard as paranoia-fueled story-lines mentally unfold frame by frame: whilst feeling empowered and driving along, I neglect to see a dog crossing the road; I swerve to avoid it, and crash into a sidewalk bollard; in slow motion, I half-consciously watch as the merchandise hurtles out through the shattered windshield; and, as I fully come to, I hear bystanders whispering conspiratorially to one another, “Claudia, is that what I think it is?”

When I get home, I try everything again without the pressure of prying eyes, and feel totally free—sexy, desirable, and completely unencumbered by societal expectations.

There’s power in exploring such desires—in reveling in the delicious ambiguity of budding selfhood and self-reflection, of finding a new, albeit distantly familiar, rhythm to life. Especially when it’s for you, and no one else.

***

Glass crunches underfoot as I teeter off the backhoe’s caked tracks and firmly plant my sneakers onto the cottage’s shattered, listing porch.

Several months before, during an afternoon walk with JoJo, I’d stumbled upon the abandoned cottage. Sited on a manicured stretch of Craftsman bungalows and 1940s cottages, it sat far back on a deep, overgrown corner lot. As I often do with dilapidated structures, I dreamed of what I’d do to it if it were mine—making use of the front yard for raised vegetable beds and beehives, slowly transforming the modest house from an eyesore into a home. But in subsequent weeks, I’d been noticing a surge of activity around it: the boards covering the windows had been removed, the lawn was mowed—subtle hints of impending change. And then the backhoe arrived.

I angle myself through the collapsed doorway and let adrenaline fuel my tour —acknowledging at every turn that this was once someone’s home, treating it with respect. There’s something sacred about mapping one final experience onto a place that’s soon to be wiped from the earth.

Just inside the kitchen, I step over a small mailbox sign reading “Anderson” and peer into open cupboards where purple glass tumblers stand aligned—soldiers soon to face an unwieldy adversary. Beneath the sink, a bright red kettle sits alongside a small computer monitor, its cord neatly wrapped nearby.

Condemned homes replete with personal items have such a haunting quality; it’s as though life inside is still unfolding. I snap a few photos, and then scamper out.

Late the next evening, as JoJo and I crest the hill, the cottage is gone. There’s no pile of splintered wood—only a broken picket fence gate propped along the massive hole, the air perfumed by a shattered evergreen laying across the upended lot. We dogleg into the alley, past a gaggle of neighbors clucking about “what’s coming,”  and sidestep a swath of pavement sprinkled with purple glass and computer bits.

Every ruin, every life, can be an homage to decadent waste.

***

My phone pulses from a push notification; more bad news about the state of our country—more chaos sown, more lives thrown into limbo. Everything feels substantially heavier.

The weight of it makes my privileged skin feel unbearable—that if I wait a second longer, I’ll rip it off. I flick the power button on my battered iPod Shuffle as the elevator door opens. Moments later, I’m running.

As I gasp for breath between sprints, I try and think about the last time I ran this hard. I was a block away from Santa Monica Blvd in West Hollywood, racing away from an encroaching truth.

Turning a corner, I bound to the left to avoid colliding with an oblivious, scooter-riding child.

Through my ear buds, Dolores O’Riordan croons the haunting lyrics to “Zombie.”

“But, you see it’s not me
It’s not my family
In your head, in your head
They are fighting

With their tanks and their bombs
And their bombs and their guns
In your head in your head they are crying
In your head
In your head…”

 

I run faster, sidestep a dead raven rotting on the sidewalk, and wind along a row of character-rich single-story cottages being prepped for demolition—to be replaced by the charmless, squared facades being overbuilt by the block-full. We’re stripping away so much for the sake of the here and now; we’ll regret it.

Every single day it feels as though this nation is dying; here and there we disappear—generations lost to violence, a layer of our collective history ripped away. And when we reach back for who and what went missing, we can only grasp at random photos, a few yellowed pages packed away in library stacks, hum a string of lyrics to remind ourselves that we were once here together.

Bowie’s “Heroes” queues up.

“…I will be King
And you, you will be Queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be heroes just for one day
We can be us just for one day
…
And the shame, was on the other side
Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes just for one day…”

I hurtle downhill—my legs expanding outward, arms catching the breeze: willing me to take flight.

***

A block ahead, Pride thumps through the streets. Amid the glittered, sweaty revelry, signs of solidarity are raised aloft, clutched by rainbow-painted fists.

Screams inch into the back of my throat; I let the music pulse through me—my body easing into the thrumming crowd: a community of fellow “others.” Living loudly is the best revenge to take against a force that’d see everyone white-washed and straightened out.

An hour later, I take a side street and head downhill—but not before I look back and scan the crowd: a kaleidescope of blending color; the world as it should be.

Sun streaks across my shades as the sidewalk grade steepens. I give in to gravity, and lean into the decline; before I know it, I’m running again.

Air rushes by as my slip-ons clack against the pavement: the intervals widening, my body feeling lighter.

Reminding me of the thrill of piloting a life that embraces unknowns, hardship, and intense longing—using it to catalyze changes for a better future, a time when we all can fly.

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For Whom the Belle Tolls

Each of us holds and wields power, which is inextricably tied to privilege. Not all of us recognize it, often succumbing to apathy or, worse yet, defaulting to socially conditioned behaviors of perpetuating horrid, patently false social narratives and stereotypes about members of marginalized communities— especially people of color, immigrants, people with disabilities, LGBTQIA people, and women.

But even folks who are digging deep—have started enrolling in trainings, are learning more about oppression and its avatars—still default and commit microaggressions. We’re human, and we trip up. And I’m no exception. Still, we have a responsibility to acknowledge when we do trip up, and work to mitigate the effects these microaggressions can have on our relationships.

Before I dive in, let me start by acknowledging the power I carry. I’m a cis, white, able-bodied gay man whose first language is English. In the U.S., five of those six characteristics afford me access to services and a veritable cornucopia of resources, and their primacy is reified through codified legislation—that all too frequently perpetuates and undergirds institutional vehicles of oppression targeting people of color, immigrants, trans* people, people with disabilities, and women.

So, to recap, I have an insane amount of privilege. And whenever possible, I attempt to leverage it in intentional, intersectional ways to help uplift or amplify oppressed voices.

That being said, I want to touch on the other component of my personhood that kicks me out of the proverbial privilege clubhouse. I’m gay, and have been out for about 13 years.

I’m incredibly fortunate to live in one of the most liberal states on the Left Coast, in one of its most liberal cities. Working in the nonprofit sphere, I rub shoulders with a lot of people who think they’re much more progressive than they are; and since I work in King County, the vast majority of these folks are white, middle to upper class—which means something completely different socioeconomically than where I grew up in small-town Alabama—and most were or are affiliated with either Microsoft or Amazon. Because I’m swaddled in this politically blue cocoon, it’s all the more jarring when someone allows their privilege to cloud their judgement, leading them to say or do something wholly offensive.

The other day, I was chatting with some folks, and I concluded a story with some allusion to where I grew up—to which a straight, white, cis man responded by calling me a “southern belle.”

His flippant comment completely blindsided me. And even though I’m a blunt, direct person, all I could do in the moment was sigh, roll my eyes, and say something to dismiss the entire thing. Because, by that point, I was in escape mode; I had to get away.

He walked away, completely clueless of what he’d triggered in me.

It goes without saying that men in this country are steeped in a cauldron of toxic masculinity at an early age—conditioned to believe that becoming a seasoned, successful man requires constant competition, as well as leveraging violent, forceful methods to physically and emotionally dominate women and “submissive” men. It’s why, as a boy, I gradually recognized that it was unacceptable to hug or show affection for my male friends; our play quickly graduated from playful hugs and rolls to jabs, sneers, and competitive strength games.

By calling me a “southern belle,” he tapped into all of that—using two words to perform three actions: first, “southern” throws a geographic wedge between me and him, which is the easiest way for him to convey my “otherness,” that I don’t belong; second, by following with “belle” he sought to undercut my “manhood,” or his perception of my masculinity, by perpetuating an arcane, homophobic trope of gay men not being “real men”—they’re “fairies,” they’re “light in their loafers,” they’re “not us”; and third, by using “belle” he reaffirmed his conditioned misogyny—selecting a moniker that, historically, is tied to a southern woman who follows “traditional” values and performs “as a dutiful wife and woman should” (meaning all that “barefoot and pregnant” horse shit).

While I’m not noodling around in his noggin, I’m fairly certain none of this registered as he walked away. Straight guys often fail to even fathom the extent to which gay men have to grapple with and reframe all of that conditioned behavior to forge meaningful relationships. And he probably had no idea that those two words completely derailed my entire afternoon—and triggered a flood of emotions and painful memories: every single time I’ve been called a “fag”; being nearly run off the road repeatedly because I had pride stickers on my car; being accosted on the street; being discriminated against in a workplace; being told that I should be killed; and being threatened with physical violence because I walked out of a gay club.

But, most importantly, it reminded me of how important it is to educate people.

So, straight folks, here’s a non-exhaustive list of how to check your privilege, at least around gay men.

Let’s start with a few things that I’m not:

  • Your accessory. Please don’t broach a friendship or work relationship with the expectation that I’ll be your gay best friend (GBF).
  • Your parroting validator. Tied to the above, don’t expect me to constantly comment on how wonderful your outfits are, or how healthy your hair looks. Forcing compliments and expecting them is juvenile, Mean Girls-style bullshit. Adult the fuck up, and take responsibility for your own sense of self.
  • Your token gay friend. If I’m your only gay friend, I’m going to be hella skeptical of your intentions, and definitely dodge your repeated brunch requests.
  • Your drama coach. I loathe drama. I don’t need yours. That’s why there’re therapists.

Exercise common sense:

  • No, I don’t know every other gay person in the world. Not even your friend Stan who “Lives in Georgia, which is near Alabama!”
  • No, I don’t speak for all gay people, much less the entire LGBTQIA community.
  • No, the LGBTQIA community is not an actual, cohesive, tangible entity based near Palm Springs. Unfortunately, the community is very much fragmented by nested racism, sexism, and internalized transphobia and homophobia. But when we flex our muscles, we can and do effect change.
  • Every single gay guy does not enjoy shopping, dancing, clothes, interior design, making cocktails, or going to the gym. You’ve watched way too much cable and/or Queer as Folk. I mean, I can design the shit out of your house, but that’s not because I’m gay. I just have good taste.

If you’re straight, don’t ever:

  • Call me hunty, gurl, girlfriend, fabulous, sensitive, delicate, artsy, fruity, flamboyant, or, of course, homo, queer, or fag.
  • Bust up in an LGBTQIA-owned/operated club/establishment like you own the place. You can go ANYWHERE ELSE and do that and get away with it because you’re straight. So please stop hosting your bachelorette parties at gay clubs; it’s so annoying and disrespectful and, to be honest, you’re gonna get a lot of side-eye and watered-down drinks. Even if you’re not a drinker (like me!), clubs have always played a very important roll as safe havens for LGBTQIA people— which is why atrocities committed in them strike very significant nerves (e.g., PULSE, and the UpStairs lounge arson). Be respectful of history, and let us have our space.
  • Try to imitate me, because even if you’re a fucking linguistics expert, it’ll be completely offensive. Because, without fail, your voice will suddenly rise five octaves and get hella nasally.
  • Ask two gay men, “So, who’s the woman?” Not only is that comment crafted through a misogynistic lens that conflates “woman” with “feminine” with “submissive”, but my sex life is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS. I swear, sometimes I think straight men think about gay sex more than gay men.
  • Ask me to explain how gay sex works. Jesus, just Google that shit.
  • Ask me to explain every single subgroup within gay male subculture. If I offer, sure. But I rarely offer.
  • Assume I’m a touchy-feely person. If I know you, I’ll hug you. But if I don’t, I’m a very I WILL MACE YOU IN THE FACE person. Respect my space.

And recognize:

  • A LOT of LGBTQIA people don’t feel safe with PDA. So if you’re in A GAYBORHOOD, don’t be dry-humping your boy/girlfriend. Not only is it tacky in general, but it’s incredibly disrespectful. I can count on one hand—and not even a full hand—the number of times I ever held my ex-husband’s hand in public, because almost every situation elicited raised eyebrows, straight ogling, or slurs.
  • DOMA was repealed in 2013. 2-0-1-3. Before then, gays couldn’t get married. So try to recognize that many folks uprooted their lives and moved JUST SO THEY COULD GET LEGALLY FUCKING MARRIED. (Not that I’m projecting.)
  • And it wasn’t until 2015 with Obergefell v. Hodges that LGBTQs could legally marry nationwide. 2-0-1-5. 

So please, take strides toward recognizing your privilege, and be proactive about learning from your missteps so that you don’t have someone writing a blog post about you.

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Reclamation

Crabs skittered beneath rocks flecked with serpentine seaweed strands—nature’s gelatinous boas sopping ashore from parties in the deep. A bloated seagull bobbed their head beneath a small tide pool’s rippling surface; the repetitious machinations, a dance.

Out of the corner of my eye, a Labradoodle’s sand-dusted, curly coat blurred by as he raced full-tilt across the sandbars, his green leash soaked and trailing—his owner walking quickly behind, nodding my direction. JoJo’s ears pricked at the lowly, plaintive gull calls as the wind buffeted her tiny face, her jellybean eyes watering, dampening her cheeks.

There, at the edge of the beach, I felt an internal tug—willing me further, into the great blue horizon pocked with cream sails unfurling in the breeze. The salty air curled in my lungs as I gulped it in—willing it to fill and cleanse my mind, making all the possibilities brim and spill over into my consciousness, borne to fruition.

Certain moments crystallize in our singular perceptions of time. And this was one such instance. There I stood, hours away from Seattle, cradling JoJo: a tired, hairy, heaped mass dripping over my arms. An unlikely duo, we’d forged a necessary bond during a tumultuous time, uncertain if we’d make it. But as my feet sunk into the saturated sand, I could feel us turning a corner. Like the shells around us, we’d been battered and bleached and weathered through various trials—through rough and smooth currents blunting jagged, exposed edges: creating something new, albeit unevenly polished. We’d emerged from the deep; we could breathe.

***

I’ve been divorced for nearly a year and a half. And almost every day, I fret that I’ll become that person who can talk only about their divorce, who can’t just reference it and move on. But, slowly, I’ve recognized that, like so many other forms of loss, divorce isn’t something you can just ignore; every now and again, I have to acknowledge how it’s shaped who I am today.

When I was a kid, I often played Duck Hunt until the Nintendo overheated—the screen still, leaving the duck profiles mid-blast: fluttering feathers and pained expressions frozen in time. Only when the immersive experience was interrupted by real-life variables would I snap out of my trance-like state, pull the piping-hot cartridge out of the machine, blow on it, and shove it back in—all the while knowing the blue screen of death would win, the illusion shattered by the ultimate Game Over. But often it forced me to redirect my energies into something else—another hobby, or self-reflection.

Marital cracks are like those Duck Hunt moments: they bring reality into sharp relief, make you realize the game that you’ve been playing has been convincing, but is still a mirage whose artifice is crumbling. It forces you to decide what to do, who you want to be—and, most pointedly, if you’re satisfied with the person you are when you’re with the other.

I wasn’t. And I’m so much better for having faced that crushing fact.

***

Ricotta-beetroot filling bubbled out of the thin ravioli shell, and oozed down into the spinach encircling it—a wilted, fallen crown. My cider began to hit, lulling my mind into that ethereal haze reserved for tipsy musings that I hoped I wouldn’t let escape my subconscious and rupture through my purple, beet-stained lips.

An hour earlier, I lay sprawled across my bed, nodding in and out of shallow naps as my skin tanned from an afternoon spent outside. For the past week, I’d been forcing myself to do more things after work—pushing myself out of my daily routine and taking advantage of living in a city bursting with life.

Having grown up in a small town, I’d always relished moments in movies where characters would take trains, taxis, or buses to enjoy a night in the city—glamming themselves up in finery and disappearing into the heaping, thrumming mass of people milling through the cityscape. So, I did exactly that: threw on an outfit that made me feel confident and sexy, grabbed my wallet and phone, and jumped on a bus hurtling downtown before descending into the light rail station and watching the passengers cycle between the cars: the crowd growing comfortingly queerer the closer we got to the Capitol Hill stop.

Right as I crested the staircase, the breeze billowed under my shirt, carrying with it music from a nearby shop. I wove through the blocks and streets where I used to live, marveling at how quickly the neighborhood had changed in a little over a year: buildings gone, sidewalks painted, alleys reeking of urine and rotting garbage tidied, sanitized—the grit and personality ground down in a microcosmic illustration of the latest phase of gentrification.

I walked into the restaurant I’d been wanting to eat at for years, and immediately slammed into a line of couples putting their names on a wait-list, their facial expressions morphing from hope to utter dejection.

“How long of a wait is it for one?” I asked.

“Oh, just you? I can seat you at the bar.”

I smiled. Never let anyone tell you there aren’t perks to being single.

She seated me next to another patron, and placed a towering glass of water with an orange wedge on the bar in front of me. A few minutes later, the waiter leaned over, his voice slightly louder than the surrounding conversations.

“You’re not together, I know that,” he said, looking from my neighbor to me.

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a pronouncement, and both the older man and I acknowledged the momentary awkwardness, laughing it away as we both retreated to the nonjudgemental, comforting glow of our respective phones until my ravioli slid onto the bar.

When I left, the air was cooling slightly, and I doglegged a few blocks over to an ice cream shop I’d been to once before. A line snaked out the storefront for half a block, and I inched into it behind a couple of trustafarians bedecked in expensive, trendily-tattered clothes: her crop top exposing a lower back tattoo of a unicorn, his side-sitting hat’s tag poking out from beneath the intentionally weathered rim reading, “Hipster Hats.”

As they groped one another, I rolled my eyes closed, imagining they probably worked for Amazon and couldn’t care less that the neighborhood where they were all but dry humping was where many LGBTQIA people still couldn’t overcome socially-conditioned fears of reprisals for showing a modicum of public affection—even in the gayborhood. A few feet away, a woman in a jumpsuit let her Shiba Inu puppy piss on tufts of ornamental grass before walking into a new, glimmering apartment building across the street. Ahead of me, the couple stepped up into the shop, a passing comment from one of them ending with, “…the Amazon mac and cheese bar.”

With my ice cream in hand, I began demolishing the top scoop as I retraced old walking routes, and waited to lick the dribbling cone until I was in front of a new gay bar, the outside patio blasting with music and conversations. I looked up above it all, and smiled at my old apartment’s window.

A few minutes later, I passed by a softball game in the park, and angled toward a familiar empty bench overlooking a reflecting pool.  Late in 2017, when I first waded back into the dating waters, I sat on the same bench with a Tinder date as we finished our ice cream cones. Our conversation and laughter had been unceasing since we’d met up for coffee six hours earlier, and I remember thinking, Finally. It’s happened again. Days passed with back-and-forths, plans set to meet up. Then, nothing; silence ensued—but still I reached, hopeful: casting a line back into that still pond. A week later I learned why, and was reminded that we all have demons that sometimes drag us below the surface.

I stared up at the darkening blue sky cross-stitched with chemtrails, and tipped the last crumbling cone bits into my mouth.

***

The heat from the day hung heavy in the apartment, and I teetered a bit as I opened the windows, the cider still saturating my thoughts. JoJo circled my legs, and pawed at my feet. After a quick jaunt outside, I put her to bed and, in the process, tripped over a photograph I’d framed earlier—letting it lean against the foot of my bed, opposite of where I’d hang it.

I rifled through my toolbox, grabbed a screwdriver, and positioned the frame at eye level, so that I’d see it first thing every morning, and remember the confident person I was when I took it: reliving the rush of adrenaline as I tiptoed through the mouldering, abandoned Alabama farmhouse, snapping the photo right as I bolted for the front door—my foot crashing through sections of the rotting floor—as the landowner’s heavy footsteps grew louder as he ventured into the ruin where I was trespassing.

After splashing water on my face, I stretched across my empty bed and lay watching the evening streetlights dance across the ceiling.

Wondering about the characters I’ll encounter in this next chapter—who they’ll be to me.

Dreaming of an endless series of future adventures yet to be entertained through this life reclaimed.

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Untying the Knot

Sometime around midnight, I thrashed awake screaming—throwing off what few covers I’d craved amid the heatwave, pillows hitting the walls and startling Joanna awake one room over.

Something heavy lay across my torso, and in my sub-sleep panic, I’d assumed it was either a possum or an anaconda that’d fallen through one of the house’s many rotted sections.

Switching on the bedside lamp, I realized the offending creature was, in fact, my completely numbed arm. Having been contorted at some bizarre angle, it’d reached a painful numbness. I assumed my body had attempted to reopen circulation by flopping it across my midsection, rousing me awake.

I shifted and lifted it onto a supporting pillow, wincing as the blood started rushing back to it, painful pangs thrumming as I lulled myself back to sleep.

***

Hours later, sunlight was beating against the sun porch’s drawn curtains, and I flicked on my fans, turning them to their highest settings. They did very little, but at the very least, they pushed the heavy, heated air around rather than letting it hover, slowly weighing my eyelids down into unwanted naps. Opening the windows, I could feel the air outside was just as still—no hint of a cooling breeze.

While JoJo slurped down her breakfast, I saturated the garden as best as I could—watching rivulets cascade down through the cracking blocks of compost and soil churned up by nocturnal creatures mightily vying for the snow peas and beans dripping from their flowering vines. I surveyed the damage, and mourned the disappearance of three of my four strawberries. I eyed the hovering, bloated squirrels hard—spraying a plume of water tree-ward.

Back inside, I poured myself an iced coffee and lounged at the kitchen table while I chatted with a friend from North Carolina. After ruminating about the state of the country and the daily horrors that unfurl on social media and across embattled news outlets, he described a glorious buffet lunch he’d just had: crispy fatback, creamed corn, thinly-sliced sautéed cabbage, and mounds of mashed potatoes exploding with gravy-saturated centers. He’d avoided the chitlins. I longed for a truly southern breakfast.

The sun wasn’t getting any cooler, and I checked the time, telling my friend I had to get ready for Pride.

“Now, m’dear, go and sink into some tight jeans. Pull on a suffocating tee, and go to that damn parade and find Mr. Right. Or Mr. Overnight.”

We both laughed, knowing full well that I’d do nothing of the sort.

Instead, I dunked my head under the faucet, threw on my clearance Target rainbow shirt, frayed, worn jeans, and a pair of Dollar Store sunglasses. Along with my sash of activist buttons. Having entered a different part of my life, I no longer needed to cling to the false confidence that sprang from not eating breakfast, or tarting up clothes by either shrinking or tattering the life out of them.

I wasn’t going to Pride to find someone. I was going simply to be present, to reaffirm my collective belonging to a community that desperately needs cohesion. And I went because I needed to see that expression of love, compassion, and unity. I needed to see people of all faiths, races, ethnicities, and gender identities mingling and supporting one another. I needed a reminder that we, the people, would be okay—and to see the brave, upcoming youthful faces that’re contributing so much to the fight against our country’s current totalitarian regime. I needed to see that, while it hangs precariously, our democracy has future protectors.

I lasted all of forty-five minutes at the parade before I skittered across the street—past a man dressed in a condom-clad penis costume and sequined Planned Parenthood cape staring longingly at a large floating Chipotle burrito—and wound my way up to Capitol Hill. Since the divorce, I’ve been pushing myself to return to The Hill—to remember the good times, and map on my next chapter alone. Sidestepping into a former bake shop haunt, I ordered two of their savory biscuits and an iced coffee, shoveling it all into my mouth as I surveyed the desolate streets below. It hit me that a bake shop was the perfect place to go for solitude during Pride; the carbs most likely elicited twink terror amongst the most lithe, forcefully thin of the revelers.

Having devoured my brunch, I dusted crumbs off my lap and meandered to a nearby hardware store to pick up eye hooks and a few tubes of caulk for my house-painting project. Ahead of me a man with a tattooed spine dripping down his neck bought a fan, and I lost myself in a momentary daydream—imagining him shirtless, sitting in front of his spinning purchase, sweat dripping from his forehead and down his inked back. I mopped by brow, and watched as he turned the corner, disappearing into the growing foot traffic outside.

On the subway home, a crowd of young women flooded on from the downtown stop, their rainbow bikinis and fake tattoos and glitter glimmering as much as their metallic shoes. One complimented my button sash, and I said I liked all of their shoes—and did my best to quell my internal panic that they might be thinking that I was some deranged, Kiss the Girls-style foot fetishist. But then I realized that they were probably born a solid decade after that movie came out.

The ease with which they held on to one another in public, exchanged intimately friendly pats among their group of black and brown and white faces, gave me a necessary jolt of hope. I could see something similar reflected in the face of a woman standing in front of me, her National Park Service rainbow tattoo flaking slightly at the edges, a rainbow badge on her sleeve reading, “You are safe with me.”

The subway shuddered to a stop in the industrial district, and I hopped off, racing my way to the bus stop. After a solid thirty minutes, I realized the buses were probably all backed up by the parade. So instead of waiting, I walked the four miles back—across the West Seattle bridge, snapping photos along the way, letting the sun kiss my pasty white shoulders.

Every now and then I’d stop and survey the vistas, catalog the swaths of graffiti and street art—some including messages of hope.

Women are Perfect

Others, calls to action.

Rail against

And others, simple reminders that there’re other folks out there.

Hello, World!

I stopped at a rusty chain-link fence, and screwed up my face at a wadded paper towel tied and retied multiple times across various links.

Knotted

Something about it struck me—at once beautiful and unsettlingly ugly, it reminded me of how, last year, I’d knotted myself around my problems so much that my life centered them, normalized them; and it wasn’t until I started wasting away around the tied-up mass that I recognized how severely tattered I’d become.

***

A block from Gay Gardens, I breathed deeply and stared into the cloudless sky. It’d taken almost a year along the road back to find myself in a place where I finally felt emotionally grounded.

I smiled up at the open sky, the promise of it all. And then a bird shit on my sunglasses.

Once I took JoJo out and refilled her water bowl, sprinkling in ice cubes, I walked back outside, pulling a battered chair from my studio along the uneven brick walkway I’d re-laid months before. Atop the chair, I twisted in the eye hooks and hung up my single purchase from the parade. The rainbow flag fluttered in a brief, welcomed wind.

Gay Gardens

I stepped back into the cooling shade of a black cherry tree—its newly formed fruits dangling confidently—and watched the flag undulate along the weathered clapboard.

I smiled, and mopped my brow again. I was home.

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From Dowdy to Daddy

A month had passed since the divorce was finalized.

“But you’re much too young to have divorce,” the scraggily Sweden announced from the front seat, cracking a semi-accusatory smile in my direction.

An awkward silence fell over the car, as if someone had released the most potent fart imaginable and wasn’t copping to it. I stared daggers into the back of his head as the shuttle driver took a left, as if hoping a change in physical direction would steer the conversation similarly.

“Well, Igor, it’s not as though there’s a period of time you have to spend together to qualify for a divorce. It happens regardless of age.”

“I lucky for my friend who pays for my things. Like car problems.”

“And I’m sure you only have to undress slowly in front of them a few times a night.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Four days prior, two parts of my car’s axle broke while I was making a routine three-point turn on a residential street, just a block from the estate sale I’d planned to peruse with my ten dollars of tightly budgeted “fun money.” And as I watched my car of three months being hauled to a dealership for intensely costly repairs, I clutched mightily to my sweat-saturated five dollar bills in my pocket, realizing the semblance of fun I was having just got shot to ribbons, and that, in a few short days, I’d most likely be even more upside-down on my ten-year-old Toyota than I was already.

“Here we are,” the beleaguered shuttle driver muttered, the sound of the doors unlocking our cue to get out.

I slid the van door open slowly, letting Igor gallop ahead with gusto to charge his friend’s account.

Once the technician reviewed the suite of problems my new-old car was experiencing, I handed over my credit card, which I was two months away from paying off. With one necessary swipe, I tacked on two more years worth of monthly payments, nearly maxing out my card. I drove home in the pouring rain, stepped inside, and layered on a coat, turning the thermostat down from 62 to 60 degrees.

***

My unspoken New Year’s resolution quickly shifted to surviving in Seattle without spiraling into suffocating debt. Everything else became secondary–food was tightly rationed; personal hygiene was kept in check, but out went haircuts, new razorblades, and hair products; JoJo’s food was changed to a cheaper variety; and socializing involving eating or drinking out ceased entirely. And just as quickly, the specter of Low Self-esteem Past made a strong reprisal. I began avoiding mirrors altogether, which wasn’t an easy enterprise in a rotting house bedecked with Art Deco mirrors–hung strategically to reflect the scant Seattle sunlight into the cottage’s dark, light-fixture devoid recesses.

The physical changes my body underwent in the process of working through our divorce didn’t really register until, months later, I finally looked in one of my mirrors. I didn’t like what I saw, and resolved to change–despite my miserly mentality of not spending time or precious money on myself.

As I channeled my creative energies into inexpensive projects, I also decided to jump back in the saddle of making doctors’ appointments–of being a semi-responsible adult and managing my health and wellness.

Scraggily, unkempt hair was cut away, overextended clothes were bagged up and donated, and my scuffed glasses were retired. And I started to feel more alive, excited, and ready to reflect out the fellow that’d been long buried beneath anxiety, depression, and stress in the deep, cavernous corners of my sullied mirror of selfhood.

I’m growing to love the person I’m turning into–a slightly crazed creative trying to tackle fulfilling projects and effect meaningful change in a charged sociopolitical climate, while also basking in minor daily triumphs and practicing self care.

Almost a year ago, things were falling apart. I was unsure where I’d be, and if I’d be able to own up to who I needed to be to push on. And now I’m here–a guy who’s aware of and fully embraces his flaws while also acknowledging the things that make him unique.

Roads to self-acceptance are rarely smooth, especially when you emerge from a well-traveled stretch onto one that’s unpaved, riddled with potholes–where your years as a semi-twink are over, and life experiences have pushed you into daddy territory.

It’s been weirdly fun to embrace this new start–to revel in the absurd ambiguity of it all. And to do so authentically, owning my truth.

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Bordering on Normal

Closing the front door behind me, I readjusted my crocheted shawl, and stowed the dog-walking bag. Joanna pricked up her ears, and fixated her marble-like eyes on the darkened sunporch.

Usually, that type of thing wouldn’t bother me. But whether it was the crushing weight of the holidays, the fact that George Michael had just died, or my sister reminding me hours earlier that Seattle was the serial killer capital of the country, I took more notice.

I took a step forward, and a man began speaking in an even-keeled, matter-of-fact way – exactly how I’d imagined my murderer to sound.

“It’s…”

…TIME TO DIE?

…YOUR LAST MOMENT?

…COLD IN HERE?

In one-and-a-half seconds of contemplating what he was saying, I realized two things: the sickly jade plant I grabbed was a lousy excuse for a weapon; and two, I was going to die in stained sweat pants and a moth-eaten shawl.

“…seven o’ clock.”

For a moment, I just stood still. Like the stupid friend in every horror movie, Joanna ran determinedly toward the darkened room to investigate the voice. A second later, she skittered back, sat on the rug, and stared up at me – which was when the weight of the potted plant started to register. I lowered it back onto its pedestal, and a bloated leaf broke off and fell to the floor.

Apparently, it was seven o’ clock, and the computer repair technician – in addition to downloading a Dance Dance Revolution anime video onto my desktop – configured my newly rebuilt laptop to recite the time every hour.

As my heart rate reassumed a normal rhythm, and I talked myself out of posting “YOU SHOULD WARN SINGLE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE WOODS THAT THEIR REBUILT COMPUTER MIGHT TALK TO THEM” on Yelp, I pulled the shawl tighter, lit my lavender diffuser, and settled into the sofa with a mug of hot cocoa. This was it: my first Christmas as a divorcee.

The weight of it was unexpectedly heavy.

***

The day before, I’d been sitting at the Canadian border considering witty replies to the standard question: “What was your business in Canada?”

“Those dildos weren’t exactly going to deliver themselves, am I right?”

“I heard the bacon was great.”

“I was in search of some mounties.”

“Did you not see the outcome of the US election?”

After answering truthfully, however, I realized I should’ve gone with one of my alternatives. The border patrol officer’s face drew back in on itself, adding two additional chins to his third.

“Wait, so you’re telling me you came across this morning, and just went for a walk in the park, and are going back?”

I nodded.

“That’s just not normal.”

Partly stunned, I chuckled.

He screwed up his face even more, and straightened his back.

“Pop the trunk.”

“You’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

“What?”

“Certainly!”

I could tell he was eager to file away some story he could use over Christmas dinner to impress his in-laws – regale them with how he’d stopped the largest shipment of cocaine in US history.

Judging by how forcefully he slammed the trunk, my stained reusable grocery bags must’ve been a severe letdown. Without so much as a grunt, he handed back my passport and license, and dismissed me with a wave.

That evening, while eating Trader Joe’s tortellini and reading OverheardLA’s Instagram, I assured JoJo that her breath bordered on a public health hazard. She responded by timing the movements of my lips just enough to lick the roof of my mouth.

Gargling at the kitchen sink, I noticed one of my planters had blown off the back steps. I slipped on my battered Toms and stepped out into the rapidly chilling air, righting the planter and taking a walk around the house.

Remnant raindrops dripped off of my makeshift garden fence, and thrushes crashed around in the shattered Japanese knotweed rotting at the base of the terrace. Biting wind blew through a tree I’d freed from thick, choking ivy – rattling its aged, mossy branches against one another. Around the corner of the house, my rusted glider set caught the breeze and creaked awake. Beyond it, up the hill, a large holly bush’s bright red berries glistened with moisture, and a pair of robins battled over the highly sought after territory, catapulting twigs in all directions.

With my circuit nearly complete, I stopped at a tall foxglove I’d carefully extracted from a precarious niche along a neighbor’s drainage ditch. Its developed roots had cascaded down in a wispy, matted mess, and I’d worked quickly to dig a deep enough hole, and arrange it so that it was braced on two sides from the wind. Fully transplanted, it’d listed to one side, propping itself on a dying heliotrope. I’d repacked the soil around its base, and had broken off sickly, limply-hanging yellowed leaves to rebalance it – and to give the new growth beneath them room to breathe. I ran my hand along the righted, towering stalk as I turned the corner to ascend the porch stairs, and nudged one of its last pale, pink blooms.

Inside, JoJo twirled on the kitchen’s scatter rug and expected a treat for supervising my round-the-house orbit from her various window perches. I put my hands on my hips and demanded to know what should be done. She twirled again, play-growled, and ran out of the room. I kicked off my muck-caked shoes, and slipped on my flannel-patterned house slippers – necessities in the drafty, poorly-heated cottage.

For a moment, I let my eyes dart from newly-painted door frames to found objects, from brightly-colored Fiesta and stripped hardware on the built-ins to patched holes and reglazed window panes. Albeit an ice box, the cottage seemed more alive than ever.

I gave a deep, cleansing sigh – and ran toward the squeaking dog toy, into the heart of our home.

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When the Ink Dries

Other than a cone of lamplight over my shoulder, the remainder of the sunporch sits in darkness. Occasionally, I hear Joanna pitter-pattering here and there, rediscovering another partially deformed toy plush to pull apart before jumping up on my leg and smacking my sweater with her paw. It’s nearly 9:00, and it’s closing in on her bedtime. She’s anxious to get to dreamland, but I have another page on the application to complete.

With surgical precision, I carefully spell out my name with the ballpoint pen – making certain I’m not bleeding over into a neighboring field, or smearing the ink with my hand. I angle the 2×2″ photo just inside the designated box, and accidentally staple right through the paper and into my index finger.

FUCCCCCK!

Joanna scampers to her bed, poking her head behind a finless Dory doll. Nursing my blighted finger, I finish the stapling exercise, infill a few more fields, and write the check with all the add-ons to get the critical part of my “just in case” plan returned before the white nationalist fascist takes our country’s helm.

I’d imagined reapplying for my passport would be much more enjoyable – with visions of scenic countrysides to explore dancing through my head. But instead, I’m siphoning the necessary funds from my “maybe I can actually save this at the end of the month” account, rationalizing the expenditure as vitally necessary.

While I’m not a catastrophist, I am paying close attention to the growing warning signs that the coming sadistic “administration” plans to act as judge, jury, and executioner – without any care or concern for the Constitution, much less the Bill of Rights, or human morality. I fully intend to fight and defend what I know to be good and true in this country, but I’m also incredibly terrified of what could come to pass, as well as the violence incited along the way.

Every single day when I leave for work, I envision a time in the near future when the final straw becomes dangerously heavy – when I’ll have to race back, scoop up Joanna, vital documents, maybe a keepsake or two, and just go, leaving my mended home and garden to the coming ravages.

I hope beyond hope that sensible, smart, dedicated, compassionate people will unite and push back against this scourge and his minions. And I fully intend to play a part in it – even if the story’s epilogue ends with me and JoJo in my Toyota, speeding north.

***

Rain cascades down in sheets, and a few shingles fly off the dilapidated roof. Boards above in the attic pop from the dry air and sudden moisture co-mingling, and heated air pipes through the vents – resembling the sounds of the open sea.

I sit and watch the moonlit branches dancing in the wind, and listen to the creaking of the makeshift garden fence just outside the windows. I rub my socked foot along the painted floor, recognizing how important this place is to me, and how much I want to grow here.

As I tuck all the documents into the large envelope and seal it tightly, another hearty gust blasts the windows, making the panes shudder.

I stare past the envelope on the tabletop and into JoJo’s marble-like eyes, and quietly murmur.

“We’re in this thing together. And while the storm may rage and weather us, with hope, we’ll still be standing when the sun rises.”

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Authentically Vulnerable

Vulnerability isn’t something most people find comforting. It’s almost always conflated with some form of weakness – the whole, “Life is hard, so deal with it” mentality.

Not until I started therapy did I realize the importance of being vulnerable. To be vulnerable is to be authentic – my full, honest self.

What I’m still getting used to is the fallout from being authentic; sometimes, I’ll get hurt. And that’s okay, as long as I’m authentic. Bruised feelings are indeed part of life. But as long as I let the sting of a botched conversation, a misplaced phrase, an awkward moment subside – laugh it off, remind myself that it’s okay to fuck up – it won’t morph into something unbearable.

This year hasn’t been easy. Starting over is hard. Divorce is harder.

I’ve had to do a lot of thinking, and deep dives into myself. I’ve purposefully stayed away from people because I just can’t handle a lot right now. But I’m gradually opening myself back up – not because I feel guilty, but because it’s time.

Divorce has made me question a lot about myself – where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, and how I’ve become the person I am right now.

So I mapped out some of the most painful parts of my journey, mostly because I had to get them out, turn them into a collective literary punching bag that I can acknowledge – from which I can move on.

I’m a small-town Alabama kid
Nobody knows
Because I dropped my accent years ago
To conform,
To be taken seriously,
To be learned;
Forcing myself into a new, clipped
Academic vocabulary
To subvert all the things that made me
Me
In voice and expression,
Because of listening to puppets chanting
“You don’t belong here,”
“You’re not worth the time” –
That “you’ve fallen through the cracks” –
And that no one is sorry,
Except me.
Because now, every time someone says,
“You don’t sound like you’re from there,”
A part of me crumbles.

The pain takes me back to
Elementary school where I sit out of PE
To go to Speech Therapy,
Where I learn about Sally and the Seashore
And all the damn shells
That I can’t pronounce
Without making my therapist
Grimace,
And sigh –
So she makes me do it all over again
While handing me worksheets of cows with hard “C”’s
And snakes with slimy “S”’s,
Expecting that I can “just get by”
If I really try.

So I’m an impostor in my own skin,
My own mouth,
My own mind; nothing is really real.
And so I drift
Unmoored,
Believing that I’m not smart enough
That I can’t understand
That I’m lazy and inactive
And that’s why I’m not growing –
So I eat and eat and eat Boost bars
In the hopes that my height will change,
My voice will deepen;
I’ll no longer be all the names the other kids call me.

And then I walk into the house one day
And find Mom-Mau, my friend, my confidant
Unconscious,
Blood everywhere,
Handprints smeared across the wall,
A pool of blood by her head,
And the slightest moan –
Me screaming to Dad
And the ambulance sirens
And the quiet stillness of being alone with the blood,
The metallic odor crippling me
As I push our skittering dog away from the bathroom door to
Close myself in with it –
To rinse and wipe and absorb the moments of impact from the tile,
To feel her pain –
And watch, weeks later, her become a shell
Talking about people who aren’t there –
The lizards running around the floor,
Her eyes glazing, taking her somewhere else;
Watching her in the final hours reaching toward the ceiling
And smiling,
And thrashing,
And saying, “I love you” in a moment of lucidity
Before disappearing forever –
And I go home and wind her music box,
Sobbing as the music chimes
Somewhere…over the rainbow.

I’m never the same –
Knowing the truth and doing everything to deny it, and
Cutting deep when the mental maelstrom becomes too much
Or purging and binging and not eating –
And sitting down with a chilled bottle of vodka
Vials of anti-depressants,
And reaching for them both, the weight of the finality
Bearing my hands down – pushing the concoctions away, locking them in a cabinet,
As I, defeated, sigh, “Not today.”

Working out to fit into a mold that doesn’t want me,
And finally whispering the truth to myself in a dark apartment
In Tuscaloosa,
“I’m gay”
Echoing through my mind like a bullet through my brain –
And telling my family
All gathered around the long dining room table
Staring hard into the wood, hoping this self-truth will
Make itself known without me saying it,
But speaking it nonetheless
And dealing with the silence,
The tears,
The acceptance;
It ends a life, and starts a new one.

Drunk at a party in college,
I flirt with unconsciousness
When a foreign hand goes down my pants
And men mutter in the hazy background
About what I got,
The coldness and thoroughness of the search
And my dazed attempts to stop it,
Just stop,
That it’s not funny anymore
That my body doesn’t feel like my own.

Creating a chosen family,
And fighting together
For life,
Our rights,
And hope;
Meeting a man when I thought I never would,
And setting out on an amazing journey,
Taking us both away from so much of what we’ve known as
Home –
But where we’re told we’re less than – to a place
Where we say, “I do,” always and forever,
Not knowing forever’s boundaries.

And bonding and loving and building a life
And family
And arguing like all couples,
Until we can’t do it anymore
And our ride together ends –
But what a ride it’s been.

Picking up the pieces
In a different place –
A strange time in life
To be on my own again
And terrified,
And empowered,
And exhausted,
And human.

Watching each day unfold
And appreciating the little things
That make a day worth enjoying,
Worth feeling,
Worth waking up for
Tomorrow morning.

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To Feel, To Touch, To Move On

Traffic rolls to a stop, and the setting sun’s intense rays glance off my smudged glasses. Sia belts out “Fire Meet Gasoline” from my battered iPod. Since I’ve never figured out the precise sequence of plugging in and starting devices in this car, I just default to the basic, knuckle-dragging predictability of the Touch’s Play button.

The perfect collision of wandering thoughts with meaningful lyrics evokes roiling waves of tears. Like shifting weight to a walking stick, I rap the steering wheel repeatedly – finding equilibrium – convincing myself, “You’ll be fine. This is all temporary.”

The drive home after therapy is never easy – a time of deep reflection, during which exhaustion often takes hold, exacerbating each toiling thought’s toll.

En route to my session, I got a call from a potential employer informing me that, while I made it to the final two, they were going with the other candidate. “Disappointed” doesn’t quite capture the series of cascading emotions that left me crestfallen.

“You know, I’ve been on the other side of the phone on calls like this. And it sucks. I’m sorry. I just want you to know it was an incredibly difficult choice.”

Following the most sincere, genuinely supportive rejection call I’ve received, I sighed, then screamed. Rather than chalking it up to “it wasn’t meant to be,” I fully embraced the emotional flood, letting it wash over me. And then, drenched and dripping in anger and sadness and dejection, I let it go. The future I thought this job would allow me to create isn’t going to be brought to fruition. And that’s okay. It has to be. There just isn’t time to live in the what-ifs.

A row of cars inches over into my lane as they approach a bank of firetrucks and ambulances spread over the two righthand lanes. As a Volvo scoots ahead of me, I see the upturned half of a motorcycle, the back half of which is about 10 feet away, smashed into a sheared-off bumper from a thrashed sedan. Four firefighters strap in the motorcyclist as two paramedics administer CPR. It’s one of those powerfully slow-motion moments, a painful crystallization of true tragedy.

And each of us passersby motors by, absorbing the devastating spectacle – silently willing that never to be us.

***

The West Seattle Bridge stretches ahead of me, all lanes backlogged. I ache to get home, to see Joanna and scrunch her velvety face under my chin. To walk around my neighborhood. To enjoy this little house as long as I’m able to stay here.

To stare out my windows and repeat the simple mantra I murmur every single time I take flight – gripping the armrest with all my might, as if it’ll effect some change:

“I’ve loved. I’ve lost. I’ve lived. I’ve made a difference.”

To remind myself that I’ve laughed more than I’ve cried.

That I’ll keep learning from this rough, taxing, spirited, unpredictable ride.

And will be better for it.

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Gay Gardens

Sweat beads on my brow, and Jimmy Eat World’s “Middle” blasts through my ear buds. Brier-pricked and cut, my gloved hands receive little in the way of protection from nature’s most annoying floral bastards. My paint-spattered, dirt-coated glasses slip and fall into the growing pile of freshly weeded detritus amassing at my feet as I bend to unhook a gargantuan, spiked vine from my pilled It Gets Better tee.

Now free of unwanted hangers-on, I step back and survey the cleared areas of the sprawling stone-laid terraces. Insects dart over the freshly uprooted soil, congregating around fractured, dewy stalks and root balls. I pause my music and sink into the morning’s natural calm. Hollow, browned stalks of Japanese knotweed clang together in the wind like bamboo chimes, and dead leaves filter down through new gaps in the overgrown canopy and settle in sun-dappled piles.

Gay Gardens, the early months

It’s an uncharacteristically hot Seattle day, and the formerly shaded earth quickly dries while I sit for a much-needed respite, feeling the worn stones warming the insides of my calves. Like Kate Winslet in A Little Chaos, I’ve been methodically unmasking mature ferns, shrubs, and trees from their brambly oppressors and mapping a new, slightly haphazard order onto the leftovers.

Metaphors for every sort of life experience drift in and out of my mind as I till the soil and pull at stubborn roots. I give each thought a little slant of limelight before letting them dissipate into mental white noise.

***

Sided with weathered, warped yellow clapboard and sloppily trimmed in faded red, the cottage sits on a shoddily cleared terrace, accessible only by a rickety wooden staircase built into a steep hill just off an arterial, hilly road in West Seattle. Its seclusion is just what we wanted – the antithesis of our small Capitol Hill apartment in the center of a growing party district of young twenty-something college students.

And while the subsequent tours with the uninformed property management company’s agents brought us vis-à-vis with the cottage’s less than stellar drawbacks, we went for it – mostly because its location, privacy, and space aligned with the most desired bullet points on our wish list.

Of course, being a post-war cottage that’d been overgrown for a few years, it needed a lot of help, which hadn’t exactly been a priority of the decade-long tenant before us, or the property management company: turd-colored, faded interior paint; an illegally enclosed back deck; a disgusting bathroom; dirty, ivy-covered windows; hole-pocked walls; and more than a fair share of creepy-crawly roommates.

But even before we fully moved in, we decided to separate. Sharing a home that feels more like a staging area isn’t easy for anyone, which is why the forgotten gardens started to play such a therapeutic role for me.

Now that we’re both in our respective nests, it’s time to move forward – to take time to celebrate the good times, focus on the future. And, for me, perform plenty of internal weeding.

***

The whir of far off traffic on the bridge melds together in a wave-like, rhythmic tide, lulling my eyelids closed. Seclusion like this is beyond rare, especially as Seattle continues to boom and rental prices soar. I’m sure at some point I’ll get priced out, the cottage will be torn down by a developer, and the carefully curated landscape will be razed asunder a bulldozer.

Until then, I’ll be channeling Kate and using the landscape both as an emotional crutch and an aesthetic treasure. And will keep slathering as much lipstick – and paint – on this cute pig as possible.

Because I’d like to keep Gay Gardens full of character and far away from descending into a moldy, waterlogged lair wherein I routinely swaddle my fro in a cashmere headdress and soft-shoe down the hallway to the applause of a ragtag crew of feisty raccoons.

As my cackling drifts up through the attic, between cracked seams, and melts into the night.