On Caucusing, Faith, Friends and Strangers

I was scared and that scared would later turn into something between terrified and thrilled. . . As you do when you try something new and you have no idea how to do it.

And that is how I started my very first caucusing adventure. Afraid but excited.

Luckily, I had Lars and Ciara with me. Ciara, the brand new citizen THIS YEAR, doing her first civic duty in a country she has lived in a good chunk of her life; excited, too. Lars, the encyclopedia of knowledge on this process as an employee of the Washington state government and an official campaigner for Hillary Clinton; determined to do this process despite it’s serious flaws because HOW CAN YOU NOT this year!

I’ve voted in general elections, reading candidate and legislation statements, reading articles on both sides, asking my friends about their opinions and then dutifully filling out my paper ballot and sending it in on time - most of the time.

But this year seemed very different. For some reason, I started to understand so much more about how weird our election process is. I started to realize there is a possibility that someone like Donald Trump could be in charge of selecting individuals that could take away my rights and my friends’ rights and could influence others to hate me and my friends and family, making it dangerous for us to walk outside. I read articles before about how our election process needs to change to be less chaotic, less prone to corruption and more democratic. . . But really, up until this year, left that to others to fight the good fight for me.

This year, I needed to start paying back all the people that paved the way for me to be able to do what I do and be who I am.

For example, the woman, at work, who is at least 20 years older than I. She intimidates me, is direct and displays a Rosie the Riveter poster on her cubicle wall. Is her approach my approach? No, but damn if I am not grateful for the fact that she paved the way for me to have a good job and be valued for my contributions rather than my gender.

So, when I went through a door on the inside of Town Hall, where our caucusing took place, I saw a man with the Hillary sticker and took one, to which he said, “All Right! Go Hillary!”

I’m going to admit, the moment I put it on my shirt and it was there for anyone to see, I got nervous. I didn’t want to be yelled at for not supporting Bernie. I know a lot of people in my community and I know they are enthusiastic supporters of Bernie and have talked about their dislike of Hillary’s record and representation of “the establishment.” It’s an opinion I understand and can, to some extent, agree with.

But instead of covering up my sticker or taking it off, after my initial anxiety attack, I decided I would put faith in the people I know in my community to be supportive of each other’s choices.

When we found our precinct, we went down the stairs and found a whole room full of people; hundreds of people. All the chairs were taken (and there were none left to be brought out)and there were people standing and sitting in the back where there was floor space. Ciara, Lars and I went to the back and sat on the floor talking about the process. Lars would tell us that the general process is a bit of shit show because of the lack of organization and haphazard way caucusing delivers results. And I do have to say, in hindsight, his comments were correct. And beginning to be confirmed, when the official district caucus organizer started speaking to tell us the process,when someone yelled out, “We need a primary!” People followed up this declaration with clapping, in support.

The process then went as follows:

(To help be as clear as I can, let’s call this district caucus organizer Brandon. I’m actually not sure what his name was and I feel terrible for forgetting, but I think it’s something like Brandon).

Brandon tells us he will call out precinct numbers, people should raise their hand, and, in a rule of closeness type of way, someone will hand you the handwritten sign with the precinct number on it and the packet that has instructions on caucusing. Then the person with the sign is to raise it up so it can be seen overhead. And then, “in a the most orderly fashion as can be done, go to your number so you can start to caucus.”

Six or seven precinct numbers are then announced and packets distributed, people try to, as orderly as they can, head to their numbers. Ciara and Lars migrate away from me. And then, they seemed to be done. BUT WAIT!!! My precinct hadn’t be called! Do I not get to vote? Is this right? I’d read articles about some shady things in caucuses and primaries that resulted in many votes not getting cast and people having no recourse since there aren’t any laws that give you the right to caucus if your government runs out of the administrative aids to run this process. So. . . I was worried I would actually become a statistic for voter disenfranchisement (wow . . . That’s a word. A great word.). And Lars isn’t anywhere to be asked. . . And I hope something will happen so I can caucus.

Luckily, Brandon then said, “if you are from precinct XXXX”, I’m your leader, so come up here and we’ll get started shortly.” Whew. . . I wouldn’t be disenfranchised this year!

I moved towards the stage and there were so many people around the stage that I sort of hung out a minute or two, not knowing what to do since nothing seemed to be happening. So I turned to my right and looked up at a tall man with a few Hillary stickers on his shirt and asked, “are you XXXX precinct?” He replied by repeating our number. And we made a pact to stick together to get to the right place. My anxiety started to lift because now I had an ally and a friend in the process.  Not only was he unsure about what to do next, he was a Hillary supporter, so at least there would be two of us.

Brandon started to tell his precinct to come up on stage and then one of us in our precinct pushed the curtains back, revealing a small side stage with a small platform, an actor block and some technical equipment for a stage. We all migrated back there and I saw Liz, my neighbor and friend and stuck by her. We moved into the back of the side stage and sat down on the platform together. My tall Hillary ally was across the room from me. Liz and I started to catch up and we exchanged the “I still love you even though you are for .” Because we do. And because our friendship is more than the political candidate we choose. And because we trust each other. Plus she is fucking cool, I can’t not love her. 

Brandon started to read off the sheets in the packet and when asked for a volunteer tallier, a man named Roy raised his hand and said, “I’ll do it.” We all applauded him because YAY for volunteering to make the process happen. Brandon quickly explained to us that we needed to count Hillary supporters, Bernie supporters and undecideds.  Someone said, “Let’s just go to sides of the room for our candidates.” And someone else yelled, “Bernie supporters over here.” That was the side I was sitting on, so I got up and moved to the other side.  Someone yelled, “Undecideds on the end, over here.” It was close to the onstage part of the stage. When everyone stopped moving, it was me and my Tall Hillary friend from earlier on one side, 3 Undecideds on the end. . . And then everyone else which will eventually turn out to be like 25X more than Hillary supporters.

So here’s where I feel more scared. It’s hard to be in the minority for anything when emotions are high and investment is deep on both sides. And to be worried that, because you had read one or two articles about nasty comments to each other, you would be reviled for your choice. But I believed in where I was and had faith that we’d all hear each other out if it came to needing to do that. My belief and faith in other people won over my fear.

But it’s time to actually count. And to be fair, it was easy to count the Hillary and Undecideds. . . But we needed to record the official record of Bernie supporters so we can determine how many delegates our precinct will have. And it’s clear this isn’t going to be as super easy as someone looking over our heads and counting in their head.  I have no idea what had gotten into me, but I stand up and get on the small actor block and I say, in my most loud stage managery voice, “Ok, I’m going to count you!”

Then I proceed to count about 44ish or more people.

Our tallier writes all of this down, Brandon hands him the absentee package and Roy tallies those into our total. He does some math and we learn that based on our numbers, we will get 4 delegates for Bernie, no delegates for Hillary. My Tall Hillary ally asks how many people Hillary would need to get to get a delegate. Roy tells us between 4-6 people. In my head, I realized we would not be able to convince all three undecideds and at least 1-3 Bernie supporters to come to Hillary’s side, so I felt sad my duty is pretty much done. But I wanted to stay for the next part. I wanted to see if the Bernie supporters and frankly, me and Tall Hillary ally would feel compelled to talk about our candidates.

I was scared because I know I am terrible at remembering facts and figures and, while I read a lot, and feel pretty intelligent, when it’s a high stress situation, I am apt to forget my supporting evidence and look like an idiot. And I didn’t want to be judged for my poor performance. I also decided for any next year I do this, I am definitely going to have to practice a speech for my beliefs so that I can engage in rational discourse. . . But alas, you live and learn.

Brandon then told us that we could speak for 3 minutes a person on our candidates, it would be timed by Brandon’s stop watch and an end indicated by wild flailing. A gentleman on the Bernie side started.  It was clear, concise, passionate, and well delivered. Everyone clapped.

At this point, my heart is in my stomach and my anxiety, which usually only resides in the middle of my upper chest and is only about a fist size large, is now all over my arms, abdomen and back. I am vibrating with fear but excitement, too.

But then a few new people show up and we need to count them. We need to put them in the right category.  And all but one of them supports Bernie. So now it’s three of us.

As I vibrate and feel like my insides are actually going to explode, I get back up on the block and say, “I’d like to tell you why I am voting for Hillary. It’s very personal to me.”

I’d attempt to quote myself, but, when I perform, I often blank out the experience of it happening while I’m in front of people speaking. I feel confident enough in my message that apparently my brain blocks out an exact replay of it in my mind, only the feeling is left for me.  So, instead of quoting, I will give you the cliff note version. I also know that because I’ve had time to reflect, my arugment will be more clear/well delivered than it actually was - please keep that in mind as it is a lens though which you will have to consider my experience.

I’ve been experiencing a lot of sexism my whole life. Most of my life I have just accepted it, maybe didn’t even know that was what the behavior even was. But recently I have had my eyes opened to the way in which I am treated and it is clearly rooted in my gender. As it turns out, I care about how I am treated. And it is true how much I have had to do to change to fit into a world that was created by the other gender. I have been told I am emotional, dramatic, that I dig for the drama. I have had to try to be liked, yet strong where people would call me confident rather than bitchy, pushy, or bossy. I have been watching the debates and how the discussion is around Hillary’s likeability and these types of characterizations are being used to discredit her. I’ve seen the way she is treated and that treatment has required her to change herself to fit into a process created by men. And she’s succeeded. Do I want to vote for her just because she is a woman? No. I don’t. Do I agree with everything she’s done? No. I do believe she is qualified. Do I think what Bernie stands for is great? I do. Hillary has paved the way for me and I am here today to pave the way for her.

There were people nodding at the end and then they all clapped.

It felt supportive. These strangers confirmed my faith in each other as a community. They listened to me and supported my choice even though it wasn’t theirs.

Then a woman raised her hand, from the Bernie side, and she started to speak.  She talked about how last year she became a citizen because she could no longer stand by and allow the to establishment to continue on it’s path. That Bernie is the only candidate that makes sense for her based on her experience. She shared that she carries a shame of having voted for Margaret Thatcher because “I was a girl, and she was, too.” There were some audible gasps at her admission of a Thatcher vote. But what bravery to own something she considers a mistake and talk about how that informs her choices today.

It reminded me of the one time I voted republican. . . And how naive I was back then. Yes, I voted for George W. Bush against Al Gore. I was 25, living in rural Wisconsin on a farm where I listened to mostly country music and drank beer and had bonfires. I really liked my life and the people around me informed me of political things. It was before regular internet use, smart phones, and I was in my twenties still thinking I was invincible and didn’t know there were things other than what I knew.

My state went blue that year, so my mistake was corrected by those wiser than I. I am grateful for that even though I still have guilt about it.

Back to the woman finishing her speech about why she is voting for Bernie. Everyone claps and then my Tall Hillary ally gets up on the actor block and bravely says his name is Chris. He then tells the story of why he is voting for Hillary and it is beautiful. He was in the Peace Corps and his work was in Morocco, where he could not acknowledge or look upon the women who were his students, outside of school in the neighborhood streets. And during his service, Hillary came to Morocco and spoke to these girls and women. These young women later came to ask him, in the safety of their classroom, “how do you come from a country where this is possible? Can it be possible for me?” He told how these women were grateful to meet a woman who had gotten beyond the external limits they face every day. She was an inspiration and a motivation for them. And that’s why Chris, my Tall Hillary ally, is voting for Hillary. He was impassioned as he delivered this message. I was moved. Everyone clapped for him.

Another gentleman spoke about his passion for Bernie and his ideals. And we closed with a young single mother who feels that Bernie is the only person that cares about her. And his policies will help her and her family. And that’s why she voting for Bernie. Everyone claps for everyone.

A few more people come on the side stage and we tell Roy he needs to add a few more numbers.  At this point, we decide we just need to count again. I don’t immediately stand up to continue this duty because I’m still shaky from my declaration for Hillary. Brandon looks at me and starts to say, “Would you mind. . . “ And I realize I have been nominated by my earlier courage. I almost literally POP up from my sitting and stand up on the actor block. I say in my loudest stage manager voice, “I’m going to count. “ After an initial attempt I lose track, we decide everyone will raise their hands and when I point to them, make eye contact and say a number, you will put your hand down. And we start again. This goes well until about 23 where I have to put my hand out to have one person put their hand down and another to put their arm up so I don’t lose track. We continue successfully until 43 where I am nervous and almost forget where I am. But the group has my back, and the gentleman I am trying to count says, “you are on 44, I am 44.”  He also has his hand up showing me the number 4. There are murmurs of agreement, so I say, “44” with confidence and continue counting until the end, where the final number I utter is 52.

Roy is surprised because that seems lower than when  we determined how many delegates we have, but it only takes a minute for us to remember the other number was higher because it included the mail in ballots. I see why this process is a bit of shit show and chaotic. . . But it’s also kind of exhilarating. I am out here with my neighbors talking about important things. Meeting new people. Creating relationships.

There is a few more tallying things Roy has to do and so there isn’t much talking. And so I turn to Brandon, thinking I understood enough of the process to know that because there were no Hillary delegates, my duty was done, and ask him, “what’s next?” He confirms my suspicion. I nod, hand him my ballot and said, “do you need anything else? Since I am no longer needed I think I’m out.” He smiles and says, “hey thanks for helping.” I am happy to do it and smile back, “of course.”

As I’m walking out, the new US Citizen who had confessed her Thatcher vote, grabs my arm and says, “thank you!” and I said, “no, thank you.” And she really stops me and says, “no, really,…” There is a very meaningful pause and then she continues, “thank you.” And I get the feeling she really does thank me. She is thanking me for standing up for me, for not tearing her down, for letting her talk, for being a human to another human even when we disagree on this. She was thanking me for taking part in the process even though I knew I wouldn’t get a delegate. It felt very safe - this thank you. It felt right. We respected each other’s choices.

It felt like all things we find different from us should be handled; with humility and compassion.

Leaving, towards the back of the group, I ran into my floor neighbor, Gus, of Gus and Erin fame (I love them!), and we exchanged, hellos and thank yous and good to see yous.

I exited the building and was met with the sun. I stopped at the bottom of the entrance stairs to Town Hall, closed my eyes, put my face up to the sun, took a deep breath and smelled the freshness of spring. The newness of it. The potential for it all. I crossed the street on my walk back home and watched people caucusing on the sidewalk, voting and speaking passionately about their candidates. I watched people take pictures of these people caucusing. I heard people yell, “45 Bernie, 32 Hillary.” And “4 Bernie delegates and 2 Hillary!!”

It was all refreshing and empowering to see my friends and neighbors caring about how our lives can be shaped by our government.

Later, as I’m walking to a local pub, Bill’s Off Broadway to meet back up with Lars and Ciara , where we are expecting to share our experiences, a group of three younger-than-I people yelled to me, “HI!” and I recognize them as Bernie supporters from my precinct.  I smiled widely and waved and said, “Hey! How are you?”  and one of them said, “oh my god, this is great, now I know all of my neighbors!”

It felt like community.


 At Bill’s, Lars, Ciara, Gabe (he joined us later; he didn’t caucus but a public defender who always is participating in our government process), and I share our experiences with each other and drink beer and eat pizza and pepper Lars with questions about the process and the likelihood of a win by any of the candidates; Hillary, Bernie, Ted or Donald. We watch CNN as Washington state started reporting. We laugh about pirates and what they may have smelled like and how awful and smelly it would be to have been around George Washington and his wooden teeth.

We raised our glasses on several occasion' to celebrate our participation. We were happy in Ciara’s happiness to be able to participate in this type of thing for the very first time and how monumental it all felt to her, and to all of us.

And then we walked home, talking about the Light Rail and how it has improved our lives and how we love it so much. And then we hugged each other and said good-bye. . . Knowing we’ll see each other soon.

It was a special day and I shared it with special people.

I started out afraid, but like it always does, the universe reminded me that taking a risk and trusting in your community. . . It’s worth it. It’s important.

Raise your fist with me

Over the new year weekend, I received an email from a friend who used to work for me years ago and was starting the following Monday to work for me again. But it wasn’t about work. It was about who she thinks I am.

It was an email with 41 words and a link. But the most important thing about the email was that she thought this was a thing I would/should (probably more would than should) do.

The end of my 2015 sucked ass. I got sick and spent the weekend before Christmas in the ER and was down for the count for two weeks. I couldn’t leave my bed or my bathroom. Colitis sucks, people.

And then at the beginning of the year,I lost my last cat, my 19 year old companion. I’d lived with her longer than I’d lived with anyone else, even my parents. So, shit was bad, and I hated everything and felt like I hadn’t done anything last year. It was awful. . . But this thing. This thing happened.

It was called www.yearcompass.com. I didn’t look at it over that weekend, but then I looked at it Monday morning, the first Monday of the month, January 4th. How was I going to shape my year? And dude, like I said before, I did SHIT the year before, so there is no reason to look back. I didn’t even write a blog about what I had accomplished for 2015 over the weekend because it seemed like I hadn’t done anything. And I always write something about the year before. And I was sure I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. But then on Monday, the 4th, I read about this booklet.

I told my friend that I would totally do this and would she do it with me and could I write it out and share it with her and would she share hers with me. We agreed.

The next 4 days I spent time doing this “The Year Ahead” booklet. But the first page taught me everything I think about myself is wrong. I am not lazy. I am not terrible. I am not a loser. The irony of these words does not escape me. I mean, every year for the last few years I write the same thing. . . “I’m so lazy. I don’t do anything. But wait. I did do things. Lots of things. Why do I always think I’m such a slag?”

This past year, 2015, is no different.

The first page tells you to consider the following: “Go through last year’s calendar week by week. If you see an imporTant event, family gathering, friendly get-together or significant project, write it down here.”

I didn’t have enough room.

I finished a tarot class
I started a writing group, where one of the writers finished a book
I met Gloria Steinem and Alice Walker at my writing conference
I saw Rose’s Pawn Shop
I stayed overnight with Simon playing games and telling stories about the slumperflurfer that lived under the couch and needed carrots - and every time it got carrots gave a kissing fit to laughing boys
I saw Amanda Fucking Palmer in Vancouver (I’d never been) with all of her TED TALK friends!!
I played smashputt!
I did Lauren’s hair and makeup for prom. She wanted to be cinderella and had a dress to match
I walked a marathon
I went to the women’s world cup
I attended a women’s conference and was inspired; meeting Gloria Steinem and Alice Walker (who does that???)
I stage managed Gary’s 50th birthday and had the fucking time of my life and loved on Gary and Rodney
I orchestrated a winning sock drive for homeless
I watched ET with Ciara. . . Watching movies with her is a healing experience.
I had two bouts of anaphylactic shock that left me on the couch for three total weeks - but it didn’t kill me - so fuck you antibiotics
I finalized my divorce
I went to see March4th and loved on Shannon and Shelia
I attended Derek and Kristin’s wedding, re-connecting with my soul twin Kelly
I lost 20lbs
I told a story as part of an event about my amazing familyship with Ciara
I got Colitis
An employee came back to work for me
I took a road trip to Montana in a corvette
I went to Florida in JULY to hang with my family. And it was amazing and fantastic, reminding me that despite my closed offness, they heal me.
I lost my Willie
I visited Alistair’s family for Doug’s 70th birthday and was reminded how much I belong
I celebrated my and Jennifer’s birthday with oreo cakes
I rooted for the Green Bay Packers at a playoff game with the Seahawks and kept all my friends
I discovered Kat Robicoud
I hired a life coach
I hired an assistant
I stage managed The Lion in Winter and could not be prouder of this production
I wrote more than 50K words.
I asked for help


There were 8 more pages that asked me to relive my most important events, accomplishments, avoidances, challenges, risks,fears,favorite things, people that helped me and that I helped, made me realize what I needed to forgive and let go, and helped me boil my last year into a book title with three themes: learning, change and asking.

The book title to 2015?

The Fool’s Journey.

Don’t judge. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t. Look up the Fool/Tarot.

And then came the planning for 2016.

I am not a planner. . . Not in anyone’s imagination.

But, despite this depression (getting colitis and being in the ER during the week of Christmas and your birthday and then losing your 19 year old cat a two weeks later will totally fuck with you and help you right into the darkness of depression), it gave me hope. It made me smile. It inspired me.

The first thing it asked me was this: What does the year ahead of you look like? What will happen in an ideal case? Why will it be great? Write, Draw, let go of your expectations and dare to dream.

My answer?

Hopeful. Full of family and travel and writing and friends and change. I will leap. I will step off the sidewalk to see what it is like off the path. I will give myself, all the way, to the universe. I will hide nothing, be shamed by nothing. I will close my eyes, throw back my head and my arms out wide to let the universe fill all the space with no apologies. And when I fall, I’ll get back up by asking my loves to give me a hand.

And then I remembered I was going to share this with another person. It was terrifying and I realized I had committed to telling another person of all my failures. But then I looked at my dare to dream statement. How could I NOT share this with her. I had declared my unabashed vuneralbility. I would start out the year being a fraud if I didn’t share it with anyone.

And so I will live it. I believe that stating these things to me. Stating these things to you will inspire, compel and propel me to that. And I’ve shared that statement of dream to many people. Close people and not close people. I want to be free to declare myself always. And so I do.

I am brave
I am courageous
I am vulnerable
I am fragile
I am strong
I am fallible
I am trusting
I am trustworthy
I am worthy

I give myself to the universe.

I believe the universe will give right back.

I know that I can lift my fist in the air and say
Fuck yes.
I am here.
I love.
I am loved.
I see you.
We are connected.

AND I SAY TO ALL MY PEOPLE (you know who you are - I love you):
FUCK YES
YOU ARE HERE
I AM HERE
WE LOVE EACH OTHER
WE ARE LOVED BY EACH OTHER
THANK YOU FOR SEEING ME
WE ARE CONNECTED

Here is to 2016.

p.s. I share with her tomorrow. And I’m not afraid. oh, and here are some pictures https://goo.gl/photos/AVsD66XPUbshyHhFA

damn those dots

not sure if i ever mentioned it, but i have been reading tarot cards. in fact, i took a class. it is endlessly fascinating. most people think that it’s about predicting the future, but really it isn’t. . . it’s about reflection and looking within.

but more on that in some other post.

i actually do a reading every morning - a one card reading. i usually ask something like, “how should i guide myself today.” the accuracy of my situation reflected in the cards borders on the ridiculous and absurd, but always nails accurate.  today was no different. 

this morning, i am sitting here in the airport on the verge of a reset button while i wait for my plane to take me to mexico where i will be infused with all things writer and artist and become whole again. i need this trip more than even i probably know because the last year has been less than stellar (this is the king of understatements).  i have been nervous to go this year because i don’t have my personal interpreter (she really isn’t. . .but i have had the good fortune to travel with her so many wonderful times) and i am doing this solo, so i haven’t really let it sink in that i’m going to this most amazing bubble in San Miguel where i will be healed.

it hit me this morning when Terri came to pick me up. i hugged her, put my bag in the back, and got in the front seat. as soon as the door closed, i actually started crying. a flooding of relief and exciting and exhaustion - but mostly - relief that i am on my way to getting filled back up. 

i hadn’t actually done my tarot reading this morning because i was too busy remembering to put shit in my suitcase, take shit out of my suitcase and forget to put shit in my suitcase. so, i thought it would be a good thing to do while i was eating my glutinously delicious mcdonald’s breakfast (yes. yes i did) - so i shuffled and shuffled and shuffled, breathed in the cards, put them to my forehead and asked, “what should i remember to do on this trip?”

it really never does cease to amaze me what comes up. today it was the ace of cups.  i could go into all the fancy ways i read the cards, but here’s what this one means in one simple sentence. . . 

be open to receiving 

yeah. . . so - that happened. 

so, yes, i’ll be down in mexico -  being open and receiving. . . damn those dots like to hit me in the face.

intuition and dots.dots.dots....

i decided to go out and write (not this - definitely something more substantial and literary, i’m sure) and needed to figure out what to eat, which kind of meant i had to figure out what restaurant i would go to since there is no food in my house (that’s only a small lie - there is a block of cheese in my house. . . a house without cheese is a not a home). and what happened next commanded me to write to you about it.

i’m not sure what told me that this would be the right place… intuition, probably, since it’s what i studied yesterday - intuition. yes. that. or the dots. they lead me there. dots are sometimes hard to follow, but sometimes, when you are really paying attention, the dots - they appear like a roadmap to your next dot. your next destination. your next destiny.

 so i ended up here, bleu grotto. it’s sort of my first time, but not really my first time. bleu, I remember, from when it was on the corner of broadway and john, where the american apparel currently resides. it was a place i had gone with alistair. i remember very clearly two things. i liked the place because a) it had hidy holes made of small spaces and thick dreamy drapes and b) they had a four cheese mac & cheese on the menu. (did i mention the cheese thing i have?) i don’t think alistair and i had gone there more than three times before we moved to hawaii. so, when i returned to seattle 8 years ago, and i saw that it had closed and then subsequently opened again (blah blah blah), . . . the point is that i’d been here maybe three times in the last four years and likely all three of them occurred in the first two years.

it was kind of amazing when i arrived. and it’s continuing its awesomeness. i walked in and passed by a short hallway of hidy holes all covered in those drapes and . . . privateness. intimate. interesting. dot.

but they were all taken. dot.

so i stopped in front the bar. i guess i was standing there for a moment, looking lost, because two men started talking to me. the bartender (hard not to listen to his accent) and the main waiter who is likely the nicest waiter (and likely regular person nice) i have ever encountered. it soon became clear why they started talking to me after my dazed and confused look. the waiter asked, “are you. . .(i think he was waiting for me to fill in the name) . . .here for the reservation.” 

“nope, just me. i’m here to write.”

“well, take anywhere you like. hey that hallway bit back there looks like a good secluded spot. you should take that.” (did he know that’s what i require? most definitely a dot)

i walk to the back and there are two tables in this “hallway” (which i think actually is just an ante room to the staircase and the kitchen.). The small one is high and has two stools and is abutted up to this bookshelf with old looking books in it (seriously?? could the universe tone it down a bit?). the other one is a long(ish) table with no less than 6 chairs. it’s huge. i sit at the small table.

the menu. . . it’s complicated. there is something to be said for brevity and descriptive three word menu items that describe for to a tee.  after seeing this menu, i am convinced succinct menu writing is an art to be appreciated. this menu has beer, wine, liquor, two pages of cocktails, sides, starters (which suspiciously look like sides), salads (this is where it gets REAL descriptive. . . paragraphs), sandwiches, pasta (which is mostly gluten free - that’s a thing for pasta now? in restaurants?), at this point i actually don’t know what is left because the effort to read the menu items has become a book-like endeavor. . . needless to say i stopped there and didn’t read much more. . .too much work. 

wait - there is more. . . they also give you ANOTHER menu. which is more dense than the last half of the actual menu. one side has drinks. . . very detailed drinks. the other side has entire books separated into columns that have headlines screaming the smallness of their plating. . . if they were small, why wouldn’t the description be smaller? but alas . . .i didn’t even read that one. the dense menu makes no difference what so ever, thought. . . the people here rule. it also didn’t matter that i didn’t finish reading the menu because the waiter came back.

“what? oh - you took that one? i was thinking you would take this one.” gesturing to the large table with no less than 6 chairs. the avoided table.

“oh? well, i didn’t want to take up a table for 6 people. i don’t need to take up that much space.”

“no. you need this space. you need the space to write. i think you need to take this place. it’s a wednesday. i think you should take this spot.” (his insistence was. . . validating….in a weird…good way)

“ok. . . “ 

at this point, i’m ducking my head and assuming the ‘i’m sorry’ posture and affect (blergh). and i move all my stuff over to the bigger place. i put my bag holding the precious on one seat, take out the precious and put her in front of the next seat and then waiter brings me the beer and it goes in front of the third spot.

“now see? doesn’t that feel more like it?”

 dude - i am SPREAD OUT. and they are treating me like hemingway. we joke about me using (or not using) the outlet and how apple are liars (in the affectionate, ‘yes, i’m an apple fan person too but we hate ourselves for being fans’). hemingway. i am hemingway (except for that misogyny stuff. . . ).

due to so much work to look at the menu, i take a chance and ask the waiter what i should have.

“are you a vegetarian?” you can only barely tell there is an underlying . . . contempt . . . (which might be too strong a word - but it was funny) for the vegetarian.

“no. i’m a “not anything except for raw onions.”

“yeah, i don’t like those much either. or cooked ones. . . “ he stares off into space.

“so, what should i get?”

“how hungry are you?”

i have not eaten anything today and it’s 7pm. i try to look for words to explain that while i am hungry i probably can’t eat very much and i just give up in between my words.

“i’m starving.” and i am. terribly.

i am recommended the meatball sandwich. very very recommended this meatball sandwich. i am not to have this sandwich due to the direct orders to not eat nightshades. nightshades? they are inflammatory which is bad for the swollen crap in my neck causing all this stupid pain. but it’s very recommended. so i order it.

and i order the kilt lifter which comes in a frosty glass.

i open the precious. i don’t go immediately to the internet, which is what i would do normally. i want to log onto the blog and start a blog post. instead, i open scrivener. which is weird. it’s the place i write my stories and work on my book and the place i write things i can’t tell you about. the first 3 seconds of entering blue grotto and following 10 minutes convince me that i can only write this accounting of dots. dots. dots. (did you read that blog posting that i just retweeted? no? well, i’ll wait.)

the meatball sandwich comes (with a side of chips and salsa). it is very good. it has nightshades. it’s still good. i will not feel guilty.

i order another beer. the waiter comes to my table with another frosty glass AND a bottle of beer that’s he’s pouring into it. i am embarrassed that he’s done this. he doesn’t need to do that for me. i am uncomplicated and the bottle would do me just fine. i share with the waiter my views of his never having to do that again.

“but ‘frosty’ is so good.” he gestures to the beautifully frosted and impossibly cold beer. i thought it was an on tap beer. . . 

“yeah, but that’s more work than necessary. . . really.”

“it’s a beer, dude. i promise, not that much work.”

he’s right. probably about both things, but mostly the “is so good” part. it tastes good and is very cold.

i write more.

he comes back and takes the bottle away.

“can i get you anything right now?”

“will my stuff be ok if i smoke a cigarette?”

“oh, well, i’m going to sell your computer. . . of course it’s fine.” he goes on to tell me about a patron that comes once a month, sits at this table, writes (or something on a laptop), gets the black bean burger and sometimes a strongbow, though one time he got a gin and tonic. he is here for hours. it’s where they put those of us that want to be alone and do whatever it is we do on these laptops in public places. places we need to be alone but not really alone. . .dots - so many dots.

i feel stupid for being worried and then thank him. i put my coat on, look for my cigarettes and then realize i need to have fire. i think i remember leaving a lighter in the front pocket of my bag. i did not leave one there. or anywhere else in my bag. or in my jeans. or in my coat. so, i take a very slow stroll to the front of the grotto to get to the door - desperately searching for matches. i get to the end of the bar and the waiter is there talking with another patron. as i pass by him (hoping beyond hope there will be another smoker outside) he hands me, in one smooth motion, the candle lighter. 

dots.dots.dots.

i am clearly meant to be here. hi universe. i see you. and i see you see me.

the waiter comes back and asks me if he should take away the chips and salsa. i confide in him that i can’t eat it because of the tomatoes. and even though the meatball sandwich had tomatoes, i had to get it because it was so recommended.

“you aren’t gonna die are you? i can’t have that on my conscious, man.”

“no. . . i just can’t have nightshades.” 

a conversation ensues about how potatoes are inexplicably and terribly included in this list. he takes away the salsa (sad face).

i like it here. they have hidy holes. they are angels or guides or the chorus in my greek tragedy.

and the music makes me happy. it’s a random assemblage . . .

toto’s hold the line is a song i have heard a million times, but didn’t know a) that it was by toto or b) that it was called hold the line. i’m pretty sure i have been singing some other words to it’s title. . .

kc and the sunshine band come on with shake your booty. how can you not want to dance to that shit?

the whole time, i’m writing. . . and these other songs play becoming the soundtrack to these words.

hey there delilah - Plain White T’s

demons - Imagine Dragons

that’s the way of the world - Earth Wind & Fire

precious little diamond - Fox the Fox

shake your body (down to the ground) - The Jacksons

the way you make me feel - michael jackson

the sweetest taboo - sade

you give good love - whitney houston

i’m every woman - Chaka Khan

love remains the same - Gavin Rossdale

santeria - Sublime

we’re going to be friends - Jack Johnson

apologize - Timbaland Feat. OneRepublic

she will be loved - Maroon 5

fool in the rain - Led Zepplin

simple man - Lynyrd Skynyrd

i said i would only write until i ran out of battery. that was an hour and a half ago and i have only used 25% of my battery. i feel like i should have a point to all of this. and i guess there is and there isn’t. the “isn’t” part is that it’s just a slice of my life. an account of an evening i decided to go out. in and of itself, it is not amazing or ground breaking or even interesting. but the “is” part is because it’s just another way i see dots connecting. dots. dots. dots.

they connect constantly. and if you are open to it, you connect with them, too. i feel like i was meant to be here tonight. i was meant to have read @chuckwendig ’s blog telling me to shut up and write (over and over and over, in case i missed the point, because, seriously, shut the fuck up and write). i was meant to have seen @totemka’s blog posting about dots.dots.dots. i was meant to walk into this place and meet these people and hear this music. it makes things feel a little right with my world. there aren’t a lot of days things feel right with the world, lately. (also, that was 2000 words. more words in one sitting than in the last 10 sittings).

and my battery has run out. not the computer one. . . the phone one. i was automatically shazaming all the songs. so, i guess i’ll have to get my check and go home. 

i think that’s ok.

thank you bleu grotto. thank you waiter. i will ask your name when i leave because i will come back (it’s walter - fuck yeah - that’s a cool ass name). you let me be alone without really being alone.

it’s a good night.

i miss good nights. kind of a good reminder, this night.