I’m so grateful for so much. I woke up to a handwritten note from Nick, waiting for me on the desk of the trailer’s little office, which is fully electrified this morning, in the rain. It’s not going to electrocute anyone — I don’t think? — but it is pretty sizzly, when you touch metal parts. It’s a good symbolic reminder that we all become raw voltage, able to injure others, when we lose our spiritual grounding. I’m sure my employers would prefer I get myself to a Tractor Supply and fix that shit rather than pontificating about it in blog form, but it’s still apt. (And I still don’t know how to fix it.)
The note says:
“Hey BABY! Sure do love you bunches!! Today (September 18, 2020) marks our 6 month Hawaii anniversary! 6 months ago I drove a convertible Mustang across the Big Island of Hawaii to pick you up in Hilo. I remember enjoying the scenery and loving the ocean air so much but feeling anxious and incomplete because you weren’t in that car with me. I could not get there fast enough. So much was up in the air for us at that time but somehow I felt so absolutely sure that I was making the right choice. I knew it in my heart and I missed you with every bit of my being.
“We went on to have the dream beach vacation we had always talked about. It seems like no matter what hurdles lay in our way, we always manage to pull through with the best possible outcome — and end up more thoroughly embedded in each others’ hearts as a result. Now, 6 months later, we are closing the gap on making our dream beach vacation our new every day reality! Best possible outcome…and the thing is, there’s not one single other person on this planet that I would want to do this with. Truly, the universe has led us into the most exciting chapter of our lives, and through God’s grace and your love, we get to do it together.
“I am giddy with excitement at getting to have my Hawaii Baby for the rest of my life. I am sad to leave in a couple of days, but I finally feel like we can be apart and I will be happily awaiting our reunion (instead of being a basket case, lol…). I am really glad I can be helpful and take care of the last few things we need in order to get us to paradise.
“I love you so much, sweetheart. We have spent literally every single day together since our Hawaii reunion — and each day just gets better than the last. I feel more connected to you than I ever have and I look forward to watching that bond grow stronger over the coming weeks, months, and years.
“I hope you’re having a nice morning — thank you for getting up so early! I’m looking forward to seeing and kissing your beautiful face and hearing another one of your incredible blogs.
“Happy 6 months, my love, here’s to another 6.
That’s quite a thing to wake up to! And he’s being modest about taking care of “the last few things” — what that actually translates to is, every goddamn thing, single-handedly. When we started this fire season, we didn’t know we were moving to Hawaii. We talked about it all the time — we never got over the magic of our visit in March — but logistically, I mean. And it’s not even as simply as having interrupted our normal lives to do fire season, where there’s this house somewhere, with all our shit in it.
We broke up in March, and then he went out of town because when you live together, and break up, at least one person going out of town seems like a good idea. I stayed in Albuquerque, got laid off with emerging pandemic lockdowns, got invited to Hawaii by a friend who was there for work, and flew out. I mean, that’s female privilege right there — you get invited to tropical locales by other dudes, like, the minute you become single.
I was making my connection at LAX when Nick called me and asked if I wanted to not be broken up, and I was like “Obviously I don’t want to be broken up.” That hadn’t always been the case, but that was the case by then. Nick can be a flaming catastrophe of a toxic pain in the ass, second only to myself, and we each explored every lurking defect of character in our first year together.
I felt amazed, but calm, getting on the plane. His reversal hadn’t, like, “saved” me — it was so far beyond that already. I’d prayed to God, a lot, in the weeks and months before, that we’d pull through, but God didn’t save me either. What did save me was a firm, almost violent, grounding back into myself and my own interests, in the present tense. The past tense was a minefield, not even worth considering, and the future was as much of an unknown as ever, but at least not already populated (pity party? party of one?) by this horrible version of me I’d been dragging around. Choosing to be happy anyway is the most reality-denying, belligerent, nearly aggressive thing you can do sometimes, and I hadn’t been doing it, all the way up until the moment where there wasn’t another option. Abraham Hicks always says this — the doctor telling you that your disease is fatal, and nothing can be done, is the biggest gift you could ever be given, because you’ll finally stop doing all the things that don’t work and do the one single thing that does work. The weirdest thing about this whole experience is that I had the metaphysical perspective to understand the nature of the energies we were flinging around, to recognize the momentum of exponentially increasing negative manifestation, and to know what needed to happen instead — I just didn’t have the strength of alignment to do it. And so I tried everything but that, and nothing worked, and then God didn’t save me, nothing saved me because nothing could. Nothing can save us if we won’t save ourselves, and even knowing that, I couldn’t. So breaking up (death of a dream) saved me because literally nothing worse could happen. There was nothing to be frightened of anymore. I was living it. I was forty-three, it was foolish of me to have ever thought something would work with this younger guy, he was out of my league anyway, I’d been a silly bitch, and now I was a silly old bitch, and the rest of my life would just be a reversion to the perma-single habits and resignation I already knew so well. This whole thing had just been an outlier, some crazy dream that fizzled out, and the only thing more embarrassing than having dreamed it in the first place was the fact that I’d really believed it. And none of the evidence supported it, in fact it all went the other way, and if I’d made this type of mistake when I was twenty three or even thirty three, you’d kind of understand. But no, I was forty three, and I’m sure he’d get razzed at future family reunions — “What were you thinking, bro?” And I’d get razzed — so many ways to mischaracterize him, and I was always so annoyed that people would make those assumptions just because he’s younger and spectacularly muscular and handsome and spent most of his life having a raging heroine addiction he’d only recently emerged from, but here I am ass out of luck and I guess they were right. You never hate people so much as when they’re right. I’d messed with the bull and got the horns. It just seemed like, beyond all the surface level differences, we weren’t ages or even bodies with each other. I felt like a soul, with him, more than I ever had. It think it was real, or it was something, and now I have the rest of my life to figure out what, in hindsight, but I guess right now I’m going to Hawaii. The rest of my life will just be doing things to do them, to put one more thing between me and this, and eventually it will feel normal again.
So I was in a state of peace that had nothing to do with rejection of the basic premise I’d just lived through, and failed at, even in full recognition of how flimsy it had been, because I trust myself at least that much. I don’t know what changed for him, by the time I got to LAX, and I didn’t grill him about it or anything. He just asked, and I said, “Yeah, obviously,” because my inner reality hadn’t shifted. I just got on the plane and thought, wow that’s crazy, and turned off my phone for the flight. I hoped I hadn’t fucked up on his behalf, though. I’d always told him, “I don’t know how long this is gonna work for you. I’ve been through the gamut with dating and I’m right where I wanna be, but you haven’t even started sorting it all out, sober.” I mean, I think loving someone, especially from different places on the life trajectory, means recognizing their best interests even in ways that might not include you. And I still think about that. It’s not for me to say what’s best for him. And I’m not really sure that women his age being a narcissistic dating catastrophe actually represents a good reason to hang in there with me, because there’re good ones. Of course there are good ones. The really good ones aren’t as pretty as men in his league tend to hunt, and the really pretty ones are a little crazy. I don’t really place on the hot vs crazy x/y graph because I’ve got a different destiny that is way weirder. That really hasn’t changed since I was in my late 20’s, where I finally got a little pretty, where I was only pleasantly plain before. I’ve never been pretty enough to roll around like that’s my main jam, but even in my youth I was invisible to about 85% of men, and then 10% of men were interested despite themselves, and then like 5% were just nuts about me, beyond the point of reason. As I’ve gotten older, it’s turned into just the shittiest conundrum, frankly. It feels like settling for either a thoughtful person’s horrible body, or a fit person’s horrible mind. Not many people of any age cultivate both, or frankly either. And I’m like an Olympic Gold Medalist at being my own best companion, plus Buffy, so I’m unlikely to be driven beyond a certain point of dinner and drinks by sheer loneliness.
Nick always felt like home to me — he’s this physical anchor of a person, whether he’s having a good day or not — and I’d always felt kind of homeless, like a traveler passing through everywhere I’ve ever lived, literally and figuratively. They say you marry someone who makes you feel kind of like your parent of the opposite sex made you feel, and that was definitely true of my one brief marriage. Great guy, very much my dad’s same energy. Nick is this entirely different thing that I’ve never even heard of, so the way he felt like home was more like…an animal?
We did this quiz together one time, which I highly recommend. You give some good, deep reasons for your favorite color, your favorite animal, and your favorite form of water or way to experience water. You talk about it, flesh it out, connect it to reasons and preferences.
Then the key or code is this: the color is how you essentially see yourself, your animal represents your ideal partner, and the water represents your sexual self. Developed by an actual social psychologist and captures legit truths in symbol form.
My animal was an elephant, because they’re so strong, formidable, vegetarian, family-oriented, brave, often abused and taken advantage of, because of their strength or their ivory, but truly one of God’s greatest creations of consciousness. They have a sense of justice, and will occasionally kill when that sense of justice becomes enraged. I’m of the opinion that anyone an elephant kills on purpose probably deserved to die, or close enough.
Nick’s favorite animal was, and always will be, a cat. They are extremely loving but quite self-sufficient; they’re beautiful, magnificent but also snuggly and ridiculous, they take themselves quite seriously but also embody such humor and joie de vivre. They are natural athletes and natural lazy bones, too. They’re demanding, they just expect things from you, and it honestly feels really special to be the person they demand things from.
We laughed quite a bit, sitting in the hot tub in our old pre-pandemic gym, about how good of a match we were for each other’s spirit animals, honestly. But in many ways I’m the elephant and he’s the big cat. It changes and morphs. And we’ve had a lot of arguments in that same hot tub, to the chagrin of its other occupants no doubt. We’re a phoenix that has spent a lot of its time being confused about which part of the cycle it’s in, ashes or scraw. (Nick calls all birds “scraws” and all cats “kimps”, and all animals, generally, and some children, “bugaboos”.)
So our Hawaii anniversary, as distinct from the semantical disaster of whatever our original anniversary ever was, IS clear and unburdened, and I had forgotten all about it. Nick’s elephant memory served us well again.
So, I flew to Hawaii, and he flew to Hawaii about three days later, which went over with my friend just fine because that friend married and divorced the same woman twice, for instance, and totally gets that relationships go south and can sometimes be wrested north again, sometimes not. He’s actually become our biggest cheerleader, amid a host of other friends on both sides that have made us feel like we’re fucking up by dating each other. They’re certain one of us is settling but which of us is not clear. My friend, though, snapped a picture of us driving away in the Mustang convertible.
And Nick’s right — we have spent literally every day of the following six months together. That’s pretty crazy. We arrived home from Hawaii, back to our house which had only been the house of broken dreams when both of us left it, separately — that was a crazy feeling — but it wasn’t even as simple as just flying home.
When we got on the plane in Hawaii, there wasn’t a 14 day quarantine for air travelers arriving in New Mexico, and when we connected in Oakland, suddenly there was. Instead of boarding our second flight, we rented a fucking expensive car and drove a fucking long way to arrive by ground instead, obviously to dodge the quarantine. The prevailing view at that time was that the only people dodging quarantine were selfish psychopaths who wanted everyone to die, so we split from the COVID narrative early on. “Spreaders!” That was the actual term being employed. We should have decked out our rental car with cans and confetti, like honeymooners, but with SPREADERS sprayed on in a confectionary font.
At home, we exchanged the rental car for our loaded up pickup and took off again, primarily to spread more of the virus across the United States of course, but to visit Nick’s family on the East Coast as an afterthought. I don’t want to narrate too fast and miss crucial details, such as this one: we drove through the whole night and had to piss rather badly, as it turned out, entering Albuquerque’s city limits. (No DOT had stopped us at the state lines — I mean you just didn’t know, back then.) It was one of those things where we were so close to the airport and rental return, it just didn’t make sense to stop before, when we’d have to gas up the car anyway.
Nick returned from the gas station in a rage. The restroom was closed, due to pandemic. It was broad daylight in the dense city so public urination was sketchy, although we wouldn’t even blink at it now, it’s been necessary so often in the last six months.
So he walked all the way over to a nearby hotel, and then returned from there in a deeper rage. That clerk had also closed the public restroom, due to pandemic. Nick had very nearly tested the theory that it’s only illegal to urinate in public *outside* your pants, in the lobby. I don’t think they can arrest you for peeing your own pants, wherever you are. We casually pondered whether Nick stating that he identified as female would have changed the outcome any. Ultimately we made it to the restroom at the rental car return, which was open for whatever reason.
We actually encountered this in gas stations across the nation, but not uniformly; all the way East, all the way back West, and throughout our travels this summer. Restrooms arbitrarily closed. On our drive between Grand Junction and Flagstaff, between fires on one occasion, we stopped to get gas on the reservation, at a place we’d been to (and successfully peed at) maybe three weeks before. The restroom was police taped off and the clerk told me I had to go outside to the porta-john. I went outside to the porta-john and shit was piled literally up past the seat. I’ve worked the oil fields in North Dakota and never seen a porta-john in such bad shape. I returned to the clerk, told her they need to get their shitters serviced if they’re going to force people to use them, and we peed on some bushes 1/2 mile down the road.
Arbitrary closure of restrooms across the nation was only one of the many perks of the hoax pandemic. Emails between city leaders in Nashville have emerged showing their dilemma in how to justify the continuing annihilation of Music City, USA’s entire bar, restaurant, and venue industry, in light of what were actually very few cases. In these emails, they literally strategize about what they can say to maximally obfuscate the real data. It’s disgusting.
Anyway, the East Coast family visit turned into six weeks, then another two weeks in Baltimore, during which the George Floyd thing happened, then another week across the country back west. I think we spent two weeks max in Flagstaff before heading out to our first fire, and it’s been fire-to-fire ever since, or almost. We were on fires in June and July, when the Seattle CHAZ emerged to give the nation a first taste of exactly how retarded Democrat leaders will encourage shit to get in their own cities. By mid-July, my Seattle-based brother says, “I don’t know where I’m moving to, but I know I’m moving.” By August first, he was starting his Hawaii quarantine, and by the end of August, we were getting our own Hawaii plans solidified, to include my dad.
We have spent every day of the last six months together, and as conjoined twins on a job the last four.
Aaaaand, our replacement guy just got here and I think my blogging time has come to a premature close. Gotta show him around.