Musings on the 14th of February

 It’s been a while since I’ve posted any of my writing here. I’ve been so focused on my essays for class that I haven’t done much introspective writing. 

Today I don’t know what I'm going to write. It’s 11:36 p.m. on a school night when I’m starting this. I certainly won’t be done until the morning of valentine’s day. I should be in bed and I should be asleep but There's just some things that I need to get out there and into the world.  I've got a lot of thoughts right now none of them are particularly constructive or good but maybe this rambling text will become something coherent by the end of it.  

I guess the first thing on my mind is that I feel like there are people who I should be able to call my friend and that I would maybe like to call my friend but either I'm not putting in enough effort or they just don't like me or who the hell knows. There's just not that connection there and there's something missing. It makes me feel bad even though I know it shouldn't make me feel bad. And that’s the worst type of melancholy cause it sticks in your teeth and digs at your gums until you bleed and there is a faint taste of iron in your spit. But it's just as much their fault as mine, at least I want to think it is. Because it also makes me feel bad for my friends who are there for me. Who don't make me question where I stand with them and that I know that I can trust. It feels like it isn’t fair for them that I'm questioning my friendship with others more than developing our friendship. 

I think another part of it is that I tend to have these Cycles. I start hanging out or interacting with a group of people and you know things start off good. I like the people, they like me and then I start getting overwhelmed. And when I get overwhelmed I shut down and when I shut down I retract, pull back, isolate. Then through no fault of their own they move on and they keep connecting and forming those bonds with each other. Meanwhile I'm just not engaging in that group and that means that I fall out of the circle.  

It's been, at this point, over 750 days since I last went on something that I could call a date. That has been kind of hanging around me. That I haven't been able to have that type of connection in a long time. That's just how it goes though there's some context in there and most that has been during a pandemic that is devastating this country. But such a round Milestone number of days, and the realization that it's over 2 years. That just has just been staying with me. Because I know that my value isn’t determined by that. But maybe those 750 days are a monument to the realization that there's work that I have to put in if I want to live the life I want to live, and if I want the people around me to be able to live the type of life that I think they deserve. 750 days it's a hell of a lot of days. And this isn't to be on any sort of incel bullshit that women don’t want to date me cuz I'm a nice guy or bullshit like that. And I certainly don't want pity or anything like that. I understand that the problem isn't in the women that I am interested in. I'm not concerned about being dating material or anything like that. I'm just concerned that I’m not where I'm supposed to be and it's causing issues. I can't be in the right headspace to pursue that type of stuff if I'm not happy where I am and if I'm not willing to put in the work to be happy where I am. It’s a very realistic possibility that I go another 750 days before I go on another date.

I always, always, always try and remember that history is for the living. It really truly is. I guess I need to remember that love is for the living as well and that relationships are for the living and that I need to live. I need to do what is necessary for me to finally take the leap. I need to breathe in the air and smell the flowers and take the steps that all lead me to wherever I'm going. There is a proverb that “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” I think that's the biggest thing. Maybe a streak of 750 days ends with a single step. Or maybe a single sentence, who knows. 

I don't exactly know what the right term for what I'm going through is. Could be alienation, could be seasonal affective disorder finally coming around and kicking my ass like it always does. I might just be here, writing through a sad moment. That's okay. I hope that when I go to bed and I wake up in the morning and I just go throughout my day that I'm going to feel better. I don't think there's any guarantee of that, but maybe the hope for it is all that I need. 

Happy Valentine's Day y’all. 

With Love, Aaron 

The Beginners Guide To Chumbawamba

Chumbawamba, photo from Getty Images 

The last few years/months have seen something of a renaissance for the archetypical one-hit-wonder Chumbawamba. Many people online have realized just how rad chumbawamba was. Their music was radical and political, their non-music antics just as brash as their lyrics. If you’ve only ever heard the one hit Tubthumping, this is the place for you. If you can chant along about getting knocked down and getting back up again, but have never heard Dance, Idiot, Dance you’ve come to the right place. If you know the weird creepy album art of a Baby Doll on a Bright Green background, but don't know about the album art that's a woman actively giving birth, then welcome. This post will break down a bit about Chumbawamba’s career, make suggestions about where to start with their music, as well as offer personal recommendations for songs I enjoy. 

A brief Chumbawambography 

For those who don’t know, Chumbawamba had one massive hit with “Tubthumping” in 1997 which reached #2 in the UK and #6 in the US charts. The album it was on, “Tubthumper,” sold over 3 Million copies. 

Many people view Tubthumping as something of an anomaly of Chumbawamba’s career. It was their only majorly popular song, it wasn’t indicative of their musical style, and it was a deviation from the strong political messaging apparent in their other works. Though the viral popularity of Tubthumping was a deviation from the rest of their extensive discography, those other two sentiments don’t hold up when examined more closely. 

Chumbawamba’s musical style was incredibly varied throughout their career. I generally group it into three broad styles. Those categories are Punk-Pop, Dance Pop, and Folk. 

First, they started off with an experimental punk-pop style. This was exhibited in their first few albums: From their debut How to Get Your Band on Television, to their next 3 original albums Never Mind the Ballots, Shhh, and Slap!. The latter half of their album Swingin’ With Raymond also fits into this style, though it certainly sides more on the punk side of punk-pop. 

The Punk-Pop morphed into Dance Pop with the group’s most popular albums: Anarchy and Tubthumping. As well as their next three original LPs, WYSIWYG, Readymades, and UN. The aforementioned Swingin’ With Raymond also features a couple of songs on the first half of the album that match the upbeat pop of this time. This era provides the most pushback to the idea that “Tubthumping” is a stylistic outlier in Chumbawamba's career. Hard hitting, upbeat songs that are easy to jam out to are abundant in this period. 

The band’s final era was their folk era. The first folk-adjacent songs appeared in their collection of english rebel songs. Most of the first half of Swingin’ With Raymond also falls into this category. The band’s last handful of albums: Singsong and a Scrap, The Boy Bands Have Won, and ABCDEFG all fall into this category. These all feature melodic and incredibly catchy songwriting and performances. 

Despite the stylistic variation of Chumbawamba’s vast discography, there are two main trends that run through the entirety of the band’s work. First being the heavy use of samples, often from bizarre origins, and the second being biting, heavily political, and brash lyrics. Tubthumping isn’t as biting or brash as some of their other works, but it does have political characteristics. The album liner notes for the song make it clear that it is a declaration of joy, of drunken bliss in spite of the bleak nature of the world. Joy is a political action when the established system feeds off of our alienation and is empowered by our apathism. Even if Tubthumping wasn’t particularly political, it would not be the only song by the anarchist band that didn’t live up to the highly political standard of their music. Songs like The Morning After, Be With You, and Home With Me, to name a few, are more romantic and heartfelt than they are political. 

Where to Start if…

Not sure where to start your dive into the vast world of Chumbawamba’s Discography? This section will give some suggestions on where to start based on what you like or dislike about Tubthumping, musical genres, and the world as a whole. The suggestions are not exhaustive, I’m sure I’ve missed some perfect examples for each category. For that I will defer to the handful of people out there who are more well versed in Chumbawamba’s discography than I am. There are also many more categories that I deemed unfit for publishing, so if you want more suggestions and recommendations, feel free to DM me on Twitter @aaron_2718. 

You LOVE Tubthumping. 

If you really love the most popular Chumbawamba song ever, here’s where to start. First, if you haven’t already listened to the non-radio edit of the song, do that. The original adds a bit of flavor and feels more like a regular chumbawamba song. After that, give Tubthumper a full listen. If you don’t have time for that, listen to Amnesia, the second song on the album. Other songs with similar vibes include Jesus in Vegas (WYSIWYG), She’s Got All The Friends That Money Can Buy (WYSIWYG), We Don’t Want to Sing Along (UN), and Mouthful of Shit (Anarchy). 

You think Tubthumping is too pop and want something more Punk

If you want something grittier that really kicks you in your chest, I’d start with The second half of Swingin’ with Raymond, starting with the song All Mixed Up, though you could maybe skip Waiting, Shouting. Further, Mary Mary (Tubthumper), More Whitewashing (How to Get Your Band on TV), and Bad Dog (Anarchy) are all more in the Punk vein. Also check out any of the albums mentioned in the paragraph on Chumbawamba’s Punk-pop era of music. 

You think Tubthumping is too pop and want something more Folk 

First, check out the paragraph on Chumbawamba’s Folk era. That will guide you to the albums Singsong and a Scrap, The Boy Bands Have Won, and ABCDEFG. All of which are primarily folk songs. Some specific songs from those albums: Underground (ABCDEFG), Laughter in a Time of War (Singsong and a Scrap), Buy Nothing Day (UN) and Word Bomber (The Boy Bands Have Won) are all good places to start. Songs not from those albums that might scratch that folksy itch include Rebel Code (UN), 

You’re looking for good feminist music

Chumbawamba has written quite a few excellent feminist songs. They are about legitimate women’s liberation and not just wishy-washy bourgeois feminist girlboss anthems. The songs This Dress Kills, Not The Girl, and This Girl, off of Swingin’ With Raymond are all classics. Bad Dog (Anarchy) and Mary Mary (Tubthumper) Both cover the unrealistic expectations and pressures put on women. Compliments of Your Waitress (The Boy Bands Have Won) and Georgina (Anarchy) are both about women taking power back from abusive people in their lives. 

You’re looking for love songs

The Morning After and Love Can Knock off of Swingin’ With Raymond, Home With Me (Readymades) and Be With You (UN) are all fantastic songs to listen to when you’re yearning for that special someone. Following You (UN) and When Alexander Met Emma (Singsong and a Scrap) both tell beautiful stories of love blooming in radical movements. 

You hate elections and electoral politics 

Never Mind the Ballots is the perfect album for any election year. Additionally, songs like This Year’s Thing (Anarchy), Love Me (Anarchy), and Amnesia (Tubthumper) are all deeply critical of the expectation that bourgeois politics will change anything. 

You really hate Margaret Thatcher

Chumbawamba wrote a whole EP about Thatcher dying, sold it on pre-order, and then once Thatcher finally kicked the bucket, sent it out to everyone who ordered it. The EP In Memoriam, Margaret Thatcher is available on youtube. The song So Long is an absolute must for anyone who hates the Iron Lady. 

You hate cops and fascists 

Oxymoron (Swingin’ With Raymond) and Don’t Pass Go (Readymades) both expertly point out the hypocrisy in policing. Enough is Enough (Anarchy) is all about shooting fascists, and Chumbawamba puts their own spin on classic anti-fascist anthem Bella Ciao (Singsong and a scrap). 

You love sick guitar riffs

Not straying far from Tubthumping, the songs Mary Mary and Creepy Crawling (both on Tubthumper) have incredible guitar parts that are bound to get stuck in your head. Bad Dog (Anarchy) also has a very gritty riff undercutting it. 

You are deeply disturbed by suburbia 

You’re going to want to listen to the songs Ugh Your Ugly Houses (Swingin’ With Raymond), Smalltown (Tubthumper), and Celebration Florida (WYSIWYG). 

Personal Recommendations

Now for my personal favorites of what Chumbwamba has produced, as well as chumbawmba-related media. These are purely suggestive opinions and I’m sure somehow, someway, this is going to piss off some chumbawamba superfan I’ve yet to have the pleasure to meet. Anyways here we go: 

Albums 

UN: My personal favorite of Chumbawamba’s albums. I think it accentuates the best parts of chumbawamba, the high energy and highly political songs. I think this is the most complete album from start to finish in Chumbawamba’s discography. 

Readymades: This is probably one of Chumbawamba’s least popular albums, but everytime I listen to it I find something new to admire about it. This album also features one of my favorite songs that I’ll get to in just a moment. 

Swingin’ With Raymond: Another often overlooked album in Chumbawamba’s Discography. The format of the album, broken into two halves with drastically different styles, “Love it” and “Hate it” (sometimes referred to as Love and Loathe), works for me. I like the sharp turn from folksy pop songs to hard-hitting punk. 

Anarchy: The second-most popular chumbawamba album after Tubthumper, and deservedly so. Anarchy was one of my first introductions to the band beyond Tubthumping, and it’s no surprise the album got me hooked. There is no lack of great catchy songs on this album. 

Songs 

Jacob’s Ladder: Off the album Readymades, I generally consider this my favorite Chumbawamba song. It is just an incredibly beautiful song that always gets me bopping my head and swaying about wherever I am. 

Hull or Hell: From The Boy Bands Have Won, this is another genuinely beautiful song. The lyrics never fail to strike home and put me in a wistful mood. 

Pickle: Chumbawamba’s last studio album ABCDEFG has some absolute gems of songs. Pickle is one of these. A gentle piano melody in harmony with lyrics about the nature of music. 

Mouthful of Shit: My favorite song off of Anarchy, this song just rocks. It’s loud, it’s brash, and it gives absolutely no fucks. There’s not much I can say other than go listen to the song!

When Fine Society Sits Down to Dine: In a similar vein as Mouthful of Shit, When Fine Society Sits Down to Dine is all about human waste going places. In the case of this song, the crown jewel of UN in my opinion, is all about pissing in the wine of high society. A classic Chumbawamba song with a classic Chumbawamba narrative. 

I Want More: Probably my favorite song on Tubthumper after Tubthumping and Amnesia. This song is all about the obnoxious entitled nature of the upper class. Just another way of saying fuck you to our class overlords. 

Learning to Love: One of the best songs from A Singsong and a Scrap, is a gentle melody all about taking action and not waiting for your lover to come back from the war. It is a subversive take on the emotional ballad sung by a young woman waiting for her lover to return from their military duty. It’s truly an incredible song. 

Jesus in Vegas: From WYSIWYG, the follow-up album to Tubthumper is full of upbeat songs with catchy lyrics. Jesus in Vegas is a perfect example of that. Everytime this song comes up on a playlist I’m instantly energized. It’s hard not to belt out the chorus to this song. 

Other Chumbawamba Stuff 

Chumbology, a Chumbawamba Anthology Podcast: This deep dive tackles Chumbawamba’s entire discography. It’s hosts, as knowledgeable about chumbawamba as they are prone to tangents, have gone song by song, album by album through the entire chumbawamba discography from How to Get Your Band on Television up to the start of WYSIWYG. If you’re looking for thoughts on Chumbawamba’s music that aren’t your own, Chumbology is probably the best place to start. You can find the podcast at https://www.chumbology.rocks/.

One Hit Wonderland, Tubthumping by Chumbawamba: One Hit Wonderland is a series by the Youtuber “Todd in the Shadows” Where he takes a look at the entire career, from start to finish of a one hit wonder and offers his thoughts on their music and career. If you want a quick intro to Chumbawamba’s career (that isn’t this post), this is a great start. The video can be found here: https://youtu.be/WiZr87g6rNo 

What is it about poets and the moon?

I love a new moon 

A blue day and a blue night that holds all the potential of the world

An empty seat in a dark concert hall where all those who play each night are the headliner

I love a crescent moon

A small sliver that must fight with all its strength to shine through

A smile, a smirk, subtly cast down from the heavens as I wander through the streets

I love a quarter moon

A divided glass of milk in the inky depths 

An omen to the smiling optimist and the frowning pessimist

I love a gibbous moon

A strong crater in the darkness

A plump grin well upon its way to dominating the sky

I love a full moon

A beacon of realized self 

An entity in its complete and unrelenting form 

I love a gibbous moon

That hangs lazily in its victory 

That need not compete for the onlooker’s attention

I love a quarter moon 

That still holds the growing dark to a tie

That keeps a balance at night with no villains and no heroes 

I love a crescent moon 

That has become weak and has wilted away, but is still celestial 

That winks to me as it slowly sinks deeper, for it has forgotten how to swim 

I love a new moon 

That makes me miss the light simply for it has a temporary absence 

That blank slate that still holds the strength to shape the ocean’s waves many miles below

Danny's Light

 Growing up, when Danny wrote, they wrote of city lights. The city was many miles away, and Danny had never visited. But on clear nights, they could look out the window of their room, down into the valley, and see the lights that beckoned them. Every year, the edge of the city crept closer and closer to the cabin where Danny lived with their family. And every year, Danny grew closer and closer to leaving home and taking off for the city. Eventually, the day came that Danny awoke in their childhood home, but did not return to sleep for the night. 

That day Danny’s parents drove their child into the center of the city, and dropped Danny off at University. When Danny lived in the city, they wrote not of the towering monuments of capitalism, not the office buildings or the LCD billboards. Instead Danny wrote of the streetlights that cast golden pools onto quiet sidewalks at night. Danny wrote of the blue and red and green shine of LEDs from their neighbor’s windows. Danny wrote of the humble lights that shone only for themselves. After four years in the city closest to their home, Danny moved to a new city, one many miles away. 

The new city was not in a valley in the center of a landmass, but nestled along the coast. When Danny moved to the city by the sea, they wrote of new lights. Now Danny wrote of the lights that danced along waves. The light at sunset that swayed and flowed with the tides of the ocean. Danny would sit on driftwood logs, bleached and worn by the sun and the waves, and scribble away at a notebook, attempting to capture some small fraction of the incandescent beauty of a light shining on the water. One day when Danny was sitting and writing, they met someone. 

When Danny met this woman, they wrote of a new light. This woman became the light of Danny's life, and Danny could not find words to describe anything but her. Danny and the woman talked, the two grew close, moved in, and eventually exchanged vows. Now when Danny wrote of the city lights, they were always illuminating their lover. Danny’s lover, she spoke of Danny’s beauty, of their warmth. When Danny wrote of the lights that glinted on the waters, they were outshone by their lover. When Danny’s lover spoke, she said words that filled Danny’s heart, and moved their pen to write even more. Danny’s writing revolved around their lover’s light. 

Over many years, the light grew dimmer and dimmer. The light’s reflection was no longer brilliant, but dull and coarse. Danny wrote less and less. Where Danny used to write weekly, sometimes months, or even a year would pass without them writing. One day Danny could not bring themself to write another word of their lover’s light. It was a long, drawn out split. Danny no longer saw the light in their lover. And their lover no longer spoke of the beauty in Danny. It was a natural end. There were no more words to be said or to be written. Only tumultuous thoughts that lead nowhere. 

Early in their relationship with their lover, Danny had moved with her to a smaller town. It was cozy, and beautiful, but it did not shine iridescent like the cities that Danny had always written of. Danny found themself moving to a new city. This one where a river fed a large lake. When they first returned to city life, Danny could still not bring themself to write of the lights. When they put pen to paper, they found themself writing of the shadows. Writing about the dark corners and alleys tucked away out of sight in cities. Writing about the deepest, coldest parts of the ocean. The writings about sunrises and sunsets were replaced with writings about storms. Danny became angry at themself that they could not write the way they used to. They couldn’t find the words to describe the bright and the illuminating. 

Danny lost confidence in their written voice for many years, ceasing to write entirely.. The years of slowly falling out of love had left a toll on Danny. Their hair had much more gray, their skin many more wrinkles. Over the years that Danny had not written, they still carried around a small notebook. One that fit into their pocket along with a blue pen. One day, Danny found themself sitting at a bus stop late at night. They had been visiting a friend for dinner and talked much of the night away. When Danny boarded the bus, they found themself alone except for the driver. Gazing down the center aisle of the bus, the interior lighting of the bus struck Danny. It was a new, strange, type of beauty. Not bright and shimmering, not cold and roiling. It was calm and peaceful, a melancholy harmony of shadow and reflected light and a cool atmosphere. Danny meandered to the back of the bus, sat down, and began to write of a new type of city. 

An open letter to You, who will never read it

Dear You, who will never read it, 

Tonight I sat outside my front door and drank some hot cocoa. I had a perfect view of one star. Trees and buildings and awnings framed that one white freckle on the night sky. It is inevitable when I stare into the sky, that I think of others who might be looking up at the same sky. I thought of my friends who I left behind, and who have left me behind. But mostly I was thinking about you. It always agonizes me; what might have been. Sometimes when I think about you, it’s like a bowling ball to the stomach. It knocks the wind out of me. Sometimes, like tonight, when I thought about you, I chuckled. There’s so much that I didn’t know, and still don’t know that it amuses me how hung up I am over something that never happened. Maybe my frustration is that it never had the chance to happen. The dominoes didn’t fall that way. And that’s probably okay. The past can never fully inform the future. But the infinite stream of might-have-beens that make up history help me imagine what might be. And maybe what might be is me drinking hot cocoa looking up at that same star many months or years from now, with you by my side. 

Love, 

Aaron 

How about that weather huh?

 Every Monday through Thursday I bike into campus to attend class. I’m studying History at Boise State University. To be entirely honest I had never even once considered going to Boise State when I was applying to schools during my last year of high school back in Wisconsin. I applied to three schools, got into one, and began my freshman year of university at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia. I lived in Surrey and took most of my classes at the Surrey campus that housed the Sustainable Energy Engineering program. I’m not entirely sure why I applied to Engineering programs. I despise math and I’m not super interested in science. 

I chose to apply for SFU because it was in the Pacific Northwest, an area that’s always felt like home. I spent the better part of seven months in BC. Most of that time it was cold, rainy, and gray. Most days it was alright, but it would grate on me, until one day it would hit me like a truck, and I’d desperately want to see the sun. I enjoyed my time in Canada, there were highs and lows as is true of any time in my life. But the highs were higher than other periods in my life. And the lows were briefer. Then March came around. On St. Patrick’s day, a holiday synonymous with americanized symbols of luck, my life took a sour turn. To the south and the east. 

I moved to Boise, Idaho when the pandemic initially shut down the world. I was living with family, but Boise took a long time to feel like home. Not wanting to return to the engineering program or attend an international school virtually, I transferred schools. I considered culinary schools, a smaller state university back home in Wisconsin, and of course Boise State. I got accepted into the Boise State History Program, finally studying something I cared about and was good at. The first two semesters were not good times. The latter half of the spring semester was alright, but most of the eight or so months of the fall and spring terms were boring at best and crushing at worst. There were highs sprinkled throughout, but they were few and far between. 

I moved out of my Dad’s house in Boise this August, and into an apartment near campus. The apartment feels more like home to me. I can walk places and feel like I’m actually in a city instead of the soulless suburbs. My apartment is only about an eight minute bike ride from the far side of campus. There is a great deal more sun here in Boise than in BC, and most days so far this semester the weather has been gorgeous. But today when I woke up it was cold and rainy. I made sure to wear clothes that would keep me warm and dry. I left a couple minutes earlier than usual, so that I could bike more slowly. The chilly air felt comforting on my skin. The familiar feeling of raindrops slowly coating me was a welcome change from the constant sun. I’m still not any closer to the home I left some 18 months ago. But, today the weather made Boise feel a bit less like Boise, and a bit more like home. It was enough to remind me that, just like living in British Columbia or in Wisconsin, Boise will have its highs and its lows. It reminded me that I shouldn’t miss the forest for the City of Trees. 

Waves of Sound

 Ande worked hard. With each passing day in the mines he pushed himself further than he thought he could go. The work was difficult and offered little reward in wages as compensation for the work. Every night after his work hours were done and his room was tidied and his food was eaten, Ande laid awake in his cot. The booming of explosives detonating and ringing of metal on stone echoed in his ears. Once he was able to sleep, he dreamt of silence. Some nights Ande would find himself on a boat in the middle of the ocean. The waves did not make noise as they lapped against his boat. It filled Ande with serenity, a peace in knowing that he could simply float along in the quiet. Other nights he found himself for once on the top of a mountain and not within one. There was never any wind whistling against the rocky peak that he stood upon. It felt to Ande like he could see the whole world when he had that dream. When his dreams of silence were finished, Ande woke again and returned to his work in the noise and darkness of the mine. 

There came a day when Ande woke and was greeted not by the unrelenting storm of the noise of the mine, but a chorus of voices shouting erratically. Ande peered through the curtains and saw exactly what he expected. The union workers had established a picket line across the entrance to the mineshaft. Ande genuinely supported the cause of the union but never concerned himself with finding the time to attend the meetings and the gatherings that were requisite for becoming a member. Those meetings were loud and rowdy and full of argument, and Ande wanted quiet more than he wanted to go chasing trouble and starting fights. When Ande finally exited his small dwelling, he surveyed the picket line where they stood across the road from him. He took note of all the people there, a small portion wore the red bandanas of the union workers. Ande knew exactly how many workers were stationed to work in the mine during normal times. As Ande counted all of the people picketing the mineshaft, he realized every single one of the workers was there but him. 

Ande saw dozens of faces, some weathered and old, and some that still held the youthful optimism that was quickly crushed in the mines. There were faces that were plump and some that were gaunt. The faces that looked to him held the entire spectrum of humanity, pale and dark skin, young and old, masculine and feminine, and in each of their eyes they were pleading. Their eyes asked him to join them and fight. To Ande it felt as though he could see the whole world in the workers in front of him. Ande took one step forwards, and then another, and slowly strode across the gravel road that separated him and his fellow workers. He joined the ranks of striking workers. They greeted Ande with warm smiles, which he timidly returned. 

“We’re not alone this time.” Declared a large woman with dark skin and long cords of braids held back by a red bandana. All the other workers stopped and listened as she spoke. “All around the world, workers have taken to the streets, they’ve stopped working. The strike has gone global. We’re going to win this.” 

↼⇀ ↼⇀ ↼⇀

For the next two years, Ande fought harder with each and every day. He left the mountain and the cursed mine where he had lived for a third of his life. Eight years of mining was replaced by two years of spying and stealing and surviving. With the same rhythm of his time as a miner, Ande woke each day, completed his tasks to perfection, and then tried to rid his mind of the noises of the day. Gone were the echoes and ringing of mining equipment. Now sirens and gunshots and the roaring of airplane engines haunted Ande as he tried to sleep. In those two years Ande met and lost more friends than he ever could have imagined. The changes to Ande’s world did not change his dreams of the mountain and the ocean. 

In midsummer of the second year of fighting, victory in the war was finally won. The sounds of gunshots and sirens and airplanes no longer rippled through air. As the sun rose, music began playing. Guitars and trumpets and makeshift drums created a melody that no one had written but everyone instinctively knew. Ande sang and danced with people he had never met as though they were his closest friends. The last of the old ruler’s flags were lowered and burnt. People warmed themselves on the fires made from burning the last symbols of hate that had ruled for the last centuries. Serenity overcame Ande as he floated through the day, celebrating his fellow humans and sharing in their joy. Food was cooked and shared, and everyone ate their fill, nourished not only by the substance of the meal, but the jovial company with which it was shared. 

In the following months, Ande lived more than he had in his first 26 years of life. His communities met frequently to discuss how to structure their growth from the ashes of the former system. The meetings and discussions were peaceful and generally founded on compassion. There were certainly still those who held onto the hate that they had been taught for so many generations before, but they were stripped of their power and encouraged to learn new ways by their new neighbors. As the world transitioned to a new epoch, Ande found himself building. Every few days Ande would help build constructs that would harness the power of the sun and the wind and provide energy for those who need it. Other days Ande helped rebuild and repair buildings and homes destroyed in the conflict. With each day, Ande helped more and more people. 

↼⇀ ↼⇀ ↼⇀

And at the end of each day, it was not machinery nor weaponry that echoed in Ande’s ears as he tried to sleep. Instead it was the voices and words of his comrades and his friends. Now Ande did not mind the noise, it was no longer harsh or oppressive to Ande. And as Ande woke up each day, he found himself thinking of one voice in particular. One person’s words could make all other noise disappear as Ande focused on the beauty in each of the words they spoke. And so each day Ande grew closer and closer to that person. They found themselves talking for hours and spending many of the waking hours together. And soon they moved in together and vowed to each other in the quietest moments of the morning to spend their lives together. Each day they cherished life with each other more and more. 

They found themselves traveling to new places and helping and being helped by new people each day. They traveled by newly constructed trains and walked along avenues beneath canopies of living buildings. Every time Ande found himself gazing into his partner’s eyes, he felt as though he was looking to the whole world. And every moment with his partner it felt to Ande like he was floating in serenity, following the currents that he and his lover created together. 

Decades passed as the two lived together. Each day, they saw humanity reaching new heights and connecting the world closer than ever before. After years of seeing all the world, they returned to where they first had built community together. Some of their friends were still off traveling the world, others had never wanted to leave and stayed in the community, watching it grow with each day. Several times across their decades together, Ande and his partner left to travel the world, to return to the friends they had made far from their home community. 

As is inevitable with the passage of time, there came a day when Ande woke up, but his partner did not. The days that passed after his partner died were quieter, and Ande did not welcome the quiet. He could not find it in himself to become passive following his partner’s death. He spent time to grieve the loss and he spent time to celebrate the life had been lived. Ande traveled the world one more time alone, saying goodbye one last time to his friends, before returning home again. In the years that passed with his partner, the noises of the day had ceased to linger on Ande’s ears as he laid in bed. The longer Ande was separated from his partner, the more sounds again danced in his ears at the end of the day. Ande could hear his partner’s laugh and voice gently in his ear as he fell asleep. One night Ande gazed out his window at the shining moon, closed his eyes, and at last knew silence. 

Counting, Part 4

 There were five days left until Spencer was set to leave for LA. A several day cross-country slog of a road trip awaited him and his family when the time came to leave. Spencer’s heart had long called out for the west coast. All the adventures that awaited him out there, dreams to be made true, hopes to be realized, were dampened by dread. It was not fear of the unknown whose icy grip made him shiver, but rather fear of the known parting that was coming. Only some 17 days had passed since Spencer and Eloise had met, but their love was sudden and unyielding. A gust of summer wind. 

That evening was Spencer and Eloise’s twelfth meeting. Warm summer evenings brought droves of people to the terrace on the lakefront. Friends and family congregated in the many tables and chairs. An abundance of partners on dates enjoyed the lively atmosphere. Food and drink were bountiful. Spencer and Eloise had found a table for two right down by the water. They each had a cone of ice cream that was melting slowly, bathed in the golden setting sun. They had little need for talk. They were close enough to the end that they wanted more than anything just to bask in each other’s company. 

The sharp trill of a ringtone drove a cold knife into Eloise’s chest. Through all previous eleven meetings with Spencer, Eloise had been lucky enough to not have heard that trill once. But her luck ran out, and life came calling. Eloise stood up, her demeanor clouded. 

“I’ve got to take this,” she apologized, stepping away from the table, answering the phone and finding a calmer place to take the call. Spencer remained rooted in his seat. Eloise’s response to the phone call made Spencer believe that this was the end of the line. An eternity of a couple minutes later, Eloise returned. A shadow had been cast over her. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. My family needs me home, so these next couple days are probably going to be pretty busy.” Her eyes no longer gleamed with life, nor did they shine with tears. Only a dull pain was left. 

       Spencer nodded. A storm of words raged in his gut. Jumbled declarations, grand gestures, and heartfelt confessions all surged and ebbed beneath the surface. They could not be strung together into something coherent. So Spencer, his eyes dulled just the same as hers, took a deep breath. 

    “Goodbye, Eloise.” 

    “Goodbye, Spencer,” Eloise turned and left. And that was the end. There was no final play for each of them to make. There was no thirteenth meeting. No ambiguous wording that left the loose ends untied and left the door for love open. It was a simple, crushing, almighty “goodbye.” 

Soon, Spencer stopped counting down the days until he left, and was crammed in a car headed south and west with opportunity on the horizon. Eloise got out of her house one last time, flying east to a home that would finally let her stretch her wings. 

    In due time the pain of Spencer’s fifth and Eloise’s fourth loves faded away. Several months later, Spencer would meet his sixth love, one that would carry him far into the future. Eloise’s fifth and sixth and seventh loves came and went. In idle moments, thoughts of those 17 days and twelve meetings would fleetingly haunt them. Still they went on, counting the loves along the way. 

FIN

Counting, Part 3

Eloise was glad to have one more reason to get out of the house that fit her so poorly. She was not without friends, but they were all working or travelling. It was refreshing for Eloise to be able to get out of the house and not feel like she was escaping her home, instead seeking something meaningful. On this day in particular, she was meeting Spencer at a city park on a wooded peninsula that stuck out into the lake. It was a popular park, nestled among the campus of the university. 

It was a hot, humid day, like many other midwestern august days. Eloise and Spencer walked the trail towards the end of the peninsula. They strayed from the trail and sat on a large rectangular rock that jutted out over the water. It was a peaceful day, and they watched people passing by like the breeze. There were happy couples out on dates, friends enjoying each other’s company, parents with their young children, all savoring the moment. 

“I suppose I haven’t asked you yet, but where are you going to university?” Spencer broke a gentle silence between the two. 

“I’m attending Barnard College out in New York” Eloise’s heart sank as she answered, knowing how far it was from this place. “What about you? Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to UCLA. It’s just around the corner” Spencer chuckled, hiding the remorse in his voice. The gentle silence returned as the pair returned to the moment once again. Each knew that the whirlwind they had shared was too good to last, but this confidently put an end point in front of them. 

“I’ve always thought that leaving was the easy part. You get a new start somewhere far away, and can leave behind everything that dragged you down.” Eloise reflected. “Now I’m not so sure.” 

“Staying always seemed like the easy option to me. Don’t have to leave anyone or anything you love behind. You don’t have to struggle to forge your own path in a distant place.” Spencer couldn’t bring himself to smile. “But then again, it’s not exactly like I want to stay.” 

“Making the easy decision isn’t as important as making the right one. And you can’t find out what the right decision was until after you’ve made it. You never know that staying somewhere is killing a small part of you each day until you’re halfway dead. And you never know that you started where you belonged til you’ve made the voyage out into the unknown.” Eloise imparted, watching her reflection in the water.

Spencer nodded, reached out for Eloise’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Sometimes there is no right option and every choice you make is gonna hurt. But at least we have moments in the meantime that fill us with joy.” 

“I wish we weren’t so wise.” Eloise turned to Spencer, brushed some hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. “Makes it easier to dive in headfirst.” 

“Never hurts to know which end of the pool is the deep end when you’re going diving,” Spencer smirked. The two leaned closer, eyes locked, trying to convey all their emotions wordlessly. “Can I kiss you?” Spencer sliced through the tension. 

“Of course” Eloise pulled him in. 

 

Musings on the 20th of September

Birthday mornings used to be marked by having my breakfast made for me by my mom. The food was always accompanied by hot cocoa. Over the years those hot cocoas turned to mochas turned to black coffee. I always enjoyed having those breakfasts with the family, and the dinners in the evening. The food was always hot and the atmosphere warm. 

Then came a year when I had my birthday coffee with just my mom, in a new house with no memories of birthdays prior. On my 17th birthday I felt alone. My sister was taking a gap year volunteering with the NCCC and Americorps. And the dinner with my parents was decidedly colder. Civil, but cold. 

The next year I turned 18 in a country where I wasn’t an adult til I was 19. I woke up alone, ate alone, and drank my morning coffee alone. That night I drank a bottle of root beer I had brought with me from Madison. It was a soothing taste of home in a strange land. A thousand miles from my closest friends, and still weeks away from meeting my new friends, it was another lonely birthday. I was happy to be somewhere new, somewhere I knew would be better than where I had been. 

Last year I turned 19 in a room in my dad’s basement in a city I never wanted to live in. I had a glass of water when I woke up instead of coffee. Once again I was far, far away from any friends. This time I wasn’t without family though. That didn’t make me feel any less alone. I facetimed my sister for several hours that day. It closed the distance but didn’t warm the atmosphere. 

Tomorrow I’m going to wake up alone. In an apartment that is just me and my stuff. I’ll still be in a city I never wanted to live in, and going to a university I never planned to study at. I don’t think I’m gonna have any hot cocoa or coffee with my breakfast. I don’t know what I’m gonna eat for dinner either. But for the first time in years I won’t feel alone when I wake up on my birthday. And I hope that that’s enough for me.