ISleepInADrawer.com

Winter Wonderland

In addition to her godlike ability to kill with a stare, my cat apparently hates snow.

Away is nice, but home is best.

Kindness of Strangers

More and more, I'm appreciating my former home's swanky new airport terminal and security screening area. It's a small area, but I've spent this unseasonably warm, midwestern morning enjoying the free wireless internet access (and internet access for the first time in five days, mind you), cable news, John Deere souveniers, and the art gallery.

But, quite possibly the kindest touch came from a gentle TSA screener. She calmly heard me state that I wasn't carrying any liquids and then patiently waited and watched as I unpacked my laptop, emptied my pockets of keys and money, removed my shoes and belt, and finally placed my mobile phone and wristwatch in the bin on top of my other travel belongings. She joyfully waved me through the metal detector -- and then subtly indicated that my fly was unzipped.

No one in Seattle would be so courteous. Yet, I cannot wait to set foot on that wet ground in ten hours.

Pharmacy

Tonight, at dinner:

Zach: "How many beers have you had now?"
Me: "Three. I'll probably have another when we get home."
Zach: "Why so many?"
Me: "Because I have to fly in a few hours, and flying makes me nervous... but, this'll help me relax."
Zach: "But, weren't you planning on taking a vicodin pill that the doctors prescribed for you a year ago when you had those debilitating post-spinal-tap headaches? Weren't you going to take that to relax you before the flight and help you sleep?"
Me: "Yeah, I suppose so. Why do you ask?"
Zach: "Well, you can't take those with alcohol, you know."
pause
Me: "Well, sh*t."

Here's hoping your holiday travels are executed with more basal intelligence than mine.

You Can't Go Home Again

I'm very selective when it comes to use of the word "home." Or, at least, I try to be. I started to be less casual when speaking and thinking of "home" several years ago, when I moved out of my mom's house following college and moved to Seattle. A bit late for me, it was the first time I, at twenty-two, was nominally on my own - alone and isolated from most friends and family I'd ever known. Those who know me well won't be surprised to hear that this transition wasn't as entirely traumatic as it usually is for the average person - For one thing, I am, by nature, a bit of a loner by default. Also, I wasn't settling into terra incognita either: I'd spent the previous summer in Seattle, and was coming to a familiar job. Plus, Zach (we were friends at the time) was planning to move to Seattle a few months later.

But, in preparing for this experience - picking up and moving on - my brain chemistry made a slight alteration. Very slight - almost superficial - yet quite critical. I didn't realize it at the time, but I'd changed my perception of home.

Many people threw parting phrases at me - about the difficulties of "leaving home" and "having no home there waiting for you in Seattle." I remember scratching my head and mumbling replies like, "But... I already have a room rented..." I was generally perplexed - not with the move itself, but with the fact that I couldn't follow their logic. Home?... Leaving home?... No home to go to?... Ridiculous: I'm not moving. I'm obviously going home.

I'd spent the better part of my life (and the more painful years of growing up) along the Illinois/Iowa frontier. From elementary school up through college. All the "big events" of childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood occurred there - every glorious, triumphant, embarrassing, and insanely stupid events and choices that shaped the man I am today unfolded in my mother's house, in that town, in that farming metropolis. Joy and pain; laugter and tears; love and hatred - of course that was my home, of nearly fifteen years.

But, to at least several folks I talked to just before relocating to Seattle, they apparently felt that home would always be this place - this locale that saw nearly fifteen years of my growth, achievements, shortcomings, and everything in between. I can vaguely recall a few departed sages in my own family speaking of home in a similar manner - using home to refer to my family's southern origins, my distant and long-forgotten place of birth (boosted by vague memories of subsequent visits in my pre-teen and teen years). On one or two occasions, my young self had tried to fight this false concept of home: home, I'd protested, wasn't my distant origin. It was no longer the hospital ward where I first howled, the house where I uttered my first word, the Montessori School I attended, the sandbox I played in... it had once been home, I'd stated bluntly, but my home became my current comfort cave: my mother's house along the Illinois/Iowa frontier. Back then, my young self lacked any introspective reference to explain and logically express my assertions... it merely felt this way. On an instinctive level, I identified home for myself, and tried to break with tradition.

And, in 2003, I found myself making similar assertions, only this time I was better able to put words to my gut instincts: home is familiarity - the place with sights and smells and people and tastes and attitudes that I, over time, assert with the good feelings of home. For nearly fifteen years, home had been my mother's house on the Illinois/Iowa frontier - the place with the sights and sounds, habits and feelings, of home. But, as my moving date approached, I slowly asserted to myself that this place wouldn't be home much longer - I would leave, and it would change. Furniture exchanged and rearranged, walls painted, trees felled... roads repaved, shops closed and new ones opened, schools redesigned... family aged, friends moved... It would all become home-no-longer, a setting for nostalgia. I would have to take my notions of home with me - and plant them anew in Seattle. Home became: where I was. For four days, home became my car as I drove from the Illinois/Iowa frontier to Washington. For an hour one June in 2003, home was even the Interstate-90 bridge across Lake Washington, as I sat in my car, laden with my worldly possessions, in bumper-to-bumper traffic, waiting impatiently for an opportunity to reach the room in the house in Seattle's Wallingford neighborhood I was renting where I could mentally plant my concept of home - and use the bathroom.

After over three years now, home (bathroom and all) is definitely Seattle. Home is unquestionably the dark apartment Zach and I share - the dirty floors, an emotionally-distrubed athmatic tabby, a closet-sized kitchen, the blessed world map on our shower curtain, the pile of unread mail sagging on the hallway table, the shelves overfilled with Zach's CDs... the smell of burning food, scented candles, cat litter... the feel of cheap hardwood floors, frayed towels and bedsheets, Zach's scruffy face... Every fiber of my being asserts now that these are all signs of home, none of which are found in my former homes. When flying back to Seattle after even a short trip, I am consistently overwhelmed with a sense of anticipation and juvenile giddiness when the plane breaks through the cloud barrier and descends into the rain and drizzle that defines Puget Sound for most of the year, and I see (I always have a window seat) the grey skyline - mountains to the east and west, a volcano to the south, grey and black skyscrapers, Lake Union, Lake Washington, Elliott Bay filled with ferries, boats, and freighters... I itch with delight: I'm home. How could this be anything but home?! Soon, I tell myself, my clothes will again be covered in cat fur, and Zach and I will walk in the rain to get him a Diet Coke. This glorious and dreary city is definitely home.

I'm leaving tonight to fly back to the Illinois/Iowa frontier, to see family for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Unfortunately, despite my above protestations, I still catch myself saying, "I'm flying home for Thanksgiving."

Memory Lapse

I'm pretty sure I sat next to a blogger yesterday during a seminar. I looked at his face and thought, "I've seen him before. I used to read his weblog. I'd recognize his face anywhere."

Unfortunately, I'm not sure who he is, or which weblog he's from.

Zach: "Is he a Seattle blogger?"
Me: "Uh... are there bloggers in Seattle?"
Zach: "Well, there's you."
Me: "Yeah. But I don't know of any others."
Zach: "Well, maybe he moved here since you last read his weblog. When do you think you last read his weblog?"
Me: "Probably a year ago. Maybe more."
Zach: "Do you think he reads yours?"
Me: "I don't think anyone in Seattle reads mine."
Zach: "I'm pretty sure the cat does."

But, just in case you still read mine, did you happen to sit next to me in a seminar Wednesday?

Delight in Disorder

Zach's Catholic, while I was raised Protestant. Though I'm rather sensitive and borderline paranoid when it comes to disclosure of my religious convictions, Zach has gently coaxed me into attending mass with him (I do love the splendid decor, after all). Though my first dozen times attending were rather comical scenes (imagine my shock when I, head bowed deep in meditative thought, had a wet branch shaken at my face by the priest), my intellectual interests in Catholicism and Catholic history have only been fueled by these Mass pursuits. (It also doesn't hurt that I'm an absolute sucker for Tudor English history.)

Thus, I've taken substantial interest in new documents released by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops regarding ministry to Catholics with a "homosexual inclination" (don't tell, but Zach also has an "inclination" to eat cookies). The full document is a rather quick read, actually, if you're interested and have a few minutes to spare.

As one who's retained his strict Protestant mindset, with a cautious approach thrown at any organized religion, none of the document's contents directly affect my soul or faith. But, I took great interest in the document as my first investigation of this church's reasons for calling my relationship with Zach, any relationship I've had, and my entire sex life "disordered." I traced the logic (again, it's pretty straightforward, if you've time or interest to read the entire document), followed the pattern, and ultimately had to admit: yes, I can see how they (the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops) can come to such a disheartening (and dare I say "disordered"?) conclusion. Homosexual acts are as wrong as contraception, masturbation, and even anal sex -- all deviations of God's apparent "design" for human sexuality.

Of course, I find the entire argument is unsound, unhealthy, belittling, and downright wrong. But, I found the whole process of working my way through that document - through the argument against homosexual acts - an utterly fascinating process. I feel as though I understand Catholicism much more now as both a belief and a hierarchy.

I stick to my principles as much as the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishiops, however. They think I'm "disordered," then fine. But, don't expect me to put any more of my hard-earned cash in the collection plate during Mass. I'm more inclined to use it instead to take my disordered boyfriend out to dinner.

Copycat

An ancient conversation:
Me: "I really love those pictures of Suzie sleeping in the dresser drawer. But, I'm afraid to post them."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "Because then people will know that we have the ultra-cheap IKEA dresser with the flimsy drawers that even a cat, with a few swipes, can open."
pause
Zach: "Is there anything on Earth that you DON'T worry about obsessively?!"
pause
Me: "I resent that! You know very well that there are a good number of things not on this Earth that I worry about as well. Did you know that a Type II Supernova event within 8 to 10 parsecs of our solar system could destroy the ozone layer?!"
Zach: "I'm going to bed."

For the record, it is written in my baby book that my first words were apparently a panicked, "Uh-oh!"

Tolerance

Due to the fact that I have a developmental biology exam tomorrow that has the substantial potential to expand the scope of the term ass kicking, I rose early this morning and, somewhat panic-striken yet still clinging to hope, ventured to the Tully's at the top of Seattle's Queen Anne neighborhood to study cram for a few hours.

I've slowly embraced the concept of studying outside of my home since beginning graduate school over a year ago. I've found that studying in a more public atmosphere depresses some of the detrimental odd study habits I've developed over the years. At home, for example, I've embraced (much to Zach's disappointment) the joys of studying in bed. This oddity has the twofold disadvantage of both frustrating Zach when he wants to sleep (and is met with a bed scattered with pens, books, papers, and my great hulking mass) and frustrating myself since my mind associates the bed with "sleep" more than "studying," and I therefore easily nod off, transforming studytime into naptime. We also lack a coffeemaker at home; thus, caffiene usually arrives in the form of a number of strong, black teas at our disposal. These beverages, however, usually do little to provide a small "productive jolt" that helps me hit the books (or stay awake in bed), and often instead invigorate me to the manic extent that I prance and pace up and down the hallways mumbling to myself about whether Star Trek V: the Final Frontier would be a better movie dubbed in Pig Latin.

I discovered quickly that coffee shops lack beds for me to study (unproductively) in, and provide the much-preferred "productive jolt" of a mild espresso beverage rather than the "mind-warping jar" of Earl Grey tea. In addition to these two advantages, I've found that most coffee shops here in Seattle also have the added bonus of dampening other annoying or distracting habits that also detract from my ability to concentrate. Constant levels of background noise, for example, keep my mind from wandering onto other, unrelated matters. A crowded coffee shop or lazy pub (if you're like me, and can also study while enjoying a beer) is an environment that will also keep me from humming, pacing, or killing time on the computer - all dreadful habits that would keep me from my ultimate goals: concentrating and studying.

Particularly when I've a small mountain of reading for classes to tackle, therefore, I've become a fan of Seattle coffee shops (or, occasionally, lazy neighborhood pubs). Their environments force me into a setting where most distractions upon which I usually rely to decrease productivity are absent or at least dampened.

Unfortunately, most of habits I've accumulated to help me concentrate have proven distracting to others. Most of these oddities, I feel, are rather harmless: picking my eyebrows, shaking one leg (always one!) nervously, crossing my legs, tapping my fingers on a tabletop, or occasionally removing one socked foot from its shoe to wiggle my toes. They're pretty strange, I'll grant you -- but, they aren't habits that I ever imagined would annoy or disgust others. Yet, over the past year, I've picked up passive aggressive cues from my fellow Seattlites in a number of coffee shops and cafes in a number of neighborhoods (Wallingford, Fremont, the University District, and Eastlake) that have proven me sorely mistaken: my habits are utterly abominable and unwelcome interruptions to daily tranquility.

The cues themselves vary from person to person and situation to situation. In one Wallingford coffee shop, a few patrons saw me remove a bare foot from my sandal one spring afternoon, flex my toes for a minute, and reunite foot and sandal. Those patrons quietly complained to a barista, and the barista politely asked me to refrain from "walking around barefoot." In another instance, some patrons at a Fremont establishment saw me picking my eyebrow while reading up on cell differentiation vs. cell determination, and proceeded to have a loud conversation with one another on how disgusting it is to watch people pick their eyebrows. Quite possibily the best example, however, came from a young woman who, drinking alone in a local pub, saw me sitting cross-legged in a chair and, pretending that her phone had vibrated, took the phone out of her pocked and proceeded to have a conversation with no one about how "disgusting" it is when people cross their legs in chairs. Though I hadn't seen through her act initially, I realized she wasn't talking to anyone when her phone rang loudly midway through her tirade.

Since I was raised to "always think of others," I have taken great strides to bottle up these accidental oddities. The benefits of studying in public still greatly outweigh the amount of brain activity I expend attempting to avoid these annoying habits. But, the act of avoiding these distractions is still - essentially - a distraction itself. Thus, today, I sought an environment in which I felt my concentration oddities would be welcomed or, at least, tolerated.

Over the past few months, I've discovered Seattle's Queen Anne neighborhood as a potential haven for the toleration of oddities. My misadventures in this high hill (rising above most of the city) have, to my initial delight, provided ample evidence that Queen Anne residents are a bit off kilter themselves. For example, though the city as a whole seems to encourage pot smoking, but views jaywalking as a degenerate act more reprehensible than pedophilia, I nevertheless find myself stoping every five feet or so while driving down Queen Anne Avenue for spontaneous jaywalkers (who don't seem to be high). I've also encountered a number of drivers in Queen Anne who, at night or during rainstorms, drive with their headlights off. When I, like a proper Midwestern driver, briefly flash my headlights to alert them to this potentially dangerous omission, they joyously wave back, misinterpreting my warning as a friendly greeting. I am also in awe of Queen Anne residents, since I see a vast majority of them out in the middle of winter (and the winter rains) with no coat or umbrella. It's almost as if they seem impervious to the detrimental effects of being-soaked-stem-to-stern-in-cold-water, while I'm bundled up in a thick raincoat, fearing the elements. Queen Anne is one of two neighborhoods in Seattle where Zach and I have encountered homophobic statements tossed our direction (the other being an incident in the University District a few years ago); they weren't comments that made us fear for our safety. But, this incident merely reinforced my ultimate hypothesis: Queen Anne is one nutty neighborhood.

And, therefore, it's a neighborhood I've become quite fond of. While much of Seattle, I feel, is slowly moving towards a far-left culture of conformist compliance and acquiescence of originality and individualism, here's Queen Anne, apparently bucking the trend. Jaywalkers, homophobics, and dangerous drivers all welcome at the top of this steep hill. Besides, Queen Anne is also home to that crown jewel of all Seattle traffic jewels: the seven-way intersection! Individual oddities are all accepted here! Since this realization, I've slowly tried to convince Zach that, should we ever need to move (we are both currently pleased with our apartment now, though), we should surely consider Queen Anne.

Thus, this morning, I ventured to Queen Anne because, being a bit stressed about my upcoming exam, I sought an environment where, I felt, the occasional wiggling of socked feet or the picking of eyebrows would be welcomed or, at least, tolerated. I therefore found myself, early this morning, hunkered over a developmental biology textbook at the Queen Anne Tully's, reading about gastrulation while casually rapping my fingers on the tabletop.

Unfortunately, my brilliant scheme backfired: I failed to account for the welcome oddities of others.

He waltzed in about two hours after me and sought a seat at the same large table I, and other patron, had planted ourselves. His facial hair was a poor homage to Adolf Hitler, though he apparently opted for faded fannel rather than the military uniform of the Greater German Reich. He had a large drip coffee in a travel mug, but also several plastic bags and a backpack which he unloaded on the floor next to me. He then proceeded to unpack his feast from his backpack: a jar of peanuts, a bottle of pills labeled "Vitamin E", a bruised banana, a day-old piece of chocolate pie (the plastic container, from a deli, was dated), a second coffee cup, and a bottle of eggnog. I attempted to turn my attention back to embryonic gasturlation, my eyebrows, and the Tchaikovsky symphony to which I'd been listening, but I could help but notice this man mixing peanuts, Vitamin E pills (in addition to several other pills which obviously weren't Vitamin E), eggnog, and coffee together in his spare cup. I'm not sure how he "downed" the peanuts and pills (since I never heard or saw him chew), but he kept added more to the cup. The smell of the day-old chocolate pie combined with eggnog finally got me, after three hours, to quietly vacate the coffee shop. I'd finished reading anyway, and the other guy at the table had been giving me disgusted looks after he noticed me wiggling a socked foot for a few seconds.

I'll be spending this afternoon at the original pub where the girl had a make-believe mobile phone conversation about how "disgusting" it is to cross one's legs in a pub. I'll be spending my afternoon there because I've come to a sad conclusion about my self and my prospects on this planet: my tolerance of others apparently has its limits... and that limit includes Hitler lookalikes and eggnog.

Sing When You're Winning

What a night. And it's not over yet.

My senators hug. Do yours?

Personal Responsibility

My lectures to my co-workers and classmates about the huge responsibility of voting have fallen on deaf ears for two very good reasons:
1. I'm preaching to the choir. They all already vote, and they all take the act seriously.
2. They, like me and a vast majority of my fellow Washington citizens, already voted at the mailbox.

But, odds are you aren't one stamp away from your duties as a citizen, and can't experience the joys of voting in your pajamas. So, just in case you're faltering from the responsibilities you've accepted as a citizen of the United States of America, and are instead shamelessly gathering to surrender your last shred of dignity at the gluttonous and pathetic trough of apathy:

Some Thoughts on Election Day:

"The common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it."
-George Washington, "Farewell Address," 17 September 1796

"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be."
-Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to Col. Charles Yancey, 6 January 1816

"Vote early and vote often."
-attributed to Al Capone and Richard J. Daley (Mayor of Chicago, 1955-1976)

"The Tuesday next after the 1st Monday in November, in every even numbered year, is established as the day for the election, in each of the States and Territories of the United States, of Representatives and Delegates to the Congress commencing on the 3d day of January next thereafter."
-2 U.S.C. 7 (1875)

“At the regular election held in any State next preceding the expiration of the term for which any Senator was elected to represent such State in Congress, at which election a Representative to Congress is regularly by law to be chosen, a United States Senator from said State shall be elected by the people thereof for the term commencing on the 3d day of January next thereafter.”
-2 U.S.C. 1 (1914)

Still choosing to falter? Then pack up your corruptive indifference and go live in another country.