090121 “Are trans women really women” and “Are trans men really men” is really missing the point. The point? You ask? Yeah, I don’t know, but I think it veers more towards “Who the fuck cares” than some kind of solipsistic “proof.” 090521 i just ache for the generation of words. them appearing on the screen (or page) is like the loving slap of some cosmic hand against my heart the drum 091921 Almost ten years now we’ve been “on our own.” Went by so fast, killingly fast, when you look back. All of our innocences, dramas, outbursts, episodes, rebounds, and compromises. From little squirts at Legoland, inseparable but already arguing, to separate ways, plans, resentments, and still the interspersed moments of harmony. Lib & Cel a tightly bonded unit. Mil restless and stuck. Meg having moved out, skating & skittering & lurching towards freedom and independence but still keeps hanging heavy medallions of toxic boy relationship around her neck. Me? I bike a lot, drink probably a little too much, am getting kind of decent at some key parts of my job (and enjoying that), still mostly isolating from community and peers though. Still haven’t had sex with another human being since almost ten years ago, for whatever that’s worth. I have some pretty fresh dreams though. 092221 Time travel. Libby just handed me a square of tofu that she cooked. It’s like a sweeter, not quite as spicy reincarnation of the clay pot tofu from West Bank Café, which has been replaced by some lame-sounding generic café, as we discovered a couple weeks ago when I walked with her and Cel thru my old neighborhood, past my best apartment ever. Echoes of the typewriter through that window and of that one girl smiling as she walked by on the sidewalk that only I and the random cat strutting on the balcony rail next door could hear. 092921 “It is an individual employee decision” means we’re not gonna pay you if you choose wrong, bitch we don’t teach them how to be them (or god forbid us) we give them what they ask of us in order to help them become themselves Do you think I overthink parenting? Where mom would say “she’s old enough to know she can’t just have everything handed to her,” I say: You never got to be a kid You don’t like when I ask you stuff but I’m really expecting or telling you; guilting “I’m not responsible for our dad’s work schedule! That’s his job!” AND I need everyone to do their part, not just because it’s morally right (it is) but because I literally can’t do it all myself Your sisters (and I) are frustrated with what feels like inequitable division of common household chores Even if you never got to be a kid, that will have to be dealt with some other way than being one now. You are old enough and capable of having home responsibilities I don’t have the resources to provide everyone with a car; I need you to help with that particular burden. Running errands could offset some if it, as could straight up helping pay for it. But it can’t be nothing. I understand we need to quantify it and get clear what the expectations are Consequences and connections should be logical and real, not guilt and drama. What does it mean if you’re not willing or don’t feel available to for example drive Megan to her thing? Where is the line between “could you do this” and “I need you to do this” and what if we see it in two different places? It’s not a democracy, I am the parent, I am paying the bills, etc, and that DOES change the balance. It doesn’t mean I should be capricious, inconsistent, inconsiderate, spiteful or vengeful though Difference between last minute ask and planning ahead seems important—that I can think about and do But like what’s the difference between some kind of natural progression of pulling more of your own weight as you get older, vs. “oh well I guess I have to pay you back for everything”? Like, what does she expect? What is her idea of family members’ responsibilities and assumptions? (And how is it all entangled with other stuff, like (I think) feeling excluded, not loved enough, kind of lowkey bullied by her sisters, etc) Also we have to talk about the meds Difference between iPad and computer has to do with presuppositions about what the software is “for”; what the “user” wants or needs But it’s about more than just dumb iPads. Obviously. It’s about “regular people’s” relationship with technology When I didn’t have a ‘phone’ I did more of certain kinds of things with my body Like stretch Get down in the mud Bend over backwards Get fucked Read books Drink tea Go out on the deck Get fucked again Sleep naked like a baby all night long Things you think you can’t do anything about Things you think you couldn’t do without Things it would just be too much trouble—not realistic—to change Your family would be confused, roll their eyes, you would be left out of essential statuses or experiences You would be neutralized A tin foil hat guy You would look like a try-hard after some kind of attention. Pretentious. Snowflake Ok but just — what if you just tried to do something about one thing— not necessarily the right thing, best thing, only thing, all things, but just pick one, you don’t even have to explain it, and just see what happens What, no but seriously, what do you actually have to lose at this point? You’re not getting any more energetic and interesting are you? You’re not king of shit, so why the fuck not be the weirdo in a Chevy caprice with a big floppy accordion in the passenger seat, the only dumbass for miles around who still asks for directions It doesn’t even have to be for the reason you think other people will think you think it’s for You don’t have to buy anyone else’s idealism t-shirt Their assumptions can be their story Old people are already useless here— Might as well have some fun What if “it” keeps me thinking I’m interested in stuff I’m not genuinely all that constantly interested in, thereby masking some of the th8ngs—and ideas—and people—and, god, I don’t know, risks!?? that in some alternate universe without all these seething, scathing little all-seeing screens I would be forced or allowed or even just motivated out of boredom to go ahead and experience? Who said I can’t abide people who let people go millie started teaching herself piano at about the little kid level she was at when she stopped taking lessons with miss carolyn and it’s like a breath of rainbow fresh air miracle juice in here. all three are kinda gettin along in the same space for a change tenuous, but damn nice millie and cel are maybe? am i being too optimistic? bonding over figuring out music stuff (cel with the sax), kind of play-insulting each other a tiny bit, also being really nice, like *little women* nice. Damn. A firefly blows in and gives you your next breath. *UPDATE* she was screwing around, talking shit about one of the little songs, and she wailed out an operatic high note that sounded clear as fuck. Twice. Dude. What the fuck’s up with that? To be continued… Should I tell her? Or just watch this space. And Libby sang along with Millie first, and then Cel. And she was right on pitch and sweet. The kind of voice you wanna call “angelic” even if it is a cliche. And come to think of it, I did tell her she has a nice voice. She kinda laughed incredulously but I think it landed. So why wouldn’t I just tell Millie? See? I can learn to ask good questions too. PS Millie’s note(s) had the natural vibrato, too. That she’s always frettin’ about gettin’ remember that time i knew i was controlling the girls too much at mini golf, and i knew sharon could see it too, and i was kind of ashamed but just couldn’t quite seem to stop? that’s a lesson about being a teacher 093021 It’s the last day of September. Terabithia is sitting kind of hunched up a little bit on my desk, between the ridiculously vertical monitor and the flat iPad which has been playing quirky ASMR videos while I futz around with this shit because I got the idea of the vertical monitor in my head and the whole “let’s futz with weirdly dark night-secret-faraway technological weird shit” got stuck in my *kranch* and I couldn’t get it unstuck without getting out of bed and sitting beneath my lackadaisically whirring ceiling fan, with my cat on my desk, inventing dumb pointless excuses to type shit in a nice font on a dark screen just... just because. And Tera is also drinking most of my water. The girls are upstairs, in various states of celebration frustration and despair. I think they will all be OK eventually. I actually really do think that. Of course I could always be horribly wrong. Any of us could, at any time. I’m a goddamned fool if I haven’t learned at least that much. But I love them too much not to sanguinate my brain into believing that they’ll pull through. They’re good kids. They’re pretty robust, each in their own weird way. We’ll see. Or they will. Assuming the statistical probability of blah blah blah, they’ll know stuff about how they turned out that I’ll never know. Dude, I’m acorny and wrinkled and craggy already. God knows how old I’ll be before they are like, dad, we are adults. We are worried about you. You are kind of losing it. But we still love you. Anyway, good night. Computers are still pretty cool if you know when to shut them up, shut them off. If you know when to stop making them perfect like a cruise ship. If you let them be a weird moped with a cardboard box tied up with twine on the back that has your lizard in it. If you forget how to automate everything. If your automations are bespoke and made of baling wire and matchsticks. If you get your best thinking done while your computer is whoopin and blinkin. I don’t know, dude. I don’t know. I played Mario Kart while Lib and Cel made Sharpie tattoos on the neighbor kids in the garage. Doug Homer Simpson “I’m Fire” American fatass next door called the cops on a six year old black boy. Millie got a callback. Megan texted “I’m almost out of chocolate.” She’s almost TWENTY for fuck’s sake, well, in less than a year anyway. Chicago surrounds her like a cool coat. I made taco steak and Libby made crunchy gordito wrap supremes with it. The world is careening downhill. It’s moist out. Stink bugs cling to every screen. You flick em hard from inside the screen, they spin madly out of control for about five or six feet, and then calmly fly away. Fuck. I love words. Fuck, I just, I just love them. They are my space, my spaceship, my butter, my downhill slalom, my forest, my flashlight. God I’ve missed them. God how I always miss them. Also the alcohol is a problem again. Hurting sleep.