My Window.

My Portraits of Connection workstation, and window on the world. Above my computer is my window of inspirations. See the postcard from my dad? The one with the three polar bears he sent me from one of his biz trips to Alaska when I was a kiddo? That’s us, now. <3

Happy New Years Eve

Good evening. It’s 9:27 on New Years Eve, and I’m currently trying to drown out my fireworks-crazed, barking (nonstop) border collie blue heeler with a running load of laundry, closed doors, and Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass’ “Whipped Cream and Other Delights” on vinyl. It’s not working, so while I wait for the kids to be ready to escape into another Korean drama this evening, I write.

I Changed My View.

I finally did it. I nuked my Facebook pages - for good, this time.

When my kids were two and five, and their da flew this life unexpectedly, I spent many nights on this computer’s ancestor, honing my photography craft after early kiddo bedtimes - and musing on this devastating life turn. It was a great comfort to that newly strapped, newly single mama.

The introvert in me has always favored that place just outside the people-y spots. Growing up, I’d park with a book in the breezeway between Mom and Dad’s kitchen and laundry room in our roomy Bellevue house - close to the action, but set apart. My computer feels kinda like that - at least, off-platform.

On-platform, it feels more like being that bullied kid in school: In the center of the action, but not in a good way. It’s tough to be an introvert in the age of oligarch-run social media and smartphone addiction. Tougher still being an immunocompromised masker introvert who can’t vax. Try finding a group for that, I dare you. How do I connect to community online or naturally, anymore? Facebook had been my platform of choice. But humans in groups playing The Game of Capitalism are unkind at best, dangerous at worst. Humans in social media groups are no different.

Connectors, or Collectors?

People tell you who they are. I remind myself not seldomly: The midwife clinic that almost killed me during my second child’s birth had “run” in its name.

Some people are connectors; they connect people. Others are collectors; they collect people - in my experience, possibly to replace relationships in lieu of the hard work it takes to maintain and deepen them. Connectors don’t generally let simple misunderstandings end relationships, especially text-based misunderstandings. Collectors do.

We’ve been collectors’ targets several times since we’ve started running our own ship. One surrogate grandpa actually had 10 children of his own; only one still communicated with him. Red flag! But I was desperate for male connection for my son - or so I thought. The day that grandpa called out “Being family means not having to say you’re sorry!” was the day he walked our plank.

(I eventually learned, and remind you now: Single Mama. You. Are. Enough.)

I thought I’d gotten pretty good at weeding out the collectors, but a couple more got in under my radar recently, via Facebook. Loud people are doing enough damage in the world without social media platforms that echo-chamber amplify their voices. These particular folks certainly did enough damage in my heart.

Enter Capitalism

Facebook doesn’t just amplify loud voices, it amplifies the volume and reach of one of our US society’s most insidious foundations: The Game of Capitalism. Patriarchy and privilege live there, well-protected.

Whatever PR image they push, patriarchy and privilege are big fans of eugenics. Eugenics does not tolerate special needs. In one week - less than two weeks before Christmas - my little family was kicked out of a (Facebook) friend group, and kicked out of our longtime dental clinic. Both kickout conversations started with me laying down (bare-minimum!) boundaries surrounding masking - and in one (the one more important to me personally), I was just trying to discuss the matter in a non-patriarchal way. That’s it. That’s all.

The patriarchy needs women to uphold it. Too many are all too happy to do it.

At the same time, my son was early in the acute Covid spike protein release phase of nicotine patch LongCovid treatment. This is pretty new; have you heard of it? It’s real, though; it’s early yet, but I think it’s working for me. So, we’re trying it for my son. When Covid is released from the nicotinic receptors into the body, it can be a doozy. My acute phase lasted three days. His is going into three weeks now.

One late evening - the evening of the friend-group ousting, actually - he was unable to wake up from nightmares, acting so strangely that I wondered if our “low fever”-reading thermometer was wrong. It reminded me of the night their daddy died, yowza. As son was feverishly speaking gibberish and scaring the hell out of his sister and me, the irony hit me: That wasn’t a very useful investment of six months’ community-building time, now that I could really use a friend to call, was it? I was musing on that, still getting over the pain of being kicked out, and trying to figure out how to help my son and hold myself together, at Christmastime, that night. Over a week later he is still coughing every time he tries to speak, and often when he is just breathing. But he is okay.

You can Pray; I’ll Look to Gaza and Squid Game

What has the world come to when history’s first live-streamed genocide and arguably the most disturbingly violent TV series of our day are comforting? That’s where I’m at.

After almost six years of LongCovid and traumatic brain injury-induced familial isolation, I’m trying to start over socially, trying to start over professionally, and finding I’ve all but forgotten why I do the lot of it. Like, any of it.

And then, I think of Gaza. If you’re not up to speed on the genocide the US is bankrolling, spend just five minutes perusing the accounts of @wizardbisan1 or @mosab_abutoha on any social media platform. Those people Do. Not. Quit.

And Squid Game! My daughter adores this show. I tried to watch it last year, and didn’t get much past the first semi-automatic rifle spray. Then we ditched Netflix in support of Palestine. This vacation, we picked it back up just for a minute, and binge-watched seasons 1 and 2. Capitalism is a horrific trap, and Squid Game tells me: I’m not the only person who thinks so. I needed to know this. I mean, I do know it, but this show reminded me I’m really, really not alone on this one.

So. I’m going back to basics. My daughter gifted me a record player this Christmas, and my son one of my favorite records; I’ve set up a music station where I edit and write.

Portrait of my music station.

Now playing: “Appalachian Spring.”

I’m going to go on photomissions, and rediscover my art. Look forward to some Camas street photography in future blog posts - something beyond the football high school town sales image.

And I’m going to post writing that isn’t perfect, and may be highly caffeine-driven and all over the place, but is authentically me.

Blogposts like this one right here.