Seven Days of Catsmas

For various reasons, including the high cost of airfare and the high stress related to certain family members, I stayed in the relative vicinity of my New England home for the late-December holiday season this year. While it is unusual for me not to spend Christmas with my family of origin, it is not unprecedented. A few years ago, I visited a friend in Austin, TX, and spent my vacation drinking whiskey and watching peacocks wander around a park. But usually I am with one of my parents and at least a couple of siblings and some kind of brightly lit tree, etc.

This year I decided that rather than just sit around my house alone during my time off work I would make myself useful, so I asked around to see if anyone in the area needed house or pet sitting and if I could live in their house like it was my vacation home. It just seemed like a good way to take care of myself and also my friends and also their animal friends. And I got so many responses! In the end, I booked myself at four places with the intention of riding throughout the land, spreading joy and petting cats all along Rte. 5 or I-91 or whatever.

As I write this, I'm in the middle of Catsmas Tour 2014, in a rural VT schoolhouse with a wood stove and two furry friends chasing each other around. You have left me candy, eggnog, play-doh, vets' phone numbers, and more. I have scooped poop. I have listened to your Wu-Tang tapes. And I have written you a song. Good luck trying to sing it.

On the 7th day of Catsmas, you all gave to Cat Santa:
7 furry felines
6 Goose Island Festivity Ales (okay I got those myself)
5 logs a-burning
4 wifi passwords
3 hours waiting (for takeout from the Chinese restaurant on Christmas Eve)
2 cool keychains
and a fish on top of a fridge.

Also, this happened:

If Santa Claus (1959) has taught me anything, it's that visiting homes at Christmastime
means occasionally getting in prank fights with gay, joker-pants Satan.

Thanks.

I love acknowledging and expressing expressing gratitude. And I hate. HATE. the idea of going around the circle on Thanksgiving and everyone saying what they are thankful for. Because holidays, especially holidays that hang heavy with the legacy that this one does.

Tonight I am full of gratitude, and rage. It's really a strange combo. Rage at a country, a culture that devalues black lives, trans lives, poor lives, women's lives (the list goes on). Every day. Every damn day. And gratitude for my community, people close and far, family of origin and chosen, who work to end all forms of violence, who work with and take leadership from those most affected by that violence. I see you.

Then there are the ways you see and hold me personally that literally keep me going, that make the difference between me going out the door every day and ending up under a blanket in the corner of a room for a week. Which! Is fine! When it needs to happen! I'm just saying.

I'm thankful for my housemates who leave me notes in Spanish, or wishing me a good Thursday. My dad who reads my Queerest Post Ever and sends me a super relevant article. A Certain Someone who comes up with completely unnecessary excuses to see me (move the chicken coop, yeah right). Friends who scheme with me on projects and jam with me on songs. Siblings who miss me over the miles. People I've just met who quote gender theory and radical MLK at me and then drive around a cemetery with me after dark. And so much more.

Oh. And so thankful that no one I know in real life or Facebook or anywhere else has said anything about how people in Ferguson shouldn't riot or how Michael Brown was a criminal or how news reports of the grand jury's decision not to indict his killer interrupted their viewing of "Dancing with the Stars" because I don't know what I would have done, so help me.

17 of Something

Shit. Don't blow 
My cover, but I just 
Did that thing where 
I was thankful.

This is how good people are to me. Do I deserve this? Probably not.

Burning Down the Sky

The last couple of days have been full of tough feelings of the heart kind and the body kind, and I don't even have the words. But I will say this about my drive home from some work meetings at sunset yesterday.

I Said "17 a Day" But I Didn't Say 17 of What 

Damn this sky tonight making 
Me want to open up my veins 
And bleed neon orange pink

Quiet...Too Quiet

This post has been generously donated to our friend-blog City Mouse Country and can be found there. You should totally go read it.

Whose Haikus?

A while back (June?), I quietly stopped calling the poems on this blog "haiku" and changed the headline to say "short poem" instead. But I thought now it was time to be a bit more explicit. Maybe because lately I've been having a hard time telling people about this blog.

In a world where white men gobble up everything in sight (resources, power, culture) and spit up a milky backwash everyone else is expected to lap up and praise us for, it's easy to get lazy. I started this "haiku" thing as a way to get myself to write every day by doing the least amount of writing possible--the definition of laziness. And not that I need to wait for someone to call me on my bullshit, but I've been mostly unchallenged in my use of someone else's culture to tell cute little stories about my life.

I have found this project useful for marking moments over the last couple of years, connecting moments to ideas about the world, and occasionally connecting to others who comment here or on 17aDay's Facebook page. And the 5-7-5 form, with its syllable constraints, helps me focus and distill a lot of thoughts and feelings into something manageable, yet meaningful. So I don't want to just scrap the whole thing.

One thought I had was that maybe there's a short form in a European tradition that I might have any claim to (because I love a sonnet, but let's be real, I already struggle to post once a week), and I could rename the blog and keep on in much the same manner in the new form. My preliminary research hasn't turned up much, except some forms that were "inspired by" haiku and tanka. Also, though, that just sounds like a really easy out.

So, while I continue to ponder and process and publicly guilt about it, here's a limerick to hold you over.

There once was a blogger named Calvin
Who some shame for his haiku was havin'.
In his search for some verse
Less hijacked, just as terse,
It appeared that at straws he was grabbin'.

Robert Frost, Re-revisited Again Some More

This year, I attended the Royal Frog Ballet's annual Surrealist Cabaret and Pumpkin Walk. I went for the first time last year, and I thought it was lovely, but I also had a bad attitude that evening and tried to blame the event. Like, I decided it was ableist that attendees had to walk all over the farm from one performance space to the next, and all the performers appeared to be able bodied, young, and attractive, and that gave me some kind of self-righteous angst about the whole thing. Still, it was beautiful, and I appreciated how it ritualized and made meaning out of the season changing, the darkness growing, the earth shutting down.

So, I went again this year because some friends had an extra ticket. Actually, because I had previously ranted about my discomfort with last year's experience, the invitation was, "I think we have an extra ticket for the inaccessible white supremacy performance tomorrow night if you wanna come." Winky face totally implied. Maybe knowing I was in company that could hear and tolerate--if not share--my cynicism allowed me to relax a little, and I had a decent time, even though tall people in audiences need to be more aware of when they're blocking folks, I'm just saying.

Anyway, each year's performance has a theme, and this year's was "crossroads," which felt meaningful to me personally, and they printed Frost's "The Road Not Taken" in the program. This is a poem that has inspired plenty of rants from me, too, since people seem to remember only the last three lines and miss every shred of its irony by a mile. The same friend who sent me the snarky invitation to the Surrealist Cabaret distilled Frost's poem as follows, and I approve 100% of this interpretation and hope to live my life every day according to its wisdom.

two roads diverge in the woods.
wah wah wah. just fucking pick one.
it's gonna keep happening.

(Readers will remember from this instructive post that authentic haiku don't need to have 17 syllables and honestly I have not been writing authentic haiku at all this whole time, so don't worry about counting anything up there.)

Crossroads is also a 1986 film in which Ralph Macchio sells his soul to the devil to learn
blues guitar from an old black man so he can shred better than this other white boy.

Heartbreaking Jerks and Staggering Genius, Part 2

That's right, you knew this was coming. Something about the "Part 1" in the title of the last post. It was just getting so long for a post on a blog that is ostensibly structured around a 17-syllable poem, but I still had more to say.

It's just that seeing Sybil Lamb read and hearing about her various antics reminded me just a little of my first girlfriend, who was also a terrifying genius, who I was afraid to be around because she bullied me and drove drunk, blowing through red lights in lower Manhattan, and started fights with huge cis dudes on the street and wanted to kill the president and wanted to know where I was every minute of the day, but who I hung around for six breathless months because she published slash fiction about PJ Harvey that freaked out a whole web forum and recorded an entire electronic music album on her computer about Super Mario and wrote semi-erotic poetry about her dog and took photographs of road signs and the moon. And who was almost six feet tall although not an actual Tall Girl.

It was a weird time in my life. I was a graduate student of creative writing at a conservative, Catholic football school in the Midwest (why???) and was living with my ex (because we were too co-dependent to do anything different), and she pushed all my boundaries and questioned many of my long-held beliefs. For example, beliefs that I wasn't all that interested in illegal substances. Which turned out to be true, but there's something to be said for testing our own theories now and then.

Anyway, J, if you're out there, I'm glad I knew you and I'm glad I don't know you anymore, and I hope you're still fucking shit up and making someone rethink everything they thought they knew.

Poem for a Mean Love

While on date with me,
Makes out with strange dude in bar.
"See? I ain't no dyke."

Heartbreaking Jerks and Staggering Genius, Part 1

Sybil Lamb is terrifying.

That's what I learned on the way to the reading and before she got up to read, from all my friends who had met her and also from the other authors who were reading last Wednesday night. She's all big boots stomping and loud, inappropriate banter and sheer dresses with dark, skimpy undergarments and acres of stick-and-poke tattoos and a grin that will eat you for breakfast.

She is also a goddamn genius. The kind that cannot be contained or measured or broken, even by a traumatic brain injury. As she read from I've Got a Time Bomb, she transformed from author reading from her recently published novel into some fascinating troublemaker you just met shortly after the apocalypse, reenacting illegal, illogical antics with friends named after baked goods, reciting dialogue without even looking at the page. At one point, she literally climbed and swung from the rafters of the Marlboro College Campus Center.

Also I'm not entirely sure she wasn't a little drunk.

Also it took her 13,000 years to sign books because she was holding court sitting on the end of the book table and drawing original comics in everyone's book and playing with a toy robot mouse and a ceramic sperm and gossiping/shit talking with Casey Plett and Imogen Binnie, and it was completely worth the wait. Apparently I was smirking the whole time, which is how I express enjoyment, BTW:

"Hey....wanna do book stuff?!" "Hang on I'm just finishing some office stuff... ..."

And if she's as scary as they say, maybe I'd be too delicate to be her friend, but I am so glad she's doing what she's doing and I'll support her work and read the hell out of it (p.s. buy her novel right now it's so good), and I'll totally worship her from afar. Like, maybe really far.

Poem for a Mean Girl

I appreciate
That you're in the universe.
I'll be over here.

That Time Locusts Ate My Bike, and Other Bible Stories

My mom just bought me a bike.

I am going to turn 39 before the year is out.

But she was never able to buy me a bike as a kid, and I mentioned to her I was looking at buying a bike but it seemed like a lot of money, and she said to buy it and she'd send me a check.

"Making up for lost time?" I quipped.

She quoted me the Bible.

Joel 2:25. "And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten."

She quotes the Bible to me a lot, and always has, and I'll admit sometimes it's tiresome, but something about this was sweet. That such an obscure-seeming scripture was at the ready, that she had this assurance that it was not too late to do for her very grown-up kid what she couldn't do when I was little, that broken hearts can be mended while they still beat.

That's what I got out of it, anyway. Well, that and a bike.

Poem for Cyclical Time (See What I Did There)

Time gives more chances,
More a circle than a line,
Cycles round again.

I kind of want a tiny license plate for it that says EAT MY DUST, LOCUSTS or something ridiculous.

Calgon, briefly restore my energy a little!

I've been really tired lately. I can think of several possible reasons. (Seasonal change migraines the medication for the migraines trouble sleeping hormone changes playing a rock show on a week night stress at work Lyme disease probably not but my therapist suggested it might be possible Mercury in retrograde just kidding.)

Tonight I came home from dinner with friends and did not feel like I could do anything but lie down with my eyes closed and the radio on. But I also felt kind of dirty. So I thought I could lie down with my eyes closed in hot water and at least accomplish something before bedtime.

And surprisingly, the bath refreshed me somewhat. Not enough to go back out on the town or anything, but I'm here, ain't I? This confirms for me how much of my recent exhaustion is stress related. Forcing my body to calm down perked me up rather than putting me to sleep. (Also my local radio station just started playing really cute indie pop.)

Poem for still being tired, though

I just learned a thing.
Do I really have to write
A poem now, too?

Even action figures gotta take time for self care.

Now the DJs are talking about the Supreme Court and gay marriage. Zzzzzzzzzzz..........

OMG

On Sunday night I saw my friends' band play, and I'm really pleased that I've seen them enough times now that I get their songs stuck in my head. Also, I had the urge, on more than one occasion that night, to throw my hands in the air in a gesture that I associate with my evangelical Christian upbringing.

From infancy, I was surrounded by fervent, ecstatic prayer and song, often accompanied by tambourines, speaking in tongues, jumping, clapping, and raising of hands. It moved me greatly, until one day (around age 12) when it didn't, and I haven't looked back. Until the other night.

I didn't give in to the urge, even though I totally could've made it look rock-n-roll rather than holy roller. But I am still trying to put my finger on just what it was that made me want to reach out, reach up to something bigger than myself, hold my arms up to receive, or maybe surrender.

Short Poem for a Tall Spirit

How do I praise now?
How do I touch my heart to
Something that's not God?

Ooh, let's play a game. Rock concert or tent revival?

_____________________________________
Answers: 1. Rock. 2. Jesus. 3. Rock. 4. Jesus

Knock, knock. Who's there? Broken hearts.

It is surreal to be doing this again, so soon after the last time. It's not fair to me, and it's super unfair to those who were closer than I was to either or both of them.

I just want someone to tell me all her favorite jokes, because I never was any good at remembering jokes. And I want someone to hug me just a little too hard. And I always want to remember the sound of her voice the way I can right now.

She was the star of this magical adventure, which I think characterizes the kind of excitement and wonder and joy that seemed to constantly flow from and around her.

I started to write a song today, thinking about the people who leave us and go somewhere we can't follow. This is some of it.

Poem from a Song About Too Much Loss
for M.D.

Don't know where they go.
Can't be there, so I'll be here,
Picturing your face. 

In particular, this face right here.

Y Would You Say That, X-actly?

Because I had to change health insurance carriers twice in the last four months, I don't have a primary care physician anymore. So when I needed to see a doctor (somewhat urgently), I had to scramble a bit to find someone in my network who is accepting new patients. None of the doctors that were at all recommended fit both criteria. So, tomorrow I meet with a random stranger to talk about what hurts.

In making the appointment, the person on the phone hesitated audibly, palpably even, before asking me my sex. I did not give a one-word answer. (Hell, it was more than one sentence.) After hearing me out, they replied, "I'm okay with that."

Sure, I'd rather have them okay with it than not okay with it. But it's not like they offered their opinion about my birth date or phone number. Still, it was easier than sitting alone with a clipboard staring down two check boxes.

Poem Partially Explaining Why I Sometimes Avoid Healthcare

Cis professional
Is okay with my gender.
Permission granted.

It's so much simpler at Radio Shack.

No Better Man Still Alive

This post starts with a confession. Tonight it was thunderstorming, and I sat on the couch drinking bourbon by myself and watching the Pearl Jam 20th anniversary documentary.

OK, there's more to it. In high school, I loved Eddie Vedder so much I wanted to be him *and* fuck him. Remind me to find you a photo of myself with long, straggly curls, cutoff Army pants, and Doc Martens--my sophomore year uniform.

Probably because of shame (and/or Netflix), it's taken me a few years to get around to watching 20. Also, I was nervous. Maybe like meeting up with a crush 20 years later and having to take a good look at them--and yourself--in the light of day, as it were.

But then the opening scene has Eddie on MTV wearing eye makeup and an outfit he'd borrowed from D'Arcy Wretzky of the Smashing Pumpkins, and I knew I was going to fall all over again. And I felt better about my continued appreciation for Ten seeing him perform those early shows in his Cramps and Sugarcubes t-shirts, or seeing "Fugazi" Sharpied on his arm for the Headbanger's Ball interview. Plus, there's the epic Vedder-Cornell bromance to warm one's heart.

Temple of the Dog fan fiction, anyone?

So it seems I've unearthed another root, one of those early experiences that shape your identity and inform your boners for decades to come.

To be fair (to me), I couldn't follow the last half of the movie (I vaguely remember Neil Young? Ticketmaster?) and don't talk to me about any Pearl Jam albums since Vitology. But somewhere in my heart (slash pants) it will always be 1991.

Poem for Two Decades of Flannels

"Don't call me daughter"
Eddie Vedder in a bra
Grunge is my gender

What a (Lot of) Feeling(s)

I did that thing again where I watched an old favorite 80s movie and was slightly horrified. Last time, I was disturbed by Danny Zuko and friends' misogyny (while still enamored of their cars and greaser fashion). This time, I was really excited to show my roommate a movie that had both of her favorite things in it--dancing and feminism--and ended up feeling like I should apologize.

Alex, the main character, still comes across as badass and empowered, the way I remembered her--a teenage steel worker and nightclub dancer with her own warehouse apartment, pit bull, and gracefully aging mentor--except when it comes to the romantic interest. He's a patron of the club where she works, who turns out to be the owner of the steel mill where she also works. He essentially stalks her, even jokingly "firing" her, until she goes out with him. In one scene, she declines his offer of a ride, so he follows behind her in his Porsche as she rides home on her bicycle. The image of her grim face, even as she is back-lit by his headlights, will not leave my mind.

The dancing was okay but, because it was the 80s, marred by surreal MTV-esque sets and waaaay high-cut leotards. Also, you know, uncredited dancing by Marine Jahan as Jennifer Beals' double.

Poem for Flashdance

She's a maniac,
Dancing like never before.
What's that even mean?

Alex fucks with a traffic cop "in a world made of steel" (Pittsburgh).

Also I'm just going to pretend it hasn't been almost a month since my last "daily" blog post, because even thinking about how far out of my groove I've gotten makes me want to procrastinate more.

So...tired...

It's all about this 1922 edition of Grimm's Fairy Tales right now.

"Enchanted castle,
Where there were nothing but cats
Who were her servants"

Bloggers Gotta Blog

I am maybe bad at forming habits. Which can be very helpful. Like, my smoking habit didn't last too long. Haven't yet felt in danger of forming other harmful habits/addictions. I do brush my teeth and put on deodorant every day. My mom helped shame me into forming those habits in my early teens.

But I sure would like to be able to form new habits on purpose--like exercising, meditating, checking in with friends and family, and...oh...I dunno...writing a damn poem a day.

I have heard there is a period for which you have to do a thing for it to become a habit. The internet seems to agree on 21 days. My longest streak on this blog was way back when I first started it: 13 days in March 2013.

I guess I thought having it be public would help keep me accountable. Like having a gym buddy or an AA sponsor. Of course, the internet doesn't notice when one halfassed poet skips a day (or several weeks). But if anyone out there has an idea about how I could do more of what I want to do, leaving comments is still free of charge.

Haiku for the Things I Wish I Did

If I have to think
Then it's already too late.
Let it be like breath.

Cold-Cocked by the Galaxy

I've had a shitty week. Car broke down, laptop broke down, I dropped my phone and shattered the screen, on-and-off migraines, and some super-stressful work situations.

I like when I can identify some external cause for my woes, especially when it's something over which I have no control. It allows  me to shake my tiny fist and just ride it out. Enter astrology.

So I started asking around, hoping to confirm my suspicions that the sky was to blame for my difficulties. Reports started coming in that I'm not the only one who's had a week from hell. And someone showed me this: the Grand Cross.

Basically, four planets are forming 90-degree angles in four cardinal zodiac signs, and the result is a cosmic shit-show. This has been going on since January and will continue into June, and we're coming up on the peak, where the cross is its squarest.

Oh, also a little thing called a blood moon eclipse. Apocalypse, anyone?

Haiku for the Solar System Being a Dick

Why is life a mess?
Stars and planets all aligned
Flipping me the bird

This is how planets say "Fuck you."

It's Love on Wheels

On Sunday I went rollerskating for the first time in 15 years, and maybe the second time in 30. I was really nervous. My knees already hurt when I climb stairs; I don't need to fall on them. But I didn't. In the two hours I was at Interskate 91 (warning: web page plays music you don't want anyone to think you're listening to on purpose), I went from wobbly barely-standing to fairly confident gliding around in circles. The memory of how to move was still inside me somewhere.

So that felt good.

I had a moment, too, one of many I've had over the last year or so, of feeling swept up in the romance of my life, of being in friend-love with this group of queers that had talked me into doing something youthful and silly and possibly slightly dangerous. Maybe it was the saccharine pop music blaring over the speakers at the skating rink or the memory of being 7 under disco lights holding my friend's hand as we spun around corners. Sometimes I think I'm missing romantic love in my life when I'm not dating anyone special, so it's nice to be reminded that I have everything I need and want if I just notice it.

Haiku for Rollerskating at 38

Bodies remember,
Then the heart can open up.
Mind comes in last.

Trying to skate backward (looks a lot like standing still).

#allthefilters #allthetime

Yesterday I downloaded a certain popular photography app so I could show off sexy knitting pics to my friends. So I'm gonna get really cross-platform on you all and haiku about my knitting Instagram post.

Ready?

Haiku for "Valencia"

I want a filter,
An "awesome button" for life.
Oh wait, that's called "art."

This heart is half full.

Stay tuned for my tweet about the Facebook post for this blog entry.

NaPoWriMo

Seems like, for a blog that claims to produce a haiku a day (at least in theory), national poetry writing month (NaPoWriMo) would be no problem.

Seems like.

Except that shit's just been kind of all over the place lately. March went out like a fire-breathing, kickboxing, face-eating lion. A beautiful boy went away forever. I worked two jobs, was in a play, practiced with my mystery band, and had a bunch of doctor's appointments for chronic pain (yeah, that's still happening).

April and poetry always make me think of T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland." Looking at it now, I think that he is calling April cruel because it is so full of renewal and reawakening and hope, and yet all this life springs from death: "breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire."

I don't know. I'm so tired.

Haiku for Cruel April

So many undone.
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Broken images.

RIP Jimmy Crochet

Last night I attended a candlelight vigil for a beautiful person who passed away Saturday. Way, way too soon. We weren't super close, but I was crazy about him anyway. Everybody was, it seems.

I gave him a crochet lesson once. At first he was frustrated with the awkward, new feeling of the hook and yarn in his fingers. I invited him to think about other skills he had mastered--drawing and skateboarding--and how long it took his body to memorize those movements, and to have patience with himself.

As he practiced the chain stitch, we made up an elaborate history and etymology of crochet. He also told me about a high school girlfriend who had tried to teach him. It didn't work out (the relationship or the lesson), and he was determined to learn it now to spite her. I think he was mostly kidding.

Before long, he was on his second row of fairly even single-crochet stitches, so pleased with himself he didn't notice the time. He jumped up suddenly when he realized he was late for an open mic a friend of his was playing at.

Today I just want to be home crocheting mustaches in his memory.

Haiku for A.F.

You learned the chain stitch,
Which was invented in France
By Jimmy Crochet.

This looks a lot like the mustache he sometimes wore.

Sons of Death

Last night I had the extreme good fortune to see a great Vermont band with a very cool history. Rough Francis is three brothers from Burlington who got together initially to cover Bad Brains. Somewhere along the way, they discovered their father's band, formed in Detroit in the 70s with his two brothers, called Death. Rough Frances started covering them, and then writing and recording original music, with their first album coming out a year ago (which you could maybe get from Riot House if not your local record store).

All this I learned from my current mystery bandmate earlier this week (more "mystery band" here). I am now even more excited to watch A Band Called Death, which has been collecting dust in my Netflix queue.

Haiku for Intergenerational Afropunk

Rock is in their blood
From Detroit to Burlington
Long live Death and Sons

At SXSW. Photo by Greg Beets.

When Worlds Collide

Haiku for a False Binary

Thanks, I guess, but
I'm not the best of both worlds.
There are more than two.

Earth, Wind, and Fire (and Ice)

Last night, a friend was talking about winter and how it's been so freaking hard. They were explaining how it's particularly bleak for certain signs, like fire signs ("Help, it's cold!") and even water signs ("Help, I'm stuck!").

Leaving on foot, I was struck by the feeling of my relatively thin-soled motorcycle boots (compared to my snow boots, which I've lived in for months) on bare pavement. I thought about my own earth sign and how I might be adapted or not to moving on frozen ground buried beneath ice and snow. I'm looking forward to connecting to my source again.

Haiku for an Earth Sign

Walking on water
'Til the ice melts, now I feel
Ground under my feet.

It's too damn warm out.

Last night, after a rock show in a small venue full of stinky young people, a friend brought a bubble machine into the space and pointed it out the window. We scrambled down the stairs and into the alley to chase the frozen bubbles.

The cold made them more durable, not solid but gummy. We could catch them without popping them, and they would cave in but not disintegrate. After a while, they started collecting on the pavement, sticking to each other and rolling down the street in clumps of bubble-tumbleweeds.

We screamed with laughter and staggered around the alley like sugared-up toddlers. And wished it were even colder so we could see what the bubbles would do.

Seems like that's the value of magic, even the silly type of magic that makes soap bubbles into something strange and wondrous: that we are willing and even glad to give up what's comfortable (relative warmth at 20 degrees F) in exchange for possibility.

Haiku for Barely Frozen Bubbles

I stayed out too late
Breathing body odor and
Chasing bumbleweeds

Your Place or Never Mind?

Haiku for Non-Initiators

Well, we got this far.
Now we're sitting on a couch.
Thirteen is awkward.

Climb Every Mountain (Even If You Hate It)

My grandpa had a saying: "I like banging my head against the wall because it feels so good when I stop." I always took it as a joke. Because you know what feels better than that? Not hitting your head in the first place.

Last weekend, some friends were climbing a mountain under the "full moon"* following several successive snowstorms. It's considered a relatively easy hike without snow, maybe 2 miles of switchbacks and nothing really steep. So I went along (I really like the moon).

But it was late, and overcast, and my companions' legs were about twice as long as mine, and the dog kept stepping on my snowshoes and knocking me over. Overall, it was kind of an ordeal.

At the top, someone shared their beverage with the rest of us, who had not thought to bring anything to drink. I was sweaty and out of breath, and that first sip tasted like sweet, delicious heaven.

That seemed to be the general reaction to this quenching of thirst, and a conversation arose about the merits of deprivation. Someone told a story about some guy who had been without food in the wilderness for days and when he arrived at his food supply, a chocolate bar made him weep with joy.

In the days that followed, I saw that mountain in the distance and thought about how nice it was to be doing whatever I was doing then instead of stumbling uphill in snow, silently cursing my fate. I still have not decided whether I'm glad I went, or whether I believe that hardship can be gratifying enough to seek it out on purpose. Life is hard enough. Or is it that, for some, it's not hard enough?

Haiku for a Difficult Climb

Sure, this sucks now, but
What is the point of comfort
If that's all you've known?

*It was two days after the full moon, but don't tell that to a certain hike organizer who didn't believe me.

Chip off the old block?

Either/Or

This post comes from longtime reader, first-time contributor Hunter James.

I had dinner with my dad the other day. It was nice to see him and catch up since I haven’t seen him since Christmas. We discussed how school was going for me and he regaled me with updates on his health. He lost his job that day. He seemed pretty sad about it. He’s probably also worried and scared, but we didn't touch on those feelings. Typical evening for us.

However, as we were leaving, he said he had to use the bathroom - as did I - so I said, that’s a good idea. He went into the men’s room and I was left conflicted - follow my dad into the men’s room or use the women’s room. I chose neither. When he came out, he asked if I had gone and I replied that I was having a hard time reconciling bathrooms lately. He made some comment about public bathrooms, completely missing my point. I didn't reply. I couldn't find the words to explain to him my feelings and so didn't. Then when we were saying our goodbyes, he called me by my old name; called me his girl. Again, I remained silent. Walking away, I beat myself up for missing this opportunity for self-advocacy and promised myself that next time I’d have some words to say.

Haiku for transition

A ghost of myself
Trapped between realities
Who am I again?

Pair of Hearts

You'd think, given my recent experience with re-watching Purple Rain, that I would go into watching Grease expecting some surprising revelations about how this favorite film from my formative years shaped who I am today.

But I was mostly too distracted by the overacting, overt misogyny, and disco influence on Travolta's dancing to notice much more than "Hey, those T-birds are some snappy dressers."

Until I got to this scene:

I don't know how I didn't make this connection before, but I almost have Kenickie's exact tattoo.

For the rest of the movie, I kept an eye out for what else I had internalized from time spent with Rydell High's inhabitants. Definitely the boys' fashion sense and not, thankfully, their contributions to rape culture. A sexual proclivity for hot rods and their drivers. A deep yearning for a date who can dance or at least strut.

And the lyrics to this song:

Haiku for Hopeless Devotion

My head is saying, 

"Fool, forget him." My heart is 

saying, "Don't let go."

One of Us

Before coming to this tiny New England town, I couldn't have guessed how welcoming and restorative it would be after more than a decade in major cities. As much as I can claim any geographic place of origin, it was rural and suburban Minnesota, which I experienced as oppressive and depressing. Cities provided the noise, distraction, and adrenaline I needed to feel safe and alive. But I still felt isolated, in love with something I was not a part of.

Friday night, after a screening of Rock-n-Roll High School, I helped lead a Ramones sing-a-long in a church-turned-theater, the pews filled with friends and assorted weirdos belting out "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" at top volume. It was one moment of many over the last two years that have felt like my life come full-circle. You don't even know in how many ways.

I might grow restless here and find my way to broader horizons, but in a world where connection and community have been so hard to come by, I'm content for now to just soak up the love and wear a mullet wig at every opportunity.

Haiku for February 7, 2014

In a former church
I finally feel at home
Gabba gabba hey

Circa 2002, Chicago. Foreshadowing.

Played Out

So there's this game, and you probably know about it, and right on the box it says it's "for horrible people." But I've mostly played it with extremely lovely people who work hard to not hurt others with their words and actions. Is that what makes the game fun? Someone please explain.

Haiku for Game Night

Conscious queers playing
Cards Against Humanity:
Laughter and shame face

There are way worse examples than this. Way worse.

Rock/Stars

Last night I slept on the day bed (in case my mattress is what makes my shoulders hurt all the time), which is near a large window with a view of the town I live in, and the mountain that stands above it, and the sky above that. And in those long, lonely minutes before falling asleep, I had the following thought.

Haiku for February 3, 2014

Someday I will stop
Thinking about my damn self
And dream about stars.

Finding My Root

Last summer, in wishing Prince a happy birthday via haiku, I credited Purple Rain with helping form some of my early perceptions of masculinity. I watched it last night after not having seen it for many years, this time looking for clues about myself via the movie's portrayal of gender and sexuality. I made the following observations:

This is what I think a grown man's bedroom looks like.

This is how I think men who love women dress.

And this is how I think they dance.

This is what I think flirting is.

Also this.

And this is the most romantic five minutes in cinema history.

Haiku for a Tiny, Purple Role Model

He's not a woman,

Not a man. He is something

You won't understand.

This is my life.

I must be doing something right.

If you force it, it breaks.

I learned a really beautiful and useful phrase last night, and it is 7 syllables long. I love it when that happens. Thanks, Q.

Haiku for Letting the Right One In

It's cold out, and you're
"Almost the key to my house."
Good thing there's windows.

XYZ, PDQ

Remember this really smart and useful essay about being called out on privilege and its brilliantly memorable analogy to your fly being open?

I revisited it today. Here's the unfortunate part:

It works for people who accept that privilege is real and has influence over the way we experience life. It works for people who recognize their own privilege exists and want to help build a more equitable society. In short, it works for people who want to act as allies.

Cue the sad trombone.

Haiku for Watever. I don't even HAVE a zipper!!!

Dude, your fly is down.
"How dare you try to help me
Not be embarrassed."

Jumping the Shark

Today's haiku by request from a loyal 17aDay fan, MM:

About a decade ago, in a Midwest Denny's, I watched a kid* draw on his place mat. There were planes flying over hapless stick figures, dropping bombs on them. The bombs were made of knives. The knives were maybe made of something else, like fire. Or tarantulas. I can't be bothered to remember exactly.

For all I know, that kid moved to Hollywood and made Sharknado.

Haiku for an Improbable-Weather-Related Disaster Flick

A child's crayon sketch
Of flying, exploding sharks
In theaters near you

*"Kid" is what I call anyone in their 20s.

Hallelujah, it's raining marine carnivorous fish.

Resolved.

Haiku for the New Year

In 2014
I will write a post a day.
Ha ha ha ha ha!