The Death of Imagination

This is a birthday for the books.

As per usual, I hemmed and hawed about what I wanted to do. Fortunately, two things happened recently that made the decision easier: one was that Clint and I got invited to a pool party in Indiana and I enjoyed riding with him there and back as much as I did the party itself. The second was him telling me that he was maxed out on vacation accruals and needed to start taking random days in order not to lose more PTO.

Putting those two things together, I came up with the idea of a day trip across the border to Wisconsin, batting around various ideas (Madison, Genosee Depot, etc.) before settling on Milwaukee. It's a city I've been near rather than to--always either visiting the baseball stadium on the south side of town or our college friends in Glendale and once a friend staying near the airport. And this despite how very accessible it is from Chicago and how much there is to see there. In particular, the art museum. I'm a huge Calatrava fan and there's so little of his architecture in the USA that it beggars belief I haven't made time to visit. With that as the keystone, it was easy to round out the trip with a little lunch beforehand and a shopping run at the public market on the way out of town.

On a tip from a friend, we went to Tupelo Honey in the Historic Third Ward. It's apparently an outpost of a North Carolina chain but regardless the fried chicken was legit--so much so that Clint mused ordering takeout for dinner as well. I wasn't impressed by the dessert choices, however, so I googled "frozen custard third ward" and begged Clint to take me to Purple Door. When it comes to ice cream, I believe less is more, so I was chuffed by the "split single" which offered two flavours in one scoop. When I saw the cone, however, I asked, "Is this a split single or a double?" It was a lot but it went down so so easy.

As for the museum, it lived up to all my expectations. The main hall is simply gorgeous; we spent the first fifteen minutes just gawking and taking photographs. The galleries themselves feel slightly like an afterthought, tucked off to one side as they are, but I really appreciated how many lovely spaces are tucked in among them. For instance, in the modern wing, there's a room on the southeast corner with maybe three sculptures and spectacular lake views that I can imagine become a favourite spot if I visited more often.

As for the collection itself, it's not bad. Lots of solid works by less-knowns like Gabriele Münter and Conrad Felixmüller mixed in with lesser pieces by better-known contemporaries. We were singularly unimpressed with the contemporary wing but the design gallery was well-populated and very interesting. (Apparently I missed a spectacularly ugly Victorian couch by not visiting the pre-20th collections but, as they say, always leave something for the next visit.)

Clint was pretty tuckered at this point and waited in the car while I did the market. I was slightly disappointed to find out that it was more food hall than food market, with only a single vendor each for such things as fresh meat, fresh fish, and cheese, but the standards seemed pretty high. I left with no cheese curds but "salmon crack" and a couple of spreads for dinner on the deck.

Driving in and around the city was wack. Apparently the POTUS was speaking in a factory nearby so there were odd street and lane closures all around. On top of this, the streets and lanes are poorly-labeled and some of the driving is impressively bad. (To quote Clint, "Illinois drivers are bad but at least there's a logic to what they do.") Just as well that next trip we hope to take the train and spend more time getting around on foot or by trolley.

I came home to a beautiful bouquet from my sister sitting on my welcome mat. Later, as I was sitting out on the back porch having a cocktail with the neighbours, my brother called and I brought him up to speed on our travels, which caused me to miss the call from my neighbours coming over with frozen custard to treat me with. Mom forgot to call again but I was in such a state from the successful trip and the scores of good wishes on FB and in my DMs that I hardly noticed. Looks like we've got a good blueprint for next year!

So, since nobody asked for them, here are my chief reactions from my first visit to Maui:

1. It's overwhelmingly rural. I mean, duh, but I didn't really think through what this meant in practice (such as cattle wandering around on the road to Hāna). Also, the contrast is so stark. There are stretches of the Honoapi'ilani Highway in West Maui where the makai (shoreward) side is solid homes and the mauka (upland) side is open pasture all the way to the slopes of the volcano. I was even told that the island supports the largest cattle ranch in the USA and, while I find this hard to credit, much of the interior doesn't have enough soil to support much else.
2. It's small. Again, duh, but the maps don't really give you a sense of scale, not like driving along Route 37 and realising you can see both coasts at once (a mere 12 km as the myna flies) will do. But--because of (1)--a 100 km can easily take two hours or more. By the end of the trip I learned to estimate travel time effectively but it was a steep learning curve.
3. It's incredibly diverse. Once again, duh, but nothing brings this home like a drive up and around the mountain. Monday we decided to go up to the summit of Haleakalā on a lark after hiking a bit in the ʻĪsao Valley, completely forgetting about the accompanying 20°C drop in temperature. On the way you see tropical rainforest, high desert, and just about everything else inbetween. I despaired of ever learning the name of more than a handful of the enormous number of plants species that thrive there.
4. Hawai'ian is ubiquitous. I didn't expect this. After all, Maui isn't Niʻihau. But there's hardly an Anglo toponym on the island. Not only were the historical names preserved but new ones continue to be given. And there's a widespread effort to use orthographically correct spellings (like the ones in this post); apparently the Park Service (which also produces bilingual brochures) made them official in 2000 and others are following suit. Even some imports commonly have Hawai'ian names there (like passionfruit, universally known as lilikoʻi).
5. Locovorism is in. I imagine the islands' close connexions to California are responsible for this. Regardless, I was struck by how often the word "LOCAL" appears on signs; even the most humble food shacks proudly displayed it and food stores segregated native produce from imported.

I wish I knew why my body hated traveling so much. I understand that hurtling through the atmosphere is unnatural and stressful but I've literally been doing it since I was an infant and you'd think I would have adapted to the point where I didn't suffer like this. But it still does and I feel awful on a day I should be feeling good.

After all, Postillero came over for fun times last night and everything went well. He wanted to try some light S&M so I tied him down; when I brought him off, he hit the wall. I'd call that a success, though I would like to chat a bit more about it later. I thought about mentioning to him beforehand that this would be the first time I'd be using the restraints with anyone but Monshu but I thought that might be offputting and if it did trigger an emotional overreaction then I could always explain at the time.

A lot of people seems to get a sounder night's sleep after sex. I typically don't. I usually ascribe that to having some weirdo in the bed, but Postillero never stays the night (pet allergies) and yet I still wake up at 3:15 in the goddamn a.m. so something else is going on. I didn't finish packing or preparing the house after he left so I did this morning, which made me late.

I also forgot something. I told myself that, worst case scenario, I could always leave work early and swing by the house instead of going directly to Midway. Then I told myself that, no, what would happen is that I'd forget something useful but not essential that wouldn't justify the detour. That thing ended up being zinc lozenges. I also forgot to check in for my damn flight until 5:30 in the morning so I'm in the last boarding group on a fairly full flight.

Whine, whine, whine. In short, it's been a string of small things that make me just want this day over with already. I'm really looking forward to being back in a proper bed reminiscing about last night and thinking about what else we might be able to try. It's interesting (and useful!) to already have such a trust level with someone I'm not crushed out on.

I won't say that hosting Monshu's West Coast memorial "closed a chapter" of my story of mourning or anything since life is not a movie. Rather, it confirmed my impression of where I'm at already. In the twelve days I was on vacation, I only cried three times: when emptying the last of his cremains into a smaller bag for eventual scattering in Europe; when listening to Arcade Fire's "Afterlife" while high as fuck; and when viewing a Japanese cultural display at the Burke Museum. I had plenty of other moments of, "I wish he were here for this" but they passed over me without completely shifting my emotions.

I hadn't originally planned to keep any ashes at all. His sister requested a small portion for an artist friend to make into glass beads and it occurred to me that it might be nice to keep a bit myself in case I ever make it to the Clan Campbell seat in Scotland. I knew I'd spill some in the transfer so I chose a spot on their property of significance to me: the foundation of the former deck attached to his mother's old house where I knew he'd spent many tranquil mornings over the years during his annual trips to see her. We'd stayed in the house during my only other trip out there (for her funeral) and I insisted on taking a walk through it, though it's only used for storage now.

It was beautiful perfect day at the overlook in Crescent City where we did the scattering. I hadn't slept well (and got myself so dehydrated that I passed out waiting on a lighthouse tour), which tends to make me lachrymose, but I was dry-eyed even when comforting his sister. I thought I might need to tap someone else to read the Heart Sutra; I got through it easily. (Not only did I practice it for the previous memorial, I read it aloud sometimes for comfort when I have a bad night.) It touched me to discover later that Monshu's nephew had insisted on his boys (7 and 10) being present; I think it was probably their first memorial service.

But probably the best indication of where I'm at now is, sad to say, my impatience with other widows. I nearly left one online group because of a dust-up over conceptions of the afterlife. (One of the members accused me of being deliberately cruel.) At the recommendation of a Friend, I joined another, but I scroll past the posts. Everyone seems stuck at stages I passed a long time ago. I keep reminding myself this is because of how privileged I was: plenty of warning, Monshu cogent until the end, easily fulfilling his last requests, etc. Regardless, I find myself without much to say to those in deeper grief right now.

We'll see what it's like when I see my brother's mother-in-law this evening. She's coming up on her one-year anniversary. Her family didn't want her to be alone while they visited the Grand Canyon so she's visiting bunj and e. and she specifically requested to spend some time with me. I suspect it will be much different relating to someone about these things in person.

I hate to make another placeholder entry, but so much happened during my twelve days in the PNW that it's hard to know where to start. Compounding the issue, the chief reason for spending a week in Seattle was to catch up with some good friends I made via LJ and I KNOW THEY'LL BE READING THIS. bitterlawngnome and danthered made jokes about it from the first night we were all in the house together.

What a house, btw! I arrived at twilight in a Lyft not really knowing what to expect, so when the driver asked, "This is the place?" I said, "I'm not sure" and doublechecked the address before venturing forward to ring the doorbell. It's a gorgeously-preserved midcentury modern manse on a lot-and-a-half in a hillside residential neighbourhood of Seattle with spectacular views of Lake Washington, the Cascades, and--on good days--the Mountain[*]. Nothing would draw you there if you didn't know any residents, but once ensconced I easily found excuses not to head downtown. The bus service is pretty good given how far out it is, but an hour on a nice bus in a lovely neighbourhood is still an hour on a bus.

Still, I did make it out, taking in such sights as the Seattle Public Library, the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture, the Pike Place Market, the gaybourhood, and the UW Bookstore, each of which was rewarding in its own way. I was especially thrilled to get a whole day with clintswan and it was a long one, beginning with a ferry ride from downtown Seattle to Bremerton about midday and concluding with a Lyft back from homo hotspot Diesel more than twelve hours later. (I'm not sure how much of my money Lyft captured during my week there, but it was no trivial amount.)

It was a good trip for my personal growth. In particular, I made the decision to accept Monshu's family as my own, which was anything but a foregone conclusion before heading out there. I understand why he had the conflicts with them that he did, but I don't have to keep carrying around the baggage for him; I can accept them for who they are and form relationships on that basis.

I also had my first experiences with edibles. I'm not sure I really enjoyed the intensity of them but I learned that even a massive dose isn't enough to make me lose control, which is reassuring and makes me more willing to experiment until I find something more comfortable. Even while "high af", I'm reportedly coherent and still able to pack and plan for my imminent departure without forgetting anything important. Go me!


[*] Rainier/Tahoma

Contrary to my expectations, the detective assigned to my burglary case actually did call to ask some questions. Despite the apparent professionalism of it all, he still thinks it's more likely to be have been a juvenile who was just looking for some stuff he could turn into quick cash rather than an attempt at identity theft (although he did admit the possibility of the latter). I hope he's right, but I know I'll have to proceed as if he isn't anyway.

This all makes me a little more nervous about leaving for Santa Fe tomorrow, but I suspect the anxiety will fade as I get caught up the thrill of a new world. Oh, right: I forgot to mention that I'm flying out to see my furry farmboy, didn't I? It is a little unlike me to be this impulsive, but this is the year of living just a little more dangerously.

He himself admitted that he was surprised I'd already agreed to come out, even though he'd been urging me to from the start. I laid out my thought process for him, which was basically:

Is this something you would enjoy doing? It is.
Is this something you can afford to do? It is.
Is there a good opportunity to do this coming up soon? There is.
So why wait?

The "good opportunity" is his ex being out of the house. Maybe I would find that weirder if Eyefields hadn't been in the same situation when I met him this time last year. It must be a bugger, having a place you love and not being able to buy out your former partner. Worse, from what he told me the other night, the former partner seems very much in denial about the end of the relationship. In fact, one of the chief reasons for seizing this opportunity is that his ex reportedly asked to be included in any meals and outings during my visit. Now that would be too weird.

Of course, there's always the possibility that I'm being lied to about the current state of the relationship. At a gut level that seems unlikely. Moreover, it seems like a difficult lie to keep up over a four-day weekend, so the visit strikes me as a good way to suss out the lie of the land.

The other reason not to wait is, well, things change and people lose interest. I alluded to this in our conversation but didn't come right out and say it. It seemed like when I was younger I was more likely to carry a torch for someone for years and years. Now I increasingly find myself saying, "What did I see in him again?" I'm much less worried about "getting carried away" and more concerned with striking while the iron is hot since who knows any more how long the fuel is going to hold out.

If the Winter Solstice were my holiday rather than Christmas, then I know just how I'd celebrate it: keep every light in the house burning to banish the darkness, invite a bunch of people over, and stay up until dawn telling stories. But destroying my sleep schedule is the last thing I need to be doing while dealing with the stress of travel and family. As it is, I didn't even get six good hours sleep last night. Will I be able to catch any z's on the train today? Who knows!

I walked into the house alone, dragging both roller bags since monshu had stopped off at the market to buy milk and other absolute necessities and expecting the cat to meet me. He didn't. Some minutes later, as I was walking through the upstairs hall, I heard a plaintive meowing from the lower level. He was sitting just outside the master bedroom, where the old carpet gives way to the new, and didn't move until I scooped him up.

Everything looks healthy (except the dill sprouts, which I didn't expect to make it) but none of it has taken off the way I thought it might during a week of good summer weather--plenty of rain and sunshine--in Chicago. Scooter was knackered, having spread most of the mulch (to a depth of four inches!) himself. He proudly took me on a tour of the beds himself. A plant may have been crushed here or there, but I'm hardly going to hold that against him on balance. The condo prez still has done nothing with his plot; it'll be solid catnip in a month if he doesn't do something.

Since it was too late for a nap, the Old Man and I made cocktails and sat on the porch. (I don't need to tell y'all how much he was savouring not having to go down fifteen floors for a toke.) After a while, I began to nod off, so I went inside and blasted tunes on the computer--something I missed almost as much as Internet porn. When he asked about dinner during the slog back from Midway (two changes and nearly two hours), I quickly came out with the idea of the local Thai restaurant. Even slapping together sandwiches sounded like too much work.

It was a decent travel day all told: twenty minute delay taking off, but they still took us out of the line at security and ushered us through the pre-check. monshu and I kept disbelieving that we didn't have to remove any articles of apparel and I didn't have to opt out of a scanner for once. We were through in ten minutes, giving me time to buy some water and then get into an engrossing conversation with a lovely greyhaired couple from the resort. (I'd befriended the wife hoping it would give me a crack at chatting up the hubby later, but it hadn't born fruit before we had to leave. Greek-American, ex-military, fills out a shirt nicely. Sorry, where was I?)

And now here I am, ten minutes to read the background e-mails before my first meeting. Feh.

I suppose a day when my hay fever is raging is a good time to talk about what I saw blooming there and here, before and after I came back. For starters, this is the most topsy-turvy weather I can recall in ages. Every day I spent in St Louis was colder and wetter than the corresponding day in Chicago. Saturday, for instance, it was ten degrees warmer (6℃) here than there and mostly sunny as opposed to overcast and drizzly. When we went into the mine on Friday, it was warmer in there than outside. This wasn't true during the middle of the week, but that's when I was in Arkansas anyway.

The weather down there could hardly have been better: highs in upper 70s (mid 20s Celsius), clear, and dry. We never turned on the AC in our room, we just propped the windows open (no mean feat since there were no counterweights) even though this meant letting in a surprising amount of road noise. The only night this didn't really work was the last and paradoxically the coolest; apparently, it was also the most humid, and the fans were doing a terrible job of bringing in outside air, so it got awful stuffy.

Dad complained about the inaccuracy of meteorologists but they got one thing absolutely right: a week and a half beforehand, they predicted that a massive "pneumonia front" would push in on Thursday, bringing plunging temperatures and lots of rain, and that's just what happened. The high that day didn't even reach 50 (10℃) and visibility went to hell. On our way to the Cliff House for breakfast that last morning, I feared we wouldn't see a damn thing out the windows, but it was far enough down from the summit that at least you could cast your gaze upon the valley.

As you'll recall from my whining, when I left Chicago, we were finally seeing spring arrive: daffodils, forsythias, and hyacinths with tulips, magnolias, and bluebells on the verge. In St Louis, most of the flowering trees--particularly pears, cherries, and redbuds--were already finished, but to my delight there were still plenty of dogwoods (both pink and white) to be seen. Also lilacs and azaleas, with iris and peonies in the bud.

Given the difference in latitude, I expected the Ozarks to be as far out ahead of St Louis as St Louis was relative to Chicago. But the difference in altitude (258 m for Jasper vs 142 m for St Louis) must've made a difference because there were still dogwoods to be seen in the wild, although obviously past their peak. Dad thought we'd be coming during a lull between the forest flowers (which are early spring bloomers) and the prairie blossoms, but there were actually plenty to be seen: mostly phlox, but also wild iris, pussytoes, fire pinks, jack-in-the-pulpits, spring beauties, honeysuckle, violets, rue anemones, and several species that we weren't able to identify at all. (Dad forgot to pack his field guides.) Also one mayapple still in bloom and one columbine just opening.

The gardens in town were dominated by Dutch iris. One house in particular had at least a half-dozen showy varieties in full bloom. (We returned with camera in hand, so hopefully Dad will post his pictures.) We also saw azaleas and pinks and the first of the roses. Most impressive of all, perhaps, was a massive rosemary plant in the inner court of the inn, with its tiny purple blossoms. Hard to imagine that the day after we left, it was barely above freezing and the weather service was reporting a "wintry mix" for town and actual accumulation to the west--particularly seeing as it was one of the more pleasant days Chicago'd seen so far this year.

The warmth and sun combined with the weeks of rain before really paid dividends when I returned: tulips filled all the borders and cherries and pears were at their peak in Ping Tom Park. Forsythia which were only just starting before I left are fading and leafing out. On my street, the bluebells are in full bloom along with the kerria and the viburnum is starting. The sorrel in the garden is huge, as is the celery plant left behind by the Other Gay Couple; soon we'll have purple clematis and I need to get my act together if I'm to make woodruff syrup again before it blooms.

Okay, starting to get that mixtures of anxiety and excitement that typically hits a day or two before a trip out of town. Hope it subsides soon so I can get some damn sleep. I chatted with Dad a bit and it sounds like we're mostly on the same page. I'm relieved to hear that we're only looking at five hours travel the first day. That sounds like too little to me (how long did it take to reach Ha Ha Tonka? wasn't it at least three?), but I still want to get an early start so we'll have plenty of time to scout out motels before nightfall.

I'm committed to embracing the roadtrippiness of it all. When's the last time I just got into a car and headed off to someplace I'd never been before just to see what it was like? Well, basically never. I don't drive, my partner doesn't drive, and I only seem to date planners anyway. It will be Broadening. It will be Good For Me. And, with any luck, Dad and I will still be on speaking terms afterwards.