Author: Lauren

I'm a reader, over-thinker, idealistic cynic, and hopeless knowledge seeker living in the wilds of Seattle, Washington. I write, but am not sure I'm a writer yet. I'm blind. I was an activist in my former life for the LGBTQIA etc community and still love reading about and discussing sexuality, queer issues, and living an out and authentic life... plus the constraints our society places on allowing us to exercise that right. I write about what it's like having a disability (I'm blind, you dig?), things I love about Seattle, and my hopeless addiction to all things culinary. Also, I'm on the bus a lot, so I write about that too.

Sunday Night Link Dump

I have to be honest, I’m having trouble coming up with something inspiring to write this week. Instead, I give you a list of links I’ve culled from puttering around the Internet, drinking peppermint tea and looping my cold feet around the space heater under my desk. I’d love to get a glimpse of what you’re looking at online, if you’d care to share in the comments:

Yesterday, on a writing break, I made this dark chocolate, cherry, and black pepper cake. It’s from The New Sugar and Spice by Samantha Seneviratne. I had dried cherries to use up, but, to be honest, I was nervous about the black pepper. Still, it turned out quite lovely. The pepper was a little strong straight out of the oven, but has since calmed into a low, whispering heat.

Tara Austin Weaver’s post on writing came just at the right time for me. If she can write on the back of the bus, I have no excuses.

Speaking of writing, I’ve been doing mine lately with a constant background of Shamir. I love this kid, (yes, he’s 21, which is a “kid” to me now).

Also, Aurora. I’m always conquered by big, belty joyous choruses.

This short story makes me feel so sad and wistful. It’s also a testament to how powerful words can be, even used sparingly, because the writing is meticulous.

Finally, Jenny Trout has been recapping Grey, that book that came out last year as a companion to the Fifty Shades series, from Christian’s POV. There are several reasons I love Jenny, not the least of which is that she’s hilarious and these recaps save me from actually having to read the book in question, which I usually think is only fair to do if I’m planning on telling people why it sucks. And, Jenny is also fab because she always puts image descriptions in her photo links. I don’t know who hipped her to this awesomeness, but I wish everyone would do it. (I should probably mention that the recaps likely aren’t SFW, unless you work somewhere really cool. In which case, please let me know so I can work there too.)

And, that’s all I’ve got from here for today.

 

My “writing spirit” is sad this week. I know that sounds gaggy and way more woo-woo than anyone wants, but it’s true. I am cranky and full of grump.

When I started working last month, it happened to be right before both the holidays and my grad program’s residency. The program holds classes on Whidbey Island the first ten days of the semester, and the rest of the semester online. Because I was gone for two weeks for the holidays, I felt I had to make the “adult decision” to skip residency to bring in as much income as possible, since this job is only temporary. Making the “adult decision” didn’t make me feel any more adult or any more happy.

I’ve realized, this past week, as my grad schoolmates have been at residency and I have not, how much I’ve come to rely on residency. How much the support of other people who write feels essential to my own writing. And how much I want to give that back, too.

My first residency, I felt completely intimidated by grad school and genres and workshops and the constant, “Have you read this?” and “Do you like Writer Such-and-Such?” I hadn’t read anything and I knew nothing. I had the biggest, brightest case of imposter syndrome.

Somehow, by second residency, it all clicked. I hadn’t read Writer Such-and-Such, maybe, but at least I knew someone I had read and loved. Or several someones. Or, at least I felt confident enough in my own writer-person skin to say, “No, I have no idea who that is. Tell me why you love them”, and eagerly anticipate the answer. Everything was there in those ten days: writing and reading, peace, belonging, liveliness, friendship and support.
I missed that this time around and I am very sad about that. I felt cranky all this past week, wanting my residency fix and the feeling of being taken seriously by other people who need to write as much as I do. I’ve felt annoyed and bitter, wanting to be in a thousand places other than on a bus every day at 6 AM.

My writer-friend Kate sent me an email yesterday with the subject line, “You better come next residency.” And with the closing, “Know you’re loved.” I haven’t felt the magnitude and sincerity of words like that in quite a while. Somehow, with hers, I felt them and I knew.

You’ve had it with the rain and I can see why.
Its puddles sloosh to your belly
its drops plop on your nose
I’ve got my coat and a hood to put up when I’m not listening to traffic
and you’ve been given no such care.
I’ve made my peace with the rain, sort of;
if I want to live here, I must, but you
Ridgefield girl
Washington raised
you still aren’t convinced this is our place.
So you slink with your head down
behind my heels, glued to my side
You’d stop walking altogether if I didn’t insist
pulling you forward, up and over treeroots
around hairpin turns
across streets of cars
whose drivers aren’t focused enough on not splashing our legs in gusts of tire water
YOU pull hard for every door we pass, wanting inside, wanting the ceaseless wet to cease
Your walk becomes a trudge, a drudgery, masochism only because you love me
I wish I could tell you
that what you don’t understand, darling,
is that the only way forward is through
the only shelter lies beyond the cold rain
and even then, even when you reach your solace, your warmth, your reprieve, your dry blankets …
most likely it’ll still be raining
when it’s time to go out again.

Shortly after my last post, my friend Arlie sent me a link to this kickstarter. Funnily enough, the previous evening we’d been bantering about how there should be a suite of apps under the heading of: “Where the fuck’s my…” and the app could help you find objects with audio feedback, like keys, a garbage can for an ill-timed doggie bathroom break, a particular bus stop, etc. The Kickstarter is to improve an existing app, Blind Tool, which has some of that “where the fuck’s my…” capability.
It’s pretty cool! Check it out if you feel so moved:

P.S. My apologies to anyone reading this who is offended by the word “fuck.” Like, I dunno, my grandma. Though, knowing her, I bet she’s not offended.

Several times in the last few months there have been situations where I’ve been dealing with inaccessible technology. One such situation cost me a job I had gotten as a transcriber. The transcription interface turned out to be inaccessible without the use of a mouse. When I mentioned this tiny but major issue, the company who hired me said, “Well, we outsource the maintenance of that site, so we can’t do anything.” Basically, “Sorry, but not our problem. And if you can’t do this one thing, no job for you.”

That was the most extreme and the most frustrating. But other situations have come up where a site has been inaccessible: whether it’s content not being spoken by my screenreader, a required signature that can only be achieved by “drawing” with a mouse, or a a “submit” button that doesn’t respond to keyboard commands. In every instance, I try to find someone to report the situation to. I send emails. I speak to my colleagues. And in almost every situation, the answer comes back: “Well, we outsource this, so there’s not much we can do to fix it.” Also known as: “So not our problem, and we’re busy people with a lot more pressing problems to deal with.”

No one has actually said that. People have tried to be helpful, I suppose. People have suggested I send feedback to the web administrator, which may or may not get read, or wait for sighted assistance, which may or may not be remembered by the sighted person. These solutions are fine, but ultimately, I want a solution that I feel like will fix the problem and not just be a waste of time.

I think what it comes down to is: I don’t understand social irresponsibility. Maybe this comes from my work in nonprofits, or more specifically, the nonprofits I served where people have gone totally beyond necessity to help me, to help others, or at least to make a concerted effort to find the person who knows what must be done to help. And these aren’t people who are bored and have nothing better to do. These are people who are as exceedingly busy as everyone else claims to be.

It’s not that I’m a martyr, or a saint. I’m not even that good of a person a lot of the time. And yet, I also feel a kinship with and a responsibility to others, and if I had a company who outsourced an inaccessible web site, or rented an inaccessible building, or was somehow paying companies that were complicating the life of someone, I would be going to those companies to see how we could fix it, and I would consider it a priority. Totally my problem. Certainly not solely mine, but mine enough to work diligently for a solution.

What frustrates me the most about the “not my problem” attitude when faced with inaccessible technology is that so many people are content to let the issue rest there. And if it rests, it doesn’t make its way to the people who can fix it. It stays with the people who are too busy, too harassed, too maxed out to push it forward. I can’t help but think that so many of these issues are simple coding flaws, and that they could be fixed reasonably quickly. But if they never make it to the proper person because someone decides it’s not their problem, the code is left to continue tripping people up.

I don’t mean to blame the entire tech industry, but I would like to see a lot more social responsibility and way more collaboration on this. And it starts as easily as acknowledging our responsibility to one another as people.

Post on a New Year

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

“One Art” – Elizabeth Bishop

 

I don’t want to start this New Year out on a sappy, soggy note, but this is a poem that never fails to make me weepish. Certainly, it can be taken as a very sad poem, but on another day, in another time, you might find it inspiring.

Of course, loss and letting go, the ending of a year and the beginning of another, are hard sometimes. A lot of times. Making new choices, even if we know they are right, that we will learn and grow from them, isn’t easy.

And yet, what if it’s what we tell ourselves that makes the difference? What if losing isn’t hard to master, especially when we focus our energy on everything there is to still be found?

I’m wishing everyone a happy New Year, a chance for reinvention or rejuvenation, or continued energy to build on what is already there. Discoveries, adventure, and contentment for all, and as always, thank you for sharing this little space with me and for reading and commenting.

It sure means a lot.

I finished my semester just in time to start a temp job with a commute to Redmond. Redmond is very sad and corporate. I am way out of my nonprofit bubble.

Still. Do you ever just stop and think how wonderful it is to be part of something? Certainly, I am part of my grad program, part of my friendships and relationships, part of many communities. But to be part of something as seemingly simple and mundane as a team in a massive company, to maybe be doing something that will do some good for people somewhere down the line, even if I won’t necessarily see it immediately, is a good, rejuvenating feeling.

It’s all well and good to sit in my apartment critiquing and revising and essentially moving words around on a screen. Writing gets to the soul of me and I often tell people that I need to write to be ok. That’s as true as ever. But it’s also true that I feel inspired by being out in the world, and work gives me an excuse for that. I also, sometimes, feel grumpy about being out in the world, but I write about that too, and then things feel better.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m striving for balance. I cannot live only to work a job with long hours and a long commute, with no time for writing. I struggle to live in a solitary bubble where all I do is write. I am more or less certain that I should strive for both.

In the spirit of being part of something, of sharing, of community, I want to share with you the simplest of all things: a recipe for “stuff on toast” that I’ve been eating like clockwork these past few weeks. The cold and rain that is, apparently, Seattle in December and the fact that I have little energy for dinner makes this so easy and that much more comforting. It’s not even really a recipe, but it is filling and good if you don’t feel like dealing with a recipe.

First, get some good bread; it doesn’t matter so much what, as long as it’s sturdy and has a chewy, “crusty” texture. I like sourdough loaves or seed loaves or lavain. Toast however many slices you want and rub them with the cut side of a clove of peeled garlic. While your bread is toasting, you can prepare your veggies. I can’t imagine much that wouldn’t work here, but I’ve had the most success with mushrooms of all types and crucifers like cabbage, brussels sprouts, kale, and cauliflower. Chop or tear or otherwise get your veggies into manageable bite-sized pieces, then heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet and saute them quickly over moderately high heat. I like crispy bits and edges, but really, it’s a matter of your taste. Season the veggies with salt.

Now, the fun part. You can do all kinds of things with your toast and veggies. Add herbs and spices: thyme, rosemary, herbes de provence, parsley, dill. Add some sour: tiny squeezes of lemon or drops of balsamic vinegar or wine. Give the veggies some body: little cubes of butter, lashes of cream. Pile the veggies on the toast and sprinkle with Parmesan or gruyere. Or, spread some creamy cheese like Brie or chevre on the toast before piling on the veggies. Or, just eat as is with no additions. It’ll still be great.

The only thing this post needs to put it in cheesy food blog territory is a picture. Sadly, you’ll just have to use your imagination; and anyway, it probably doesn’t look nearly as good as it tastes.

I hope you are all eating well and keeping warm. And that we can all take joy in being part of something.

Marathon

This morning, on my way to brunch, I ran a marathon. Or, ran with a marathon. Well, actually, walked. Ok, spent a lot of time standing on the shoulder of the sidewalk, in the mucky grass, listening to the marathon chug past me, all thundering feet and labored gasps. I labored just listening.

 

Google tells me that the marathon was an Amica Ensurance 10 K. As I walked the blocks around Seattle Center, I had no idea what had possessed these people to run, and I didn’t fully realize what was happening until I was caught up in a wave of them on Mercer and 6th Avenue. The tide of bodies swept me up and carried me along with it, up the hill and around the corner, where Metallica blasted from some speakers unseen. I was only walking, and felt totally undeserving of that “off to never never land” song.

 

Still, with runners on all sides, I found myself moving faster, with Kiva pulling and wagging her tail, eager for the race. At first I resisted. It was suddenly clear to me that I knew nothing of marathon etiquette. Was I supposed to find an alternate route so as to not be in the way? Was it okay to just waltz into the middle of the pack? I kept waiting for some official marathon person to tell me I was being a jerk, but everyone on the sidelines ignored me in favor of cheering on their runners, which suited me fine.

 

But, it didn’t stop one marathoner from gasping as she passed me, “Beautiful dog” and another, “Your purse is open.” By “purse” she meant BrailleNote, and it was open because I was using my GPS, but anyway. The point is, people are still people, even when running en masse.

 

Something else happened, too, as I tripped along with the surge of runners. For just a minute, I stopped thinking and just let myself be carried. I wasn’t considering where to go, how I’d get there, how I looked, or who was looking. Spending most of my life on alert, or pushing and pulling against societal ideals, or fighting for shreds of things I can control, I felt intense relief and peace to just be held up and supported, for a few blocks, for minutes that felt light and shimmery.

 

I needn’t heed traffic lights, because the streets were blocked. I needn’t think about where Kiva was going, because she went where the runners did, happily, freely. I felt out of my head, for just a while. Which was good. It was getting loud and stuffy and boring in there.

 

And then I went to brunch, because honestly, who can watch that many people running for their lives and not want to eat a whole pastry case?

 

But who knows, maybe someday I’ll run a marathon, to get that feeling of pack mentality again, for just a little while.

 

One-Stop Procrastination

You would be amazed at the number of things I get up to in order to avoid writing a paper I don’t want to write at the end of the semester. Like ogling recipes:

Pumpkin Stuffed with Everything Good

Cranberry Chutney

Rugelach!

Also, I just got rejected from a job, again, so I must spend a few hours dancing around my apartment to You Think You’re a Man. Don’t knock it til you try it, people, this song has carried me through many a bad break-up, a job rejection, or just a plain old bout of low self-esteem. This goes out to all the asshole boys who think they’re men, everywhere, of every gender. So there.

Also, snacks! Eating is so much better than writing, don’t you think?

Peppermint Malt Balls? I’m intrigued.

Orangettes!

Indian Snacks, for realz!

Don’t even get me started on Etsy.

Snakes! Whiplash! Metalwork!

All the daith piercing jewelry ever: (daith still sounds like some emo rock band opening for Incubus)

Not to mention Quitokeeto, I hate you but I love you Heidi.

Oh, and all the New Yorker articles I’m behind on, you know, the

Really

Long

Ones

Plus, the NYT ethical dilemma of the year.

And gosh, I still need to feed myself and put on pants and walk the dog, too. There’s absolutely no time to finish this paper.

The Compliment

On Friday night, I attended a meet-up of new friends at a coffee shop. There was live acoustic folk music and molasses cookies, and it was raining outside and cozy inside. We’d parked a gazillion blocks from the cafe, and at the end of the evening, Arlie offered to go for the car while I waited in the warmth. I’ve always been slightly afraid of melting in downpours, Wicked Witch of the West style, so I agreed to his suggestion.

This meant that half the group stayed with me to wait, which was very considerate of them. The bad part was that I was running out of things to say. We’d spent the majority of the night between tunes, (and sometimes during for the excitable among us), tripping our way through getting-to-know-you questions and answers in awkward fits of extroversion. This ranged from the banal and overworked, “So, what do you do?” to the even more bland, “So, what are your hobbies?”

Only one person had managed to ask me how much I could see, and how I got blind. I like to play a little game with myself when I’m in a group of new people, to see which ones I think will be the first to comment on my lack of sight. In my experience, it’s usually an older guy, sixties on up, who has a penchant for saying particularly awkward things.

Lucky me, there was one such guy in attendance that night, and I’d had him pegged from the beginning; he was the one who blurted out to everyone during a song break that he’d happily get naked in this very coffee shop if it were socially and lawfully acceptable. Thankfully, on both counts, it wasn’t. Not to knock nudity on a basic level, I, for one, just happened to be grateful to not have to witness his, blind or not.

Anyway, shortly after the nudity comment, this guy innocuously asked me how long I’d been in Seattle, how I liked it, and oh also, how much could I see and how did I become blind. Aha, I thought, I nailed this guy. I was so right. Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta, including self-congratulating on something completely stupid.

Anyway, after Arlie left for the car, and I settled in for a good half hour of small-talk and waiting, the blind topic came up again. Someone wanted to know what color Arlie’s car was, so they could watch for it.

“Is it red?”

“Huh. You know, I’m not actually sure, I guess I should find that out.”

“Oh, hahaha, I forgot. You can’t SEE his car. Isn’t that funny? I just didn’t remember you were blind. You should take that as a compliment.”

Should I?

Thing is, that compliment thing is a phrase I hear a lot. I’m so, what? Normal? Talkative? Observant? Engaged? I’m so something that people “forget” I’m blind and ask me questions like what color someone’s car is, or what someone looks like. And then, apparently, when they remember that it’s likely I don’t know, it’s suddenly a huge compliment to me that my blindness just completely slipped their mind. Because, I can only assume, sighted is better than blind.

Being blind is NOT a compliment. When a sighted person can’t find something, like a restroom or an exit, and must enlist the help of another sighted person whom they perceive might be disgusted at their sight lapse, they say, “Sorry, I’m blind.” “Blind” is for self-deprecation; it’s to admit weakness, dare I say, even stupidity. It is not to empower or embolden, it is to embarrass. The other person laughs and says, “It’s ok.” Implying, whether they consciously mean to or not, that it’s ok to be oblivious if it’s laughed off with blindness. What more would they expect from a blind person?

Certainly, you might think I’m overreacting. But, the things we say, the language we use, is relevant and complicit in disparaging disadvantaged people. And I think most people know that; I’ve had people say the “Sorry, I’m blind” thing in front of me, then realize I’m there and quickly add, “No offense.” Because they know better, even if their knowing is an afterthought.

Also, I am complicit. Because I am afraid of being “that angry blind chick”, I didn’t say what I should have said that night, which was, “Actually, I’d consider it a bigger compliment if you respected me while remembering full well that I’m blind.” Certainly, it’s ok, and even healthy, to not fixate on my blindness, or even to forget it. But don’t assume I’ll be flattered by the “compliment” of being perceived as a sighted person. I want to be perceived as me, and, among many other things, I’m blind.