2017

New Year's Eve 2016 was one of my favorites. After the insane everything-in-a-year that was that year, it was glorious and perfect to finish it in a town I'd never visited before, on the cusp of a trek out to a beautiful and alien landscape, with a river view, a small Scottish fireworks display, and time to reflect on all the good seeded throughout a tough year. It was quiet, it was meditative, it was perfect - and a good reminder that patience, with myself and with the world, pays off far more than my more-frantic desires sometimes want me to believe.

In the leadup to this NYE, I felt the tug of desire for a similar getaway, the same pull that I had in Inverness when I suddenly felt like driving as far north as I could get in mainland Scotland for midnight. It's an impulse that reflects how I've come to realize I like to celebrate the holiday. While some people emphatically need the party/dance/music/crowd/adventure vibe, something to validate the years as ended and begun in celebration and plenty, I prefer the quiet alternatives suited to thoughtfulness and a quieter variety of joy. Even solitude, sanctified by a new geography and unfamiliar air, suits me better. But this year, I'm glad to be among friends, and will mark the passing of the year surrounded by some of my best and oldest. I'll take my solo moments to breathe, explore, and feel my place in the world on New Year's Day - I've got some destinations marked out and a few things I'm glad to be doing, but mostly it'll be time to take stock and rest in the peace and tranquility of silence and self-reflection.

For now, though, I wanted to repeat last year's ritual and free-write a list of memories that give me joy as the year ends. And so, before I hurry off to a li'l joy-gather, here it be:


First things first, I pulled together a Youtube playlist of my travel/music videos from the past two years here. (Link cued up to the first days of 2017.) I think it's a pretty swell soundtrack, and if you're reading this on a groggy New Year's Day in the mood to daydream-travel, have at it. Now, as to those "the year in good things" memories...

1. New Year's Day. Fresh newness on an empty-roads drive past Eilean Donan castle and through Skye, still probably the most stunning place I've set foot thus far in this life. A perfect balance of occasional encounter and solitude, I couldn't have designed a better start to the year.

2. Sagrada Familia. The interplay of colored lights as the sun swam across the abstract stained glass, the cascading pillars unfolding as they ascend through the light. I don't know how you could stand in this space and not be shaken by it.

3. The surprise and thrill of a fling in Florence, which doesn't need any help to make wandering its streets an exercise in in-the-moment nostalgia and dreaminess. (For real, Florence is an A+ first-date city.)

4. A final brunch in Boston with my buddy Pete, who got me through some of the most difficult chapters of my life.

5. Reuniting with my Tufts crowd in Atlanta, and an excursion to the Puppetry Center where it felt like we reconnected with the giddy delight in performance that got us all into the field to begin with.

6. Annoying my friend Danielle on a night out in Milan at a canalside cocktail bar
7. An 18-hour, hell-for-leather drive from Boston to Chicago with my dad and a truck full of my belongings, talking about our mutual experiences with depression, goofy pieces of pop culture, and the odd shape our lives have taken these last several years.
8. The early-days-in-Chicago, sweaty, crushingly frustrating moment at the end of a house-sit in which I took a temp job paying less than half of my former day job, and knew it was a transitional moment even if it felt like a dead end. This was just three months ago, but it feels a lifetime away.
9. The first time, a month or so later, that I texted a friend to grab a drink, and had them on my couch with a tumbler of whisky less than twenty minutes later, and knew my geography felt right again.
10. A long night swapping breakup stories with Emily at a Turkish grill in Dalston, London, realizing even in the moment how meaningful our new friendship was going to be.

Not Turkish, but eggs, months later.

11. Baking in the sun on the roof of the bus station in Mostar, Kate and I both grumpy about our nonexistent crack-of-dawn bus, but taking only about 20 minutes before I could verbally process my frustration and we could both move on, eventually finding the fun and adventure in a mishap that cut Plitvice Lakes out of my travels.

The Grumps.

12. That perfect moment of "God of Loss" coming on the radio as I wrote in the cafe at the Museum of Broken Relationships on the anniversary of my divorce
13. Walking the cobbled streets of Paris to the skittering mandolin strains of "Harrison Ford" by Darlingside, which I did not stop playing the entire week I was there.

14. Crying my eyes out at Coco
15. Climbing to the Oyster Shed on Skye on a damp, gray, foggy morning and soaking in the gloomy atmosphere

16. Solitary climbs to the Old Man of Storr and elsewhere, feeling as if I had the entire island to myself save a handful of sheep roaming free

17. Meeting the llama from whose fur (wool?) my Scottish host had made the winter cap I now wear
18. Arriving at Kate and Stuart's to a pile of ridicule over the various pajamas and slippers I'd had shipped to them in my desperately sublimated desire to have a home of my own

19. Accidentally throwing my phone in the toilet (it's complicated) and having the ensuing weekend of tech-free, pre-cell-phone living turn out to be one of the best, most present ones I've had in a while.
20. A perfect, mouthwatering slice of cream cake in Lake Bled

21. Dinner with my Berlin host Brian in a dance hall that had been abandoned since the Weimar era, and which retains its scars from the war, with bullet-ricochet divots splayed across the wall and gorgeous, shambly mirrors and chandeliers
22. Mosque visits in Mostar and Vienna, the former a surprisingly moving meditation on architecture and space, the latter marked by a great conversation with an Imam the day before he left for his pilgrimage.

23. The gleeful mess of the Deutschestheater's Ubu
24. Choking up at United Flight 232 at the House Theater, realizing that stories about humans being kind and caring to each other zap me right in the gut these days.
25. The adrenaline rush, joy, and stumbles of my first performance as an actor in something like four years.
26. Being in the massive crowds in NYC at the Women's March, which for all its sometimes-disappointing ripple effects does seem to have indicated a seriousness of intent that might get us through this nightmare.

27. The occasional getting-jumped-on moments scattered through the fall of my return to Chicago as I ran into my people for the first time (this kept up to as late as December, which was amazing), gradually regaining confidence in the idear that I'm #good, and not something to be put up with. (Weird how that stuff can hang on you after the fact.)
28. On the same note, finding out that Steppenwolf's Front Bar space has now joined Clark St and Lincoln Ave as spaces that it's real hard to meander/hang without running into a delightful human being I know, or several.

29. Helping Emily go through her box of Chicago stuff, sifting through ephemera dating back to her childhood and watching all of it play across her face.
30. So many amazing dog pets from all my Chicago friends' new hounds.

31. The zen comedy of arriving in Brussels during a baggage handler strike, almost immediately realizing I had no way to control the situation, and laughing as I tried to figure out what form to fill out in the hopes of someday seeing my luggage again. (I did! Belgians are great.)
32. My first shop visit in Paris, to a cheesemonger stall near my flat, discovering that I still had just enough French (and decent enough accent) to make it through without the leap to English
33. Perfect weather for a morning-long walk along the canals in London, walking beyond the point of any reason.

34. A miraculous Christmas Eve snowfall just as the last family members got home, followed by two days of near-perfect family time. Probably one of the best Christmases in the past... 5 years? More?

OK fine this is my neighborhood a few days after Christmas, it was all extremely pretty.

35. Regent's Cafe in London, whose owner knows your name by the time you finish your breakfast, and which is incomprehensibly cheap for its location

HIS name, by the way, is Marco.

36. Roti King in London for the most stunning flatbread magic I've ever eaten (with my hands, sopping up curry in my hotel room like a wild animal); the realization that my tastes have shifted toward things like this, just perfect unpretentious food done brilliantly at bargain prices with no fuss.
37. Wondering, the afternoon of my Muppet Party, if it would be my last, a little bummed about some last-minute cancellations... and then in no time at all being reminded of how fun it is, what a joy it is to gather my disparate friend-groups, and to learn that it matters to other people and not just me... Well, as I say, I'm relearning a lot of things this year.

38. The apparent decision that I'm going to meet Kate (and maybe Stuart?) every summer for SOME kind of travel, and that our friend Anne might join. Fun people are fun!
39. Spontaneous Viennese sidewalk haircut. ALWAYS GET THE SPONTANEOUS VIENNESE SIDEWALK HAIRCUT.

You know... as with last year, the list could go on (and probably should) but there's an evening to dash off to, and ultimately any year has probably got a small miracle a day if you go hunting for them (and are in a place to see and experience them). So let's wrap it up here.

Basically: this year started very strangely, unsettled and woven through with anxiety. (I still find it hard to believe that the Women's March happened this year.) And while globally it's hard to say the year has been good - for every Doug Jones win there are dozen to hundreds of ways that the world is manifestly rotting - as a human, I'm beyond grateful to be ending it with a sense of security, purpose, and clarity. I don't know that I've felt much in the way of stability since... spring 2015, probably, and if the year had contained nothing but this seed of stability that I feel as it closes, it would merit all my gratitude and joy.

So anyhow. I'm off to celebrate with some lovely people, and then starting 2018 with a solid unplug before I dive into the next chapter. More on what this (I'm already kind of excited) year holds on the other side. Til then, try not to let auld acquaintance be forgot, willya.

Happy Holidays!

Gang, one of the best things about being back in Chicago is being back near family for the holidays. A short commuter rail ride out for a couple of my favorite days of the year - that's awful swell. We were lucky to have a white Christmas, and for the whole fam (including my sister's thoroughly excellent partner) to make it in for a little bit. It's been yammery and joyful, and I'm reminded how lucky I am to be a part of a family that talks, that loves well, and eats well.

Settling House

After the jump, some settling-in navelgazery!

What's Good

I'm hoping, in the last weeks of 2017, to have a few listy/year-in-review posts on personal/cultural levels. But in the meantime, in the spirit of gratitude journaling, a brief snapshot:


Tonight, I spent the evening making a huge batch of chili con carne for a party I'm throwing this weekend - my eighth annual Muppet Christmas Special party - having spent the last few nights baking cookies and bonbons. I'm writing this in a comfortable armchair by the glow of a Christmas tree in an apartment that already feels cozy and is beginning to feel settled and homey. I'm drinking a wee pour of Jura Scotch brought by a visiting friend who gave me a solid weekend of heart-satisfaction. I've been lucky enough to land employment that pays the bills, and to be near enough to friends to make plans on the spur of the moment, to feel loved and supported and connected to the world outside myself. It is a good time, and in the dark of the night and the glow of the tree, I feel hope and joy kickin', jumpin' and scrappin' like ungainly goats.

I'm still chipping away at the dissertation, and I have days that fatigue, depression and anxiety nip at my heels, that I get frustrated at our reactionary politics. But there's so much foundational support close at hand these days, and I've been through enough wringers by now - to ride those out. And so, I'm happy.

And I'm lucky! Things are good. This too will pass - as will whatever comes next, and whatever comes after that - but in this moment, I'm mindful of the great good given to me, and eager to keep nudging into the future to try to repay the world around me in kind. Here's hoping your holiday season gives you moments to take stock, hold up the things that give you joy, and know that you're loved and essential for the world to be what it can be today. (Oh, and if your life's set up for this, find yrself someone nice to snuggle with and cuddle up somewhere that makes you happy. What's the point of all this cold if not to carve out a little warmth in the midst of it all?)

Remains of the Day

After the jump, a political post! And sort of a literary one! What kind of blog is this these days anyway!

I've had the great pleasure in working my new job of a gentle commute with some reading time built in. Since my dissertation work requires more sprawl and often translation work that isn't train-friendly, this has necessarily become pleasure reading time, for which I'm wildly grateful. One of the first books I took on was Kazu Ishiguro's  Remains of the Day. I'd read his Buried Giant, coincidentally, right around when he won the Nobel Prize, and quickly snapped up a few others. (Shout out to the Sulzer Public Library and libraries in general!)

As I suspect may be true with others, I mostly knew the book from its movie adaptation, and not even really from that so much as from the movie's cultural reputation as a Merchant/Ivory production. Not having seen it, I'd filed it away as a sort of period-set "repressed British brooding" piece and figured I'd get to it eventually. The novel does have a heartbreaking portrait of a man profoundly out of touch with his emotional life to an almost pathological degree, but what I wasn't expecting even slightly was its political content.

Without getting too detailed about it: Remains of the Day is in part about its protagonist's gradual awareness (though: does he ever fully understand? It's not entirely clear) of how he absented himself from the great political debate of his day, namely the treatment of Germany between WWI and WWII. The novel is deeply sad in capturing both the cruel postwar treatment of Germany and the perverse manipulations of German agents winning over British sympathizers during Hitler's rise. But Mr. Stevens, the figure at the novel's core, simply... stands by. Some of this is related to Ishiguro's portrait of the serving class in pre-war Britain, some of it is his incisive deconstruction of British stiff-upper-lip mentality, but it was rather shaking to read it in the middle of the Trump regime.

Stevens, as a butler, feels it is not his place to form opinions or offer his voice on the pressing issues of his time, instead believing it his duty to offer dignified service to his master, to whom he owes deference. Much of the book's undertow consists of his grappling with whether his master was in fact worthy of this deference, or whether he did the right thing, though Stevens never quite brings himself to ask these questions.

I keep thinking of Remains of the Day as the daily outrages of the Trump administration roll out. There's a sense of hapless resignation that feels common to both pieces: "what can I, one person, do in the presence of such monumental events?" I've seen this expressed many ways by others; some, like Stevens, simply say that because they don't know enough to consider themselves an expert, they're not sure they ought to have a voice; I've seen some Christians lean on verses ("render unto Ceasar" and instruction to set your mind on higher things) as a justification for, essentially, silence.

And while I can understand the impulse - my midwestern polite genes are unbearably resilient - Ishiguro's novel puts forth a compelling case for silence as complicity, for taking no stance as enabling accommodation.

So this is where I want to close this quick thought: especially if you live somewhere with a GOP representative or senator, please make your voice heard. You may be laughed at, you may feel awkward, you may be made to feel ignorant (let's not forget that some people - Peter Roskam is a great example - have become fast studies in lying to their constituents to defend indefensible votes, so don't take this last bit too seriously) but speak. Identify the issues that animate you, and let your representatives know that you are paying attention, that you care, and that you expect the right thing from them. (Eventually, you'll probably have to vote them out of office, but that's for another day. Right now it's about attempting to constrain the attempt to dismantle the twentieth century through public pressure.)

Not sure where to start? Hey, it is an administration of unendingly wretched venality! Here's a few places you might want to be heard, limited mostly to national issues (though local issues matter a lot, and you might in particular for instance want to talk to your local politicians about racial justice and police misconduct):

1. Trump's repeated attempt to install a Muslim travel ban and his unacceptably-frequent attacks on Muslims. He's openly racist on this and other fronts, and many GOP congresspeople have opted for silence in the hopes that they won't offend anybody. Ask them to take a stand and let them know your disappointment if they don't.
2. The tax bill. A lot of this is esoteric and creates winners and losers, but either version of the bill will necessitate huge cuts to Medicare and other social services due to the sequester. The GOP has managed to mostly dodge those questions, but you can let them know that you expect better, and that you will count their vote for this bill as a vote to attack a lot of necessary government services. (Bear in mind, the Senate and House versions have to be reconciled and re-voted on, so there actually is a narrow, bad-odds window to try to push back on this.)
3. Education. One of the things the tax bill will do, at least in the House version, is triple the tax burden on graduate students by taxing their waived tuition. (Think living in Boston on $20k/year is fun? Try being taxed on $50-60k at the same time.) They're now, per the WSJ, working on ending loan forgiveness programs for students who go into public service or nonprofit work. These moves will functionally demolish higher education in America, which perhaps it's obvious I think would be Very Bad, unless you've built a party that can only continue to function if their public grows increasingly ignorant and uncritical.
4. Oversight. It's hard to remember in the century that's passed since the Obama administration, but Congress technically can exert oversight over the executive branch! (Look up "Benghazi" sometime, if you want to see what it looks like when the GOP pretends to care about this stuff.) There's a lot to ask for here: I would start by asking them to conduct hearings into the conduct of, let's say, EPA chief Scott Pruitt, who has basically turned his agency into a fire sale on the environment, and who might doom our children/grandchildren to an uninhabitable planet? (For a bonus, if your representative claims to be a Christian, see how they think the Parable of the Talents might apply here.)
5. Sexual abuse. Congress has, as we're learning, a terrible procedure for reporting sexual harassment or assault; as a body of predominately powerful men, it's not surprising that we're starting to learn of what one can only assume is the tip of the iceberg. Ask your congressperson what they are doing to address this systemically - not whether they want Al Franken or John Conyers to resign or Roy Moore to be elected (although if your representative/senator disowns Moore without saying a vote for his opponent would be the right thing to do, they have in fact taken no morally meaningful stance) but how they want to protect victims, to make it safer and easier to report and be believed. It's hard to believe a party whose leader has bragged about serially raping women will do anything real about this, but it's worth demanding it of them.
6. Serve the poor. This one is huge for me personally. If your representative professes Christian faith, press them on whether any of Christ's teachings on our responsibility to the poor and marginalized have an impact on their legislative work. If their answers aren't to your satisfaction, let them know. It's decades past the point that Christians ought to have held their alleged standard-bearers to account, and while I'm mindful that there's always the worry of hypocrisy - we're all broken and fail constantly to live up to our charges - it still seems of value to ensure that people don't profit from a pharisaical public pronouncement of faith that has nothing to do with their behavior.

Finally, if any of you are from Roskam's district or similar, and my rhetoric feels overheated or unfair to your representative: let's talk, truly. With Roskam in particular I've been incredibly lit-up about researching his voting record and his statements, and feel pretty strongly about his lack of legislative moral character (obviously) but I'd love to discuss all these things in a way that's perhaps more effective than me hammering out a post online that you read at home while vaguely grimacing and wondering when Pat got to be such a socialist crank.

OH AND ALSO: read Remains of the Day. It's really, really, really good, humane, and incisive, beyond its political overtones. There's a lot to love!