"They could be fascist anarchists and it still wouldn't change the fact that I don't own a car."

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You were wrong when you said everything's going to be alright.

I woke up this morning, decided today was the day. I'd remember to live a bit, to do a bit more than breathe; but not too far in. Those butterflies interject, and remind me that this is unfamiliar ground. - Endeavor

Yes, yes. I know. It's been a month (nearly). After Jeff's passing, I opted to take a few moments to shut the fuck up and reflect a bit; maybe let someone else do the talking for a while. A few moments became a few weeks, which bled into my inevitable return to Vermont, which bled into my final days there, which bled into my return home, which has seen nearly two weeks pass into a blur of rain and work demands stacked against a rather casual (but nonetheless heartening) romantic affair stacked against a not-so-casual but thus far vicarious attraction stacked against an impending birthday stacked against fuckhead insurance companies stacked against playing air drums to Cobolt's Great American Lies stacked against that spasm in the morning shower when your body decides to inform you that it's not ready to function (even after eleven hours of sleep).

I'm going to go ahead and blame coffee.

And truth be told, I'm not terribly convinced that there's much to relay, beyond what was substantive for me; hardly a yardstick for what anyone's interested in reading, here. But as I wrote to someone the day I left Vermont to come home, I have, in fact, come to a place where I can do a bit more than breathe. That is, I've located some flash of coherence in what it is that I do on a day to day basis. There's a life buried somewhere in there, and by that I mean something demonstrable; something that can be built upon and elaborated. Something beyond what I engage in to avoid making eye contact with my own dislocation.

It peeked out in the most unlikely places. On the corner of 16th and S, when she spun around, pulled me by my hips and kissed me as though I were hers, in front of every passing car; the moment my hands left her hips, and the realization that the world was still conspicuously intact. Or during the Anzaldua session at RAT, speculating that perhaps infusing our work with the erotic means embracing and honoring the same vulnerability that we bring to sexual encounters. Or hauling the sandwich-board from Black Sheep out to State & Elm mornings, savoring the anonymity, noticing the ways my feet would fall differently from the tensing and slacking of muscle in my arms. Or reaching that point with someone where I realize nothing I would want to say to them would be wrong.

Or maybe just coming home to the knowledge that I've been living with one hand tied behind my back... and being a little embarrassed about it. I woke up a year older today. And the world is still conspicuously intact. Go figure.