New Year's Midnight

 

We hear a lot about "participation trophies." I don't know that I ever had many thoughts one way or another about them, but after 2023 got through chewing me up and shitting me out, I am beginning to see the merits of honoring people for showing up and simply enduring. Because by December 31, 2023, that was me--showing up, enduring, doing my best. (Much like 4th grade gym class, now that I think about it.) Last night, when I stood with my friends and counted down until the clock hit midnight, I cried. Partially from grief, but also, partially from relief that finally, 2023 was done.

To any curmudgeon who says, "whatever, January 1 is just another day, and there is no fresh start or re-set when we go from one year to the next, and you can't say that a specific year is cursed and the curse is lifted when the new year steps in," I say: I pity you. I choose fiercely naive positivity and hope that yes, things can re-set in the New Year, if only because those of us with resilience choose to re-set, and lean into hope.

Anyway: what made 2023 so awful? Well, several things, and funnily enough, some of the awful is tied to the good. There's ugly shit, too. And then, there are the takeaways. 

The Bad

-Starting in January of '23, I commenced the process of looking for, and purchasing, a home. Now, I've done this once before, with my was-band, the artist formerly known as Mr. Melissa, and I had enough memories of the last time to know that it was, and remains, a hellscape so unspeakably stressful and awful that Dante couldn't even bring himself to include it one of his nine circles. This time was no different, and the process, along with the move and the getting-settled part, and then submitting to the fact that I had committed to a money-pit, dominated my life literally 365 days of the year. 

-A lot of people died. Parents of friends, friends' pets, colleagues' relatives, an immediate member of my own family. More on that later. 

-Shortly after I moved into my money-pit, otherwise known as Cozy Grove, I injured my shoulder. 8 months later, I am about 98.5% healed, but it slowed me down, and it fucking scared me. Infirmity will curb my independence, and I hate the thought of that. 

-Insane shit happened at work. Not because of my bosses or colleagues or direct reports, but because of the current culture wars, which are targeting your friendly underpaid neighborhood librarians. I won't speak much about it here, but I'll just say: if you care about democracy, and access to information, and freedom of speech, and parents' right to choose for their own child what they should read, pay attention to what's going on in your local library. 

The Good: 

-I had the privilege of buying a home. And I had family and friends who turned up, time and again, to fill my home with their support, both practical and moral. 

-The people I work with are magical, funny, smart, compassionate, amazing people, and they have helped me build up my confidence and have helped me to expand in creativity and resourcefulness. 

-On a gross, humid, hot day at the end of June, I saw Ms Taylor Swift perform her Eras concert in Cincinnati. It was an intense experience (I wasn't one of the people who blacked out, thank goodness) and I cannot remember another time in my life when I have been surrounded with so much joy, love, and excitement. 

-After years of deliberation, I finally decided to listen to the encouragement of one of my oldest friends, and I became a book reviewer for Booklist. The pay is negligible when you break down the hours you spend reading and writing, but hey, if I am gonna read, I may as well make a little money doing it! And it's helping me to hone my writing skills, and to read more mindfully. 

-I forgave someone who I have held a grudge against for the last two years. I don't know if they know, or care. It doesn't matter--forgiving them released me. 

-There were countless moments where I cuddled my purring cats, laughed at an off-colour joke someone made, had tipsy rambling conversations with friends, poured my heart out in an email, heard a song that moved me, watched the clouds roll across the sky, relished a bowl of popcorn, listened to the cherished sound of my sisters' voices, took pride in yet another home project completed, breathed a sigh of relief. These moments--not the big thrills--are probably the best parts of 2023. Except for...

-In May of 2023, after 16.5 years of non-contact, my father reached out to me, and he and I reconciled. We had deep, rich, long phone conversations over many summer nights, and he and I were our best selves for and with each other. And I had a living parent again! Which me leads me to...

The Ugly: 

-In July of 2023, my father suddenly passed away. 

The Takeaways (at least, what I think works for me) :

Endure. Laugh. Adapt. Find the silver lining. Accept help. Ask for help. Pick up the phone when your loved ones call. Get your will together. Forgive, if you can. Call the plumber as soon as you know there's a leak. Start wearing a coat, goddammit. Cook delicious meals. Try. Write a list of things to look forward to. Be honest about where you're at, mentally and emotionally. Be humble. Apologize. Pay attention. Pause to listen for the thunder, and the wind, and the rain. (I almost was going to say, "Wear sunscreen. If you know, you know.") Love, as much as you can give--when you give away love, it never diminishes, only multiplies. Remember--no one is grooming your kid, and definitely not the overworked librarian who just wants all people to have the information they need. Appreciate each day where your body works as it should. When you tell your family "I love you," know that it might be the last time you can tell them. 

 Stop wasting time. We have less of it, every minute that passes. 

"Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you."

September Highs, September Lows

September was a rather odd month. When it was good, it was very, very good. And when it was bad...well, we will get to that later.

It certainly started out very very good...I vacationed down to Florida and spent a week hiding out in Middle Sister's home, surrounded by all of her boho swag, as I read books, drank wine, napped, and played with these two incredibly adorable creatures. Meet my new fur nieces, Stella Blue and Betty White: 

Back home again in Indiana, I got on with the business of living life, which basically for me means working and keeping my eyes peeled for evidence of fall. It was not long in coming; the trees at one of my places of work started to show their colours fairly early on (see the brushes of yellow and orange?) and now that we are into October, they are really starting flame into a robust scarlet colour. 

Of course, this is the perfect time of year to lurk about at Farmers' Markets, so one bright Saturday morning, Dr. J and I ventured forth to the Broad Ripple Farmers Market (which, by the way, is in no way at all located in Broad Ripple, but whatevs) and I came away with a nice little haul:

I'm experimenting with mixology a little bit, and trying to make a new cocktail recipe each month. September's experiment was a raspberry gin fizz cocktail; it was so good, but definitely a fussy drink to make: 

Later in the month, my work's Staff Association arranged a ball game night downtown at Victory Field; I went with my colleague/longtime dear friend Ezz, and her family, and enjoyed a pleasant late summer evening watching the Toledo Mud Hens trounce the Indianapolis Indians. Shameful. (Also, side note: why on earth do ballpark hot dogs taste so damned good?)

The very, very, very best thing that happened in September: a beloved friend of mine down in Bloomington, who went through some very shitty stuff last year, got a fantastic job offer in the place where he wanted to move to. So in celebration, he and I and a colleague of ours joined forces one cool Saturday evening in his backyard, where we sat around a fire and caught up on a year's worth of news, reminisced about times past, looked forward to times to come, and...well, drank a heroic amount of PBRs. 

The morning after...this was only one corner of the yard. 

Not pictured: all the other fallen soldiers. 

As evidenced by the picture of Victory Field and all of its masses, I've obviously pretty much 100% rejoined the land of the living, in terms of COVID avoidance. I'm as boostered as I can be, and while I don't go around licking doorknobs or making out with random fellers in the Broad Ripple bars (much to both their relief and mine), I do go to theatres and pubs and restaurants and hop on airplanes and go to sporting events...and concerts, too. I've been to a couple of concerts this summer, and on the last day of September, I went to the Rock on the River event in downtown Indy to see the Head and the Heart in concert. It was a perfect fall evening, and it was a sold-out concert, and it was all I could have asked for. 

Of course, there were a couple of significant low points in September. The first one was the death of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II*. This was a blow, and one that I think many of us weren't prepared for. Although, why? For fuck's sake, the old bird was 97. It was her time to go, and for goodness' sake, she was probably happy to be released from all this nonsense. But it still seems strange to think of a world without her in it. She's always been there, or at least it seems. Over the course of seven decades, countless politicians and premiers and prime ministers have popped in and out of power, each of them reflecting changing views and values and standards and backgrounds. And then in England, there was Queen Elizabeth. For so many of us, she had simply always been there; perhaps not overtly influential, but a sober and stately and unchanging figurehead whose presence helped define and guide a nation. 

And meanwhile, now we have this dude. Anyone else find that the words "King Charles" kind of sticks in the craw? 

God save the King, I guess. 

And then, finally, there was Hurricane Ian. 

While I've got no love lost for Florida, 45% of my life (thus far) was spent there, and so the crazy old place does hold a (grudging) space in my heart. To say nothing of the fact that people I love still live there. So when I caught wind of a hurricane barreling towards Florida, I was worried to distraction. And rightly so, as it turns out. My sisters and their partners and their homes came through more or less unscathed, but of course the same cannot be said for a lot of the whole sorry state...

Ah well. That's one of many reasons why I left the state of Florida 18 years ago (as I like to joke, I was pretty much chased out of the state by Hurricane Charlie, back in '04.) I will always worry for my sisters, but I will always bless the trapped animal I was at 24, when I basically gnawed off my own leg to get out of the trap of Florida which had ensnared me since I was 5 years old. Granted, I moved to the Republican stronghold of Indiana, land of corn and potholes, but trust me, then and now, Florida makes Indiana look like the motherfucking promised land. But we all like what we like, eh? I'm just glad I like corn and Republicans and seasons and tornadoes more than Disney and Republicans and sunlight and hurricanes.  

Photo of a library in central Indiana, taken at roughly the same time
Hurricane Motherfuckerwas making every Floridiot re-examine
both their life choices and their insurance policies. 

*Yeah, I'm a monarchist, at least with the British Monarchy. This is not to say I am pro-Empire. Deal with it. We all have our quirks.

Here We Come To A Turning of The Season (Summer into Fall, 2022)

 Sometime around the last third of July, I decided that August was going to be the beginning of fall. 

Admittedly, this was probably 'round about the time that I was starting to get delirious from acute Summer Reading Program Sickness (There are only so many times you can utter "Yaaaaarrrr! You get ALL YOUR PRIZES! Dig into the treasure chest, enter the raffle, choose your book, and don't forget about loving books!"within a one hour period without this occurring), so I wasn't necessarily using all of my brain. But the bit of my addled brain that was working...kind of...came up with this reasoning:

1. Because Summer Reading Program Ends July 31st, due to children going back to school around August 1st...

2. And thus, reasonably, When children go back to school, it's called "The Fall Semester"

3. Therefore, August 1st is the Fall Semester...

4. In conclusion, August 1st is the beginning of Fall

Does it make sense to any person other than a perimenopausal children's library-manager-bureaucrat whose brain has been absolutely fried by SRP shenanigans, and whose body is absolutely drained by the heat, dear god the heat? Probably not, but whatever. It made sense to me!

And what do you know? August 1st rolled around and...things got better. The first half of July seemed to be filled with a lot of sunny, humid, 90+ degree days; the second half of July was maybe a little better, especially with the SRP finish-line in sight. And August...It wasn't immediately or consistently cooler those first few days, but after that....August has been absolutely charming. Dog Days? No such thing! For the last ten days or so, we've been enjoying days that aren't too humid, and that don't get past the low 80s, and plenty of rain here and there to get rid of the flash-drought-stricken grass. (And also, let's not discount a  more sustainable workload in my professional life.) I've been sleeping with my windows open at night; I've been contemplating going outside for recreational purposes. I've been trying to rebuild my social life and Get Out There, more. And in the mornings, it has almost felt cool. In the evenings, it feels...golden. Gentle. Those are the words that come to mind: golden, gentle evenings, filled with the feeble chirps and creaks and sing-songs of crickets and cicadas, making their racket in defiance of the encroaching empty barrenness of the winter and the dying that inevitably comes with it.

(Okay, I know it's not so anything poetic as summer insects screaming against the coming death; it's got something more to do with them trumpeting their final attempts at mate-reproduce-marry-fuck-kill.)

But here is the thing: each late summer, as I listen to the cicadas and crickets begin to protest their impending doom...I hear an echo of my own encroaching end. I can't be the only one, can I? I can't be the only one realizing that the death of summer is a somehow significant milestone in another year slowly marching its way to its end. The death of summer is the approach towards the fallow months, where I, at least, am prone to taking stock, remembering, honouring my labours, thinking of the people I've met, loved, talked to, yearned for, laughed with, held close, advised, supported, dismissed, scorned, reviled. (Yes, there are even a couple of those.)

These late summer days, as well as the coming autumn, are beautiful gifts, really--and sad gifts--an annual reminder of our own coming harvests and decays and ends, and an annual recollection of the fruitful, endless numbered days that will one day run out. But until they do run out, I'm just gonna sit here drinking my Pumpkin Spice Latte coffee that I found at Wal-Mart last week. 

And if you are judging me for shopping at Wal-Mart, whatevs. Clearly you're not a basic bitch with a poetic soul fighting a losing battle against inflation. 

Book-It List, August 2022 Edition

I had a whole post typed up about how, at some point over the heartbreak and trauma of the last two years, I somehow manage to lose my Reading Groove. That is to say, my voracious appetite for books somehow withered away to a skeletal echo of its previous voluptuous self. Thanks, Corona.

But then I thought, who the fuck wants to read about that? Many of us found our concentration shot during the fallout of the last couple of years. Many of us had too much else going on. What-the-fuck-ever. We keep buggering on.

Fortunately, I think my Reading Groove is starting to come back. Books—which are, perhaps, my oldest and truest friends—are starting to appeal to me once more, and I am trying to deliberately cultivate that interest, coax it back into being. What better way to do it than to create a monthly Bucket List of Books? A Book-It List, if you will: 

ik

I'm not a book blogger--hell, I'm barely a blogger--so I promise I won't be nattering on at great length about all the titles on my bedstand right now; nor will I be doing any sort of formal reviews on here. Instead, I figure I'll just hit a few of the highlights about my reading goals of the month...

First, and obviously most importantly, The Art of the Occult, by S. Elizabeth. 

Full disclosure: I read this book a couple of years back, but the author S. Elizabeth (AKA Eldest Sister) is releasing her second book The Art of Darkness next month, and I figured I should re-read to get me in the mood for her next literary work. Although, I won't be reading The Art of Darkness until we are balls-deep in the middle of Spooky SZN.

Next up! The Last Wish and Sword of Destiny, both by Andrzej Sapowski.

I'm not always a slut for fantasy novels, but when I am, it's usually because there's a delectable bit of man-meat lurking within the pages. And if you've seen The Witcher televisions series, which is based on these books, you'll know the man-meat of which I speak: 

Behold! Geralt of Rivia, at his cleanest. 

Alas and alack! There are only two seasons of The Witcher out as of right now, but happily, there's a whole stinkin' series of books just waiting for me to devour. 

And finally, The Midwest Survival Guide: How We Talk, Love, Work, Drink and Eat...Everything With Ranch, by Charlie Berens.

Look, just because this book is considered "regional humour" doesn't make it untrue. (Especially about the Ranch dressing, AKA "Hoosier Sauce.") The author is Charlie Berens of TikTok and YouTube fame, and his writing is every bit as delightful (and mostly wholesome, which, wtf? Who am I even?) as his video productions. Out-of-towners, if you ever plan to visit me, please read this book first...and be prepared for "A Midwestern Good-Bye." 

Obviously, I've got a bunch of other stuff in my reading pile,  including some youth fiction, as well as the picture books I look over when I'm working the desk, but since there's every chance I won't read my way to the bottom of my August Book-It List, I'm sure as shit not going to blog my way to the bottom, either. 

Happy Reading, Comrades!

 

All That Wilts Shall Bloom Again

An Artist's Rendering of Me on July 31. 
Source: An Amazon vendor that has absolutely no business selling or marketing these stickers to non-adults. 

Summer Reading Program. 

If you know, you know. 

I thought I knew. I have, after all, worked in libraries now for 16 summers; more summers than not, I was a front-line worker. For four of those summers, I managed people who were completely immersed in it. And of course, I had my good friend and veteran Children's Librarian, Abby Johnson, to blog and share firsthand accounts of the programs, the intensity, the added desk shifts, the madness. The fucking madness of it all. I thought I knew. 

Comrades, I knew nothing. Not until this (distressingly hot) summer, my first in a 100%-immersed-in- Youth-Services-management gig, did I truly learn what it means to live through Summer Reading Program at a public library. And when I say "live through", what I really mean is "endure". Slog through? Melt and droop and ooze through? Whatever. A post I made on Facebook, relatively early on during Summer Reading Program, sums it up pretty well:  

And of course, what have I to complain about? It was the librarians and assistants in my department who I feel did the lion's share of the work: they are the ones who planned and staffed the programs that drew in hordes of children and families and caretakers. I just provided all the desk staffing and moral support I could and tried to keep the schedule in order and helped with program cleanup when I could and tried not nag folks too much about their timecards. But whatever, we all played our role in what, I'm told, was a pretty successful Summer Reading Program. However, by early July, I was dragging myself home every day, fairly wilting from the heat and my ears still ringing from the incessant hollering and screams (I promise, it's a Children's Department, not a torture chamber) and not able to do much except hunker down in my chilly, darkened living room, pulling faces at the cats and trying to remember a time before or after Summer Reading Program. 

It was fun. Fun and funny and frenetic and frickin challenging in all the good ways, but I am not going to pretend even in the slightest that I'm sorry that it's over for another 10 months or so. Because, while my wall calendar and desk calendar are still open to June 1, Summer Reading Program officially ended on July 31. RIP, Oceans of Possibilities. We'll catch you on the flipside, in your resurrected form sometime next May. 

It's actually kind of fitting that the first day of Life After Summer Reading Program starts today, on August 1. Some of my witchywoowoo friends celebrate Lughnasadh on August 1; it is the first of the harvest festivals, one in which we harvest the fruit we had sown in the spring. We celebrate our harvests knowing that the dark winter is coming, reminding ourselves that all that falls shall rise again. Including us. And including Summer Reading Program. But for now, a fallow time. A time of rest. 

So, okay, it's a bit of a stretch, but you get the idea. Summer Reading Program has passed for another year, and hopefully the year marches on to a cooler, gentler time, and those of us who wilted under the heat and work of summer can rise and thrive, at least briefly, once again. 

Except maybe the flowers I tried to grow on my patio this summer. They're fucked. 

Same As It Ever Was?

Some people have their profound realizations and best ideas when they're taking their morning showers. Me? My life-changing epiphanies usually happen when I'm driving to work. Now, these epiphanies don't happen often (I'm usually too busy singing along to the Dropkick Murphys or Taylor Swift to have too many conscious thoughts) but when they do happen, they tend to be doozies. 

The last time it happened was January 8, 2020. I was driving to work, and feeling...restless, I guess? Perhaps a little trapped, a little bored. While I love the safety and steadiness of a predictable life with minimal risk, it can get occasionally...oppressive. By then, I had been living in Indiana for four years. I had a job that I loved, but I was perhaps starting to feel as though I wasn't challenged enough, and that Bloomington had simply gotten too small. I found myself wondering, What if I am still doing this in five years? Driving down this same road, heading to the same job? And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I wouldn't want that. I was happy enough at the present time, but I wouldn't be forever. I knew it completely, and I knew it immediately, and the next question came without bidding, Where DO I want to be 5 years from now? And the answer came just as quickly, and with just as much certainty: "I want to be living in Indy." I had always wanted that, or at least since 2005, and really, Bloomington was only ever supposed to be a temporary soft landing until I got my bearings. But I had fallen in love--with my job, my organization, my colleagues. And so I had been hooked but good. 

Later that day at work, a colleague mentioned that the Indy Public Library was hiring in a position that sounded perfect for me. I was tempted; god, I was tempted. I thought about it, and talked it over with my mentor, and he watched in quiet amusement as, before his eyes, I undertook a fierce but brief mental struggle and ultimately decided not to apply. 5 years from now is not NOW, after all. But still...I made sure to document it in my memory journal that night. 

And then the pandemic happened. Lockdown, quarantine, social distancing and isolation and the collective ongoing trauma that simultaneously blasted us apart yet in some ways, drew us together. But mostly blasted us apart. Two years later, and most of us still seem to be stumbling about, trying to make sense of things and rebuild even as the world persists in re-falling apart around us anew every morning. Two years later...

Two years since that day that I promised myself I'd live in Indy in five years...I find myself living in Indy. So, a bit ahead of schedule, I guess? The pandemic changed so much in my life; during the first year of it, pretty much all but two of my closest friends moved away from Bloomington. The nature of my work changed; the organization changed profoundly, as well. And I think I changed, too. I'm more tired and jaded and hopefully more compassionate than I was two years ago. I've realized that I'm less of an introvert than I thought (or, at least, not to the point where I can withstand two months of little human interaction). More than ever, I don't like my time being wasted (unless I am wasting it, on my terms) and I have gotten really really good at not hanging about when I'm not wanted. I've changed jobs, I've changed address, and that's quite enough upheaval for me for at least another five years, thank you very much.

Finally, I am in the city I have been dreaming about for seventeen years, living close to some very old, dear friends. I live in a old townhouse that's showing its age (who isn't, these days?) and perhaps because really, this dream is a pretty modest one, I have not yet found myself disappointed in it. (Incidentally, I've found that this is how I have found a lot of contentment in my life: expectation management.) So, here I am, in Indianapolis, finally. And I find that I'm pretty frickin grateful it didn't take me 5 years to get here. 

(My commute is three times as long as it used to be. But hey, bright side--that's three times as much time on my drive to work to have some really great revelations and epiphanies!)

Days to Dust

There's no good way to preface this, so I'll just say it how it is: last month, shortly after the summer finally gave way to fall, and after the most awful 2 work weeks of my life, I saw that my cat Indiana had developed a sudden blood clot, and I ultimately had to make the heart-rending decision to euthanize him. 

I did what I could for him--as soon as I saw something was wrong, I texted my vet friend, Dr J, for advice. Ten minutes later, we were out the door. I drove 80 miles an hour along country roads and through construction zones to get to the nearest after-hours vet, all the while hoping that something could be done. I didn't know how bad it was until the kindly vet tech told me our limited options. And then I did the next right thing I could: I decided quickly to end Indiana's suffering, and I said good-bye. 

We got him when he was just a half-grown kitten; he was my gift to my then-husband (was-band) for our one year anniversary. But Indiana Jasonville Bruecks became my cat very quickly--so much so that I got custody of him in our eventual yet inevitable divorce.

 
He was a neurotic goofball and a total dope. He had a big personality, and never knew a stranger. He had massive paws and tiny ears and a beautiful swooping tail. He was a marmalade all over, except for a funny little black dot on his paw. He loved to attack fresh sheets when I was making up the bed, and he would happily commit murder for just a little more wet food. When he was happy, he didn't purr... He huffed and puffed and drooled, like a pervvy old man making the best of obscene phone call of his life. "You're a mess," Middle Sister used to tell him, and he would just huff and drool in blissfully contented agreement.

 
He was in my life for 10 years, and was hale and hearty right up until that last, godawful day. I thought we would have many more years together, but I was so wrong.

 
We assume we will have our fur companions forever, but we won't. And even if we did, forever still wouldn't be long enough.

   

"There will be a hole in my heart forever

That will be the shape of you

And darling when your heart was breaking

You were breaking my heart, too."

-Sofia Talvik