Foul Weather Friend

I am not always good at balance, on a rather grand scale. I have long stretches of time where I’ll be favouring one side before sliding to a different position, to stay there for another long while.

I am not particularly good at maintaining relationships through these shifts.

It’s strange, because there’s the phrase “fair-weather friend”, the person who only sticks around when things are good, and leaves as soon as things look like they might get tough.

I feel as though I have the opposite problem.

I know how to be there for people, if they ask it of me. I know how to be supportive, and I can usually manage to be patient, because sometimes it takes a long time before things get easier.
I know that. (Though, I suppose what I know of this is simply mirroring what helped *me* when I was in a different position.)

What I don’t really know how to do, is share the joy that comes after.

When the relationship changes, and it’s not longer the same situation of one person needing support, and the other being needed.

I don’t know how to move with that shift.

This is something that happens…with a fair amount of frequency in my life, which makes sense, because nobody can be on top all of the time.
And it’s not like I’m only ever on one end of the equation.

My life is full of beautiful people, who have kept me going when I had nothing left for myself. These incredible people who were there for me when I was learning to trust people, when I was learning how to ask for help, how to ask for companionship.

I am afraid that I am losing them now. Now that I am in a different place, and I’m reacting to things in a different way, I’m not experiencing the world in the way that I did when I built those relationships. I don’t know how to bring these people with me.

It’s not like it’s an easy situation on any side.

It’s hard to call on friends made when I’m on fire, the people I’ve met when I’ve got my shit together and I’m on the fast-track to making my life happen, and say “I’m not together anymore. Can you help?”

Because they only knew me when I was doing well. It’s hard to say to people “I’m not doing well anymore”, when they haven’t *seen* that.

But then there’s this…guilt? because I can call on the people who have been there for me before, but, I don’t do a very god job of including them in the positive side of my life, and I don’t want to be the person who only ever calls when things are bad.

There’s also the fear that comes with asking for help, anyway. Because sometimes it does just take…a *long* time to “get better”, for whatever measure of “better” that even includes.

Sometimes it’s staring at the phone thinking “Do I really get to call them again? Are they truly not tired of me not having my shit together?”

But…it’s also that, everyone is dealing with their own shit. So, on top of everything else, it’s “Am I really going to ask them to spend their time on this? I know they need their energy for their own lives. Am I really going to ask them to spend their energy on my life as well?”

The only thing that I can do then is go down the list of people who have helped in the past; the ones who say, over and over again “CALL ME.”

So, I’ve finally (sort of) learned to call when I need help.

Now I need to learn how to call *those folks* when I don’t.

It’s learning to deal with different power dynamics and changing patterns of interaction within a single relationship, and I’m just really not good at that yet.

More than that though, it’s giving myself permission to reach out, even when I might not *need* it.


A New Title

I believe I was in seventh grade when I was first bestowed the title of being “A Font of Useless and Oddly Specific Wisdom”.

I am incredibly proud of it, and I believe that it has served me well in my life.

(Have a mentioned lately that I’m kind of a beast at a pub quiz? Because I *love* trivia.)

Today, however, I feel like I may hove gotten another title that I shall bring with me as well.

I was walking with my friends, and one of them said to me “You are bizarre and wonderful, like a fine cheese in the middle of nowhere.”

Now, I’m not totally sure if “Fine Cheese in the Middle of Nowhere” an epithet or the title for some kind of indie project, but I think I’ll keep it, just the same.

Last Person on Earth

Recently I have been able to participate in several conversations based on the topic of “How would you interact with the world, if you were the only person left?”

This was mostly inspired from frustrations over the extremely repetitive nature of the first episode of the Twilight Zone, wherein the protagonist says pretty much every single line THREE TIMES.

The original question was “How much would you talk? Would you narrate your life? Would you be totally silent?”


I have come to the realization that I would do extremely poorly in this extremely hypothetical situation.

If I was the last person left on earth, I would most likely have a lot of fun doing very, very  stupid things, and die very quickly.


Because I have yet to try bungee jumping, and the best thing about being the last person left on earth is that there is literally nobody left to tell you it’s a bad idea.

I Am a Boring Adult.

Sometimes there are moments, when I’m sitting around a table, and it’s 10:30 at night, the dishes from dinner have been put in the sink, and we’re splitting the last of a box of cookies, and I realize…

I have become a participant in the kind of dinner party that seven-year-old me would have despaired over.

We’ve done nothing but sit around a table and *talk*.

And to be perfectly honest, it’s brilliant, because, seriously. I love people. Talking is fantastic. Dinner parties are amazing. We talked about art and activism and told stories of travel, we’ve talked of dreams and projects and the beautifully un-ending topic of youtube videos.


So. In conclusion: There are some evenings, when nothing in the world is more satisfying than being a boring old person. 😀


In An Attic

I have always wanted to live in an attic.

I want to climb down a ladder to get out of my house. My place will be small and war, and there won’t be enough space for *anyone* to stand up, which will be perfect, because everyone who comes over will have to remember how much fun it is to crawl around on the floor, and how different the world looks.

It will be the perfect size for me, I won’t be able to keep giant things to clutter up my life. I’ll have enough space for my projects, all jammed away in the copious amounts of corners that come with e strangely-shaped spaces of attics.

There might be windows, so I could send a rope out and repel down if I wanted to. Or maybe small windows, to let in just enough light to make the dust glow golden in the afternoons. Perhaps there won’t be any windows at all, and I will live on a manufactured schedule, where my high-noon stand off can happen at any time. My sunsets would be when I dim the lights. I could build my own constellations, ready to flicker into guiding points whenever I need them to.

I will emerge from my attic wearing whatever I want to. I can come down the ladder wearing a hoop skirt and a conical hat with glittering streamers draping out of the top. I’ll go into the world and dance on tables and teach proper sailing chanties to small children.

I can wear all black and slick my hair back, secure in my fingerless gloves, armed with tiny screwdrivers and duct tape, ready to go fix broken down machines. I can build robots and play with soldering irons and open my canned fruit with tinsnips.

I would know here everything was, because there’s not enough space in an attic to truly lose anything. (Though there is always enough space for things to be re-discovered.)

I can paint the walls of my attic, I can carve my world into the wooden beams and write my secrets in their shadows. I can paste up pictures of all of the beautiful things in the world; things I understand, things I can never hope to fathom, the magic I’ve seen, and the magic that can only be captured by others. I can have a wall where I pin up every letter I’ve ever gotten. Even the ones that will never ever stop shedding blue glitter on everything I own.

I want to live in an attic, because there are no thoughts like “That shouldn’t go in a living room” or “you have a bathtub in your kitchen?” because…it’s an attic. It’s not rooms and rooms of expectations.

It’s just my place. Where my breath will sink into the walls and my music will echo. It will not be a space divided by intentions. It will have stains from where I’ve fallen, where I’ve cried, where I’ve bled, and I will know every story. It will be built from my hands, and so I will fit perfectly in it.

Ferry Music

My Wondertwin and I were on the ferry returning from Bainbridge Island, and these two musicians decided to serenade the boat.


I feel like this is a pretty good description of Seattle somehow.

They noticed us watching and gave us copies of their albums.


I love music!

Exiting the Carousel

In Seattle, there’s the Pier, which is a generally tourist-y area on the ocean which is a fun place to go for a walk.

Except for right now, when there are giant digging machines everywhere, and the whole place is torn up.

I’m staying with my Wondertwin, and we decided to go wander along the pier before we knew about the construction. Once faced with the construction…we chose to wander anyway. 😀

It was pretty fantastic because we ended up going into places that we usually skip, because our usual spots were blocked off.

We also managed to find a carousel.

Because we’re awesome and totally adults, we totally went for a carousel ride. It was awesome. (I may have climbed up too high on my horse and hit my head on the ceiling of the ride. Possibly.)

The only trouble came…when we trying to leave.

All of the ways to get out were blocked off.

We may or may not have ended up leaving through a back door marked “employees only” that dumped us around back, forcing us to then loop around to where we had to wind around “The Seattle Great Wheel”, which plays 8-bit music for a soundtrack, in case you were wondering.

Oh, Seattle. Such a beautiful city.



That *was* an exit we ended up going through. Even though I didn’t trust it very much.


Yesterday I went to a very large movie theater and participated in the marathon screening of every Hobbit film.




Every second of it was wonderful. Because it was about ten hours  in a movie theater, and really, I’m not about to say that the Hobbit films are the best pieces of cinema to ever happen, but I love them, and the folks in the theater were all a bit crazy by the end of the last one, but we were all crazy together, and it was SO FREAKING GOOD.

Statistics of Fear

I was walking alone at night through the city this evening, and I had my headphones on and my music turned up so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.

It was beautiful, and exactly what I wanted to be doing.

Maybe it’s being young and reckless, but I am so tired of running into fear at every corner.

I’m moving to a new country, and people don’t say “How wonderful!” they say “Don’t drink the water. Not even to brush your teeth.”

They don’t say “Take lots of pictures!” they say “Stay on the roads. There are still land mines there.”


I’m starting to get this feeling that maybe I’d rather be a statistic than in fear.

Because, yeah. Maybe something will happen. And there are infinite lists of “things to do to prevent X from happening”.

but when it comes down to it, most of those lists boil down to “stay the fuck at home and lock the doors and board the windows.”


Yeah, maybe it’s stupid, but I think that I’d rather be stupid and willing to walk down a street then safely tucked away in a little white room somewhere.