Fingers Crossed

This is going to be a short one.

I woke up again in the middle of the night with a migraine. I was able to take some medicine and get back to sleep, but when I woke up this morning, it was still there—lingering and stubborn. My throat is still sore too, so I made a cup of tea with honey to try to soothe it before heading out.

If I didn’t have two important things to take care of at work today—things I can’t really hand off to anyone else—I would probably call in sick. I’ll give my VIP tour first thing this morning and finish a few preparations for next week’s program. After that, if I’m still not feeling better, I’ll head home and rest.

I’m hoping the migraine eases as the morning goes on. Fingers crossed that everything goes as planned—and that if I need to leave once the priority work is done, I can do so without a problem.

Here’s hoping for a gentle day. 🤞

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Finding My Voice

I woke up in the middle of the night with a migraine—something that rarely happens. I was able to fall back asleep, but the headache lingered into the morning. On top of that, my throat feels raw and sore, and yesterday my voice wasn’t very strong. I kept feeling like I couldn’t quite project at a normal volume. I’m drinking some hot tea this morning in hopes of soothing my throat and giving my voice a little help. I’m hoping whatever this is passes quickly.

I have a follow-up dentist appointment this afternoon for the root canal I had last month, and I’m not putting that off. More importantly, tomorrow morning I’m giving a VIP tour of the museum. My guest is a nationally known political figure—no, not Bernie—but someone a bit more controversial.

It’s encouraging to know the university asked me to lead the tour. After more than ten years of giving tours at the museum, I should be able to handle it. I’ve led generals and admirals (both U.S. and international), diplomats, and politicians through our galleries. Years ago, a visit like this might have made me nervous. Not anymore. I know the collection. I know the stories. And honestly, I look forward to these opportunities.

Now I just need my voice to cooperate so I can give the kind of tour they’re expecting.

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Love Song for Love Songs

Love Song for Love Songs

By Rafael Campo 

A golden age of love songs and we still

can’t get it right. Does your kiss really taste

like butter cream? To me, the moon’s bright face

was neither like a pizza pie nor full;

the Beguine began, but my eyelid twitched.

“No more I love you’s,” someone else assured

us, pouring out her heart, in love (of course)—

what bothers me the most is that high-pitched,

undone whine of “Why am I so alone?”

Such rueful misery is closer to

the truth, but once you turn the lamp down low,

you must admit that he is still the one,

and baby, baby he makes you so dumb

you sing in the shower at the top of your lungs.

————

Here we are, edging toward Valentine’s Day—cards already in the stores, playlists full of old love songs, and that familiar pressure to feel something cinematic. For queer folks especially, love has often arrived through borrowed lyrics and secondhand metaphors. We learned the language of romance from straight pop songs and classic standards that never quite named us, yet somehow still found their way into our hearts. This week feels like a good moment to sit with a poem that knows that tension well: the joy of love songs, and the gentle skepticism that comes with actually living love.

————

About the Poem

“Love Song for Love Songs” is a poem that both adores and distrusts the clichés of romance. Campo opens by acknowledging the abundance of love songs—a golden age—and immediately undercuts them. The metaphors we’ve been fed (“pizza pie,” “butter cream,” the perfect moon) feel exaggerated, even a little silly, when held up against real experience. Love, the poem suggests, is rarely that tidy or sweet.

What replaces those polished metaphors is something messier and more honest: loneliness, self-doubt, the ache behind the question “Why am I so alone?” Campo admits that this rueful misery may be closer to the truth than any glossy refrain. And yet—and this is the poem’s quiet triumph—love still sneaks in. Lower the lights. Admit that he is still the one. Admit how foolish and undone love can make you.

The final image is perfect in its ordinariness: singing in the shower, loudly and without shame. Not because love has become poetic or profound, but because it has made you human, ridiculous, and alive. For LGBTQ+ readers, that feels especially resonant. Our love stories have often been private, improvised, or half-hidden, but the joy—unguarded and a little dumb—rings just as true.

————

About the Poet

Rafael Campo is an American poet and physician whose work frequently explores the intersections of the body, illness, desire, and identity. Openly gay, Campo has written with remarkable clarity about queer love, vulnerability, and the ways language both reveals and conceals truth. His poetry often blends pop culture, medicine, and intimate emotional insight, making space for tenderness without sentimentality.

Campo’s voice is especially important in LGBTQ+ literature because it refuses grandiosity. Instead, it honors the small, lived moments—awkwardness, doubt, pleasure—that make love real. In poems like this one, he reminds us that even if love songs get it wrong, love itself still finds a way to be sung.

As Valentine’s Day approaches, this poem feels like permission: permission to roll your eyes at the clichés, to acknowledge the loneliness, and still—maybe especially still—to sing.

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Not Quite Awake Yet

It was so hard to get up this morning. I went to bed on time and didn’t wake up during the night, but it still felt like I needed a few more hours of sleep. Maybe it’s because I had to go to work, or maybe it’s because it’s –7 degrees outside and the bed felt especially safe and warm.

Some mornings just carry that extra weight—the kind where your body is awake before your spirit has caught up. I know I’ll make it through the day. I have a meeting this afternoon that I can’t miss or reschedule, and responsibilities have a way of pulling us forward even when we’d rather stay still for a little while longer.

At some point I’ll feel more awake. Coffee and the morning news will come first, easing me into the day, and then a hot shower before getting ready for work. It doesn’t all have to happen at once.

I hope everyone has a gentle start to their week and finds small moments of warmth—whether that’s a hot drink, a quiet moment, or just the reassurance that we don’t have to be fully “on” right away.

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No Favorites

“My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ?” 

—James 2:1

James doesn’t ease into this passage. He comes right out and names the problem: favoritism. He paints a vivid scene—one person dressed in fine clothes is welcomed, honored, given the best seat. Another, poor and unimpressive, is pushed aside, told to stand or sit on the floor. James calls this what it is: making distinctions, becoming judges with evil thoughts.

On the surface, this sounds like a warning about wealth. But beneath that is something broader and more uncomfortable. James is talking about how quickly we decide who is worthy of attention, dignity, and care—and who is not.

For gay men, this hits close to home.

Our community often claims to value inclusivity, but in practice we frequently reward youth, beauty, muscles, and a very specific idea of desirability. Older gay men are ignored. Average bodies are overlooked. Anyone who doesn’t fit the polished image of the “ideal man” becomes invisible—or worse, quietly dismissed. We may not say it out loud, but our actions speak clearly: you matter less.

I know I’m guilty of this. All you have to do is look at the pictures I post. Before I even came out to myself, I told myself that I liked beautiful, muscular men because I wanted to look like that—not because I was gay. That story helped me avoid a harder truth. It also revealed how deeply I had absorbed the belief that beauty equals worth.

James doesn’t let us off the hook by calling this a harmless preference. He says plainly:

“Have you not made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts?” (James 2:4)

That’s uncomfortable language. But James isn’t interested in shaming us—he’s interested in freeing us from a system of value that is not God’s.

God’s economy works differently. James reminds us that God consistently chooses those the world overlooks:

“Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom?” (James 2:5)

When we privilege only the beautiful, the young, the desired, we mirror the very hierarchies that once crushed us. We recreate exclusion while insisting we’re liberated.

James points us back to what he calls “the royal law”:

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (James 2:8)

Love, here, isn’t abstract. It’s concrete. It shows up in who we notice, who we listen to, who we make room for, and who we dismiss without a second thought. Favoritism—even subtle, unspoken favoritism—breaks that law.

This passage ends with both warning and hope:

“For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.” (James 2:13)

Mercy triumphs. Not beauty. Not youth. Not desirability. Mercy.

This isn’t about never appreciating beauty. It’s about recognizing how easily we confuse attraction with value—and how often that confusion leads us to overlook the sacredness in bodies and lives that don’t fit our ideals.

The invitation here isn’t guilt. It’s honesty. It’s asking ourselves: Who am I giving the best seat to? And who am I asking to stand off to the side?

God shows no partiality. And every time we choose mercy over judgment, we step a little closer to seeing one another—and ourselves—the way God already does.

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Moment of Zen: Reading

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An In-Between Kind of Day

I’m so glad today is a work-from-home day. Tomorrow I’ll be in early for a special event, so having this quieter morning feels like a small gift.

Since I’m working on Saturday, I had yesterday off—and because I’m working from home today, I’ll still need to head in early to get everything set up for the program I’ll be doing. It’s one of those in-between days: not exactly a day off, not quite a full workday either.

I only wish today’s weather was what we’re expecting tomorrow. Today will warm up to about 23 degrees—the mildest it’s been in weeks. Tomorrow, though, is a very different story. We’re under a severe weather advisory, with wind chills expected to drop 20 to 30 below zero. At least the museum should be warm.

I have a few things to take care of while working from home today. Tomorrow’s program should wrap up by around 10 a.m., and after that, the rest of the day will be paperwork and taking things easy until it’s time to head home.

Some days are about bracing against the cold. Others are about finding the small comforts where you can—and today feels a bit like that.

* 🚨 * 🚨 * Red Alert * 🚨 * 🚨 *

🖖Possible spoiler ahead…

Starfleet Academy Update

Y’all know I’m a Star Trek fan, so you’ll just have to get used to at least five more weeks of me sharing my thoughts on Starfleet Academy. My favorite Star Trek series has always been Deep Space Nine. It’s one of the most complex and intriguing of all the Treks, and I’ve watched the entire series dozens of times.

I think we all have a movie or TV show we return to when we need something familiar—mindless comfort, a pick-me-up, or just a way to quiet whatever’s rattling around in our heads. For me, that show is Deep Space Nine.

So when I read that this week’s Starfleet Academy episode was being described as a “love letter to Deep Space Nine,” I was—needless to say—very excited.

There were definitely things I loved about the episode. The little bit of gay drama between Jay-Den and Kyle was fun, and Darem’s jealousy was about as subtle as a photon torpedo. Drag queen Jackie Cox appears, Tawny Newsome guest stars, and we get to see Cirroc Lofton again—who has grown into quite a handsome man.

That said… there is one thing about the episode that genuinely pissed me off.

If anyone’s curious what that was, let me know in the comments. I’m happy to answer there, or I may save it and talk more about it on Monday—once everyone who wants to watch the episode has had time to do so.

🖖

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A Quiet Morning

Some mornings, the words just don’t line up the way I want them to. Today is one of those days. I’m sitting here with thoughts drifting past, but none quite willing to settle into sentences.

That’s okay. Not every day needs a polished reflection or a carefully shaped idea. Sometimes showing up is enough.

I hope your day brings you something steady and kind—a good cup of coffee, a moment of quiet, a laugh you didn’t expect. Wherever you are and whatever you’re carrying, I hope today treats you gently.

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Halfway Through

Some days don’t arrive with an argument or an insight. They just show up.

Today is one of those days. The week is halfway over, which somehow feels both reassuring and slightly disorienting. I’m off tomorrow, though I’ll be working Saturday, so the usual rhythm of the week feels a little skewed—time folded in on itself.

Work today is steady but manageable. There are several things I need to get done, but nothing especially heavy or consuming—just the kind of tasks that move projects along without demanding all of my attention.

Thursday will be simple and practical. A short doctor’s appointment to finish something we couldn’t quite wrap up earlier in the week. Nothing dramatic, just a loose end being tied. After that, Planet Fitness—probably just thirty minutes on the treadmill. No grand workout plan, no pushing limits. Just walking, moving forward, letting my thoughts drift while the minutes pass.

I usually read while I’m on the treadmill. It makes the time go faster and keeps my mind from constantly checking in with that familiar question—how much longer? When I’m absorbed in a page or two, my body seems to take care of itself. I don’t think as much about balance or movement; I just keep going.

The part of the day I’m most looking forward to comes later: spending the afternoon with an older male friend I don’t get to see nearly often enough. We usually talk nonstop—about books, art, history, museums, and whatever else the conversation wanders into. Those kinds of conversations are their own kind of nourishment.

Not every day needs to be productive in obvious ways. Not every post needs a point. Some days are about maintenance—of the body, of routines, of friendships. And that’s enough.

Sometimes, halfway through the week, showing up quietly is its own accomplishment.

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Song of Myself, XI

Song of Myself, XI

By Walt Whitman

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,

Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;

Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,

She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?

Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,

You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,

The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it ran from their long hair,

Little streams passed all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,

It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,

They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,

They do not think whom they souse with spray.

About the Poem

This section of Leaves of Grass is one of Walt Whitman’s most quietly radical explorations of desire, longing, and the power of imagination. Twenty-eight young men bathe naked together in the water, carefree and unselfconscious, while a woman of the same age watches from the privacy of her home. She is physically separated from them—clothed, indoors, alone—yet in her imagination she becomes the “twenty-ninth bather,” joining their laughter and movement, touching and being touched. The men never see her; the encounter exists entirely within her longing.

Whitman presents this imagined intimacy as emotionally and sensually real, refusing to diminish it simply because it is unacted. There is no punishment for desire here, no moral correction. Wanting, especially wanting that cannot be fulfilled, is treated as a fundamental human experience rather than a failing. The poem honors the interior life as a space where longing has its own truth and legitimacy.

For 19th-century readers, this treatment of desire was deeply unsettling. The poem lingers on naked male bodies without euphemism, grants a woman an active erotic imagination, and treats sexual fantasy as natural rather than sinful. Victorian literary culture demanded modesty, restraint, and silence—particularly from women—but Whitman offers none of those reassurances. Instead, he insists on the holiness of the body and the legitimacy of erotic thought.

At the same time, the poem’s gaze dwells unmistakably on male physicality and communal intimacy: bodies floating together, bellies turned toward the sun, touch passing freely among them. This focus aligns with Whitman’s broader treatment of male-male closeness throughout Song of Myself, where affection between men is often physical, tender, and spiritually charged. Although framed through a woman’s perspective, the poem participates in Whitman’s larger project of celebrating bodily connection beyond conventional boundaries.

Read this way, the woman’s presence can feel almost like a veil—one that allows Whitman to explore erotic attention to male bodies and shared sensuality while navigating the social constraints of his time. Ultimately, the poem becomes less about voyeurism and more about exclusion and yearning: the ache to cross boundaries, to belong to a world of unguarded bodies and mutual touch, and to claim desire itself as something worthy of recognition and song.

About the Poet

Walt Whitman (1819–1892) reshaped American poetry by rejecting formal verse and embracing a bold, expansive free style that celebrated the self, the body, and the collective human experience.

With Leaves of Grass, Whitman insisted that:

• The body is sacred
• Desire is not separate from spirituality
• Love—especially between men—deserves poetic dignity

Though he never publicly named his sexuality, Whitman’s poetry has long been recognized as foundational to queer literary history. His work insists on the holiness of physicality and the legitimacy of desires that society prefers to hide.

Whitman’s enduring challenge to readers is simple and radical: to see the human body, in all its longing and beauty, as worthy of love and song.