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Reporting to Sickbay

I got a little distracted this morning watching Starfleet Academy and completely forgot to write a post. It happens.

There’s not much exciting to report today, but I am seeing my new neurologist for the first time. I’ve been waiting nearly three years for the Headache Clinic to hire a new permanent neurologist, so this appointment has been a long time coming. I’m cautiously optimistic—and really hoping this one sticks around.

She seems fresh out of medical school—very Dr. Bashir energy—though I’m realistic enough to know she won’t be nearly as distractingly attractive.

And since I haven’t posted an Isabella Pic of the Week in a while, here’s one for this week. 🐾

She knows when she sees something pretty.

Now off to get ready. 🚿

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The image is a photograph by Georgian photographer Butu Bilikhodze, titled "Nico". 

A Migraine’s Shadow

To see the uncensored pic, click “Read more” below.

While I’m feeling better today, I’m still not 100 percent. I seem to have entered the postdrome phase of my migraine—often called a “migraine hangover.” The symptoms usually include fatigue, difficulty concentrating, head tenderness, and mood changes.

For me, I think of it as a shadow headache. The headache is still there, just not as intense—like it’s hiding in the background. I also tend to get brain fog during this phase, when thoughts and movements feel slower than usual, as if everything is happening a half-step behind.

That being said, I’m going to skip a poetry post this week. I’m just not up to writing one right now. I have class preparations and meetings today, and while I wish I could stay home another day to recover, tomorrow I’m out for my first appointment with my new neurologist at the Headache Clinic. Then it’s right back into things with a class first thing Friday morning.

Sometimes listening to your body means easing up where you can—and this week, poetry will have to wait.

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Migraine

I’ve had a migraine that started yesterday and was still there when I woke up this morning. Between the pain and the fog, I just didn’t have it in me to write a poetry post today.

I’ll probably share one tomorrow, once my head is feeling a bit more cooperative.

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It’s Monday

It’s Monday.

And honestly? I hate Mondays.

I think Garfield may have been onto something.

Garfield was right about two things: his absolute hatred of Mondays and his undying love for lasagna. Mondays arrive far too early, demand far too much, and somehow expect us to be cheerful about it. They interrupt perfectly good weekends, drag us back into responsibility, and pretend that coffee alone will fix everything.

Lasagna, on the other hand, asks nothing of us except that we enjoy it. Comfort layered upon comfort. Warm, reliable, and deeply reassuring—everything Monday is not.

So if you’re dragging yourself into this week feeling a little grumpy, a little tired, and wholly unenthusiastic, you’re in excellent company. Even a cartoon cat knew that Mondays are best approached with sarcasm, snacks, and very low expectations.

Garfield was right.

About both things.

This is a stupid video and obviously staged, but it made me laugh and brought a smile to my face. That’s not an easy feat on a Monday morning.

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Living in the Truth We Know

Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

—John 8:32 

John 8:32 is one of those verses that lingers. It doesn’t rush us. Jesus speaks about truth as something we come to know—something lived into over time. For LGBTQ+ Christians, that truth often unfolds differently depending on where we are, who surrounds us, and what safety allows.

Some of us live openly and honestly in the world. Others remain closeted, carefully guarding parts of themselves. Many of us move between the two—out in some spaces, quiet in others. Jesus’ words hold all of that. He does not say, “Declare everything at once and you will be free.” He says, “Remain in my word.” Freedom grows from relationship, not performance.

Truth, in Scripture, is not merely disclosure. It is integrity. It is living without denying the image of God within us. The psalmist writes, “Surely you desire truth in the inner parts” (Psalm 51:6). That inner truth may be fully expressed outwardly—or it may be something you are still learning to honor within yourself. Both can be faithful.

For those who are out, John 8:32 can be a reminder that freedom is not a one-time achievement. Living truthfully requires ongoing courage—especially when the world still questions your dignity or your faith. Staying rooted in truth means resisting the temptation to shrink, soften, or spiritualize away who you are for the comfort of others.

For those who are closeted, this verse is not a condemnation. Silence can be survival. Privacy can be wisdom. Jesus never demands vulnerability where it would cause harm. Truth can exist even when it is held quietly. God is not fooled by appearances, and God is not offended by caution.

What Scripture does challenge is hatred—especially when it is taught as holiness.

Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar.

—1 John 4:20

That verse speaks outwardly, but it also speaks inwardly. If the faith we’ve inherited leads us to despise LGBTQ+ people—or ourselves—then something has gone wrong. Love of God and love of people are inseparable. That includes the person you are becoming.

Proverbs reminds us, “Truthful lips endure forever” (Proverbs 12:19). Truth lasts. It does not need to be forced. It does not expire because it is not spoken yet. And Jesus himself says, “I am the way and the truth and the life” (John 14:6). Truth is not an argument to win; it is a presence that walks with us.

Whether you are out, closeted, or somewhere in between, the invitation is the same: do not live at war with yourself. Do not believe that God requires your erasure. The truth that frees us is the truth that affirms our humanity and calls us into love.

Wherever you are today—visible or hidden, confident or uncertain—God is not asking you to rush your story. Freedom grows where love is allowed to breathe. The truth Jesus speaks of does not strip us of safety or dignity; it leads us, gently and faithfully, toward wholeness.

As an aside, when I took Spanish in high school, we had to learn a different Bible verse in Spanish every week. The first one we learned and the only one I can still remember is:

Yo soy el camino, y la verdad, y la vida

—Juan 14:6

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Moment of Zen: Men in the Kitchen

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From My Couch to the Stars 🖖

Today is my usual Friday work-from-home day, and thank goodness for that, because our high today is expected to be 16 degrees. 🥶

I have absolutely no plans to leave my apartment. I’m staying curled up on my couch, staying warm, getting done what work I need to do, and then monitoring emails for the rest of the day.

Star Trek: Starffleet Academy premiered yesterday, and as a Star Trek fan, I watched it as soon as I could—meaning right after I got home from work. It was better than I expected, though the jury is still out. I’ll definitely keep watching, and I’m hopeful it will find its footing. It seems to have real potential.

Have a great weekend, everyone. Stay warm. 🖖❄️

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Inaccurate Forecasts

Isabella woke me up way too early this morning and simply would not leave me alone. Eventually, I gave in, got up, fed her, and did something I almost never do when she wakes me before my alarm: I laid down on the couch, pulled a blanket over me, and went back to sleep.

I ended up sleeping a little longer than usual, which helped… a bit. I still don’t really want to be awake, but here we are—I have to go to work today. If I didn’t have two meetings I really don’t want to put off, I’d probably call in. Not just because I’m not feeling great, but because the weather is awful, and that almost guarantees a stressful drive in.

Last night, the news said this snow and wintery mix wouldn’t arrive until this evening. They were very explicit that my part of Vermont would be one of the last to see snow. Apparently, though, once the system crossed the mountains, it decided to ignore the forecast entirely and switched abruptly from rain to snow.

So now it’s dark and snowy, but at least it’s Thursday and tomorrow will be a work from home day. Right now, I’m just trying to convince myself that coffee will be enough to get my day started.

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Quiet Morning

Some mornings the words just don’t show up, and today is one of those. My mind feels completely blank, with nothing exciting—or even mildly interesting—happening to spark a post. I’m sitting here with my coffee, staring at the screen, very aware that this is what writer’s block looks like in real time. So if this feels a little quiet, that’s why. Sometimes showing up with nothing to say is still showing up.

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Young Republican

Young Republican
by Randall Mann

September, 1984.
The heat was like a ray-gun.
The Communists had much to fear:
His name was Ronald Reagan—

and so was mine in middle school,
throughout the mock debate.
The recreation hall was full
of democratic hate.

I ended all my thoughts with well,
declared my love for Nancy.
My stifling suit was poly-wool.
I sounded like a pansy.

But teachers didn’t seem to care
that Ronald Reagan looked
a little fey, and had some flair.
I wanted to be liked,

the boy who mowed the neighbors’ yards,
the new kid in Ocala—
while Mondale read his index cards,
I sipped a Coca Cola

that I had spiked with Mother’s gin,
and frowned, and shook my head.
Oh Walter, there you go again,
I smiled and vainly said.

I reenacted getting shot.
I threw benign grenades.
I covered up what I forgot.
I never mentioned AIDS.

About the Poem

“Young Republican” is sharp, funny, and devastating all at once—a poem that understands how performance can become survival. Set in September 1984, the poem unfolds during a middle-school mock debate at the height of the Reagan era. The speaker shares a name with Ronald Regan, a coincidence that becomes both costume and shield.

What Mann captures so precisely is the choreography of belonging: the poly-wool suit, the rote praise of Nancy Reagan, the rehearsed disdain for Walter Mondale, the Coke spiked with gin (childhood bravado masquerading as adulthood). This is a boy learning how to read the room—and how to disappear inside it.

The poem’s humor (“I sounded like a pansy”) is double-edged. On the surface, it’s self-deprecating; beneath it, the line exposes how queerness is policed through voice, gesture, and tone. Teachers “didn’t seem to care” that Reagan “looked / a little fey,” while the boy himself desperately wants to be liked. The implication is clear: effeminacy can be tolerated when it’s power-adjacent, abstracted, or safely ironic—but not when it belongs to a vulnerable kid trying to pass.

And then there’s the ending. The final line—“I never mentioned AIDS.”—lands like a trapdoor. Everything before it has been satire and social observation; suddenly the stakes snap into focus. The poem becomes unmistakably LGBTQ+. In 1984, AIDS was not merely absent from middle-school debate—it was actively erased, even as it ravaged queer communities. Silence here is not ignorance; it’s learned omission. The speaker understands, even then, what must not be said if he wants to remain acceptable.

This is why the poem resonates so deeply as a queer text. It isn’t about desire in any overt sense. It’s about concealment, mimicry, and the emotional cost of aligning oneself with systems that promise safety while denying truth. The boy’s performance of conservatism isn’t ideological conviction—it’s camouflage.

“Young Republican” asks uncomfortable questions:

• What did we have to hide to be allowed in the room?
  
• What did we rehearse instead of telling the truth?
  
• And what names—personal or political—did we borrow in order to survive?
  

About the Poet

Randall Mann is an American poet known for his formally inventive, emotionally incisive work that often explores queerness, masculinity, memory, and cultural performance. His poems frequently engage pop culture and politics, using wit and structure to probe deeply personal experiences. Mann’s work is especially attuned to the ways language, roles, and social expectations shape queer lives—often revealing how humor and restraint coexist with grief and loss.

“Young Republican” is a quintessential example of Mann’s voice: controlled, ironic, and quietly devastating, leaving the reader to sit with what’s been said—and what was never allowed to be spoken.

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Monday, According to Isabella

I woke up this morning, opened one eye, and saw Isabella standing next to me, staring—clearly just about to wake me.

I closed my eye again, rolled over, and checked the time.

3:00 a.m.

Then it hit me.

Fuck. It’s Monday. I have to go to work today.

I went back to sleep, absolutely not ready to face the day.

Isabella tried again at 4:00 a.m. I ignored her. By 4:30, she was more persistent, so I constructed a pillow barrier between us and fell back asleep. That worked… briefly.

I woke again and noticed the living room light was on—a sure sign that it was after 5:00 a.m., which in Isabella’s mind means it’s time to escalate the campaign.

I checked the clock.

5:05 a.m.

Ugh.

At that point, I had no choice but to start my day.

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Joy as an Ethical Measure

“I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”

— John 15:11

There is a quiet belief that has shaped my life more than I sometimes realize: joy matters.

Not just my joy—but the joy I help create in others.

That idea can feel almost subversive in a faith tradition that has often taught us to be suspicious of pleasure and wary of desire. We were taught, sometimes explicitly and sometimes by implication, that holiness was measured by restraint, by endurance, by how much of ourselves we could deny. Joy, if it appeared at all, was treated as a reward—something deferred, conditional, or fleeting.

Yet Jesus says something very different.

He speaks of joy not as a side effect, but as an intention: “that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.” This is not the language of scarcity or fear. It is the language of fullness—of lives lived in connection, honesty, and mutual regard.

When I examine my choices—whether they are tender, complicated, earthy, or entirely ordinary—I find myself returning to three simple questions:

• Did this bring life?
  
• Did it honor the other?
  
• Would I receive what I’m offering?
  

These questions aren’t loopholes or excuses. They are ethical touchstones. They force me to consider not just what I want, but how my actions land in the lives of others.

They echo Jesus’ own teaching: “In everything, do to others as you would have them do to you” (Matthew 7:12). This is not about moral bookkeeping; it is about reciprocity. It assumes dignity. It assumes consent. It assumes that love is something exchanged, not extracted.

Paul writes, “For you were called to freedom… only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become servants to one another” (Galatians 5:13). Freedom here is not erased by desire—it is guided by love. Service is not self-erasure; it is attentiveness to the humanity in front of us.

Even in places where language is earthy and desire is intense, the Spirit does not suddenly leave the room. The question is not, Was this pure enough? but Was this honest? Was it mutual? Was it life-giving?

Scripture reminds us that “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace…” (Galatians 5:22). Joy is not an afterthought—it is evidence. When joy appears alongside love and peace, something sacred is taking place.

At my core, I don’t believe ethics are about shrinking ourselves to avoid harm. I believe they are about showing up fully—awake to our own humanity and to the humanity of others. Joy that honors the other is not selfish. It is relational. It reflects the God who looked at creation and called it very good (Genesis 1:31).

Perhaps the holiest question we can ask is not Am I allowed? but Did this make room for life?

If it did—if it honored, enlivened, and respected—then joy was not a detour from faith.

It was the path itself.

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Moment of Zen: Coffee

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Friday, Interrupted (Briefly)

I don’t have a whole lot to say this morning—and honestly, that feels very on brand for a Friday.

Thankfully, it is Friday, and I’m working from home today, which already puts the day in a better light. Last night, however, didn’t help much. I stayed up far too late watching the Fiesta Bowl, only to see Ole Miss lose to Miami in the final minutes. Disappointing endings are never great, but they’re especially rude when they cost you sleep.

Of course, Isabella did not care about any of that. She still wanted breakfast at 4 a.m. sharp. She’s fed now, priorities have been addressed, and since I’m working from home, I have the luxury of crawling back into bed for a little while longer.

That’s exactly what I’m about to do. With any luck, I’ll be sound asleep again by the time this posts—dreaming of a better ending, a quieter night, and maybe a nap later that doesn’t involve football at all.

Happy Friday, friends. I hope yours starts a little more smoothly than mine.

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A Bit Sore, but Moving Forward

Yesterday’s root canal went far better than I expected. In fact, it was quick and almost anticlimactic. I spent more time sitting in the chair waiting for the dentist than I did actually having the procedure done—long enough, even, to finish the book I’d brought with me. That felt like a small victory in itself.

The novocain did its job without causing the usual problems. No nitrous oxide here—none of the dentists around me seem to use it—but thankfully, the numbing agent didn’t trigger a migraine this time, which is always my biggest concern. When I got home, I lay down and took a solid nap. By the time I woke up, the numbness had completely worn off.

That’s when the soreness set in. I was achy once the novocain faded, and I woke up this morning still feeling some lingering pain. It’s not unexpected, and it’s manageable, but it does mean I’m moving a little slower today and being intentional about resting, hydrating, and not pushing myself.

Unfortunately, today is still an in-office day. I have a list of things that need to get done and some catching up that can’t really wait, so in I go—even if I’d much rather be taking it easy. The small consolation is knowing that tomorrow will be a work-from-home day, which will allow me to slow down, stay comfortable, and give my body a bit more grace as it continues to recover.

I want to keep today’s post centered on that—on health, recovery, and listening to what my body needs. I know I sometimes write about politics here, and many of you may have seen the news about the tragic shooting of a woman in Minneapolis yesterday by an ICE officer. I’m too horrified and angry to say much more right now. What I will say is this: sending armed agents into cities to intimidate and terrorize civilians is not governance—it’s cruelty. And history is very clear about how “I was just following orders” has never been an acceptable excuse for crimes against humanity.

That said, today I need to pull my attention back to healing, to staying grounded, and to taking care of myself so I can show up again with clarity and strength. Some days require reflection and outrage; others require rest and recovery. Today is the latter, with a quiet acknowledgment of the former.

I hope your own day is gentler than my jaw feels at the moment—and that you’re finding space to care for yourself, too.

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A Restless Night

I didn’t sleep well last night.

I tossed and turned for hours, and when I did manage to fall asleep, it never lasted long—maybe forty-five minutes at a time before I woke again. Then came the familiar routine: staring at the ceiling, shifting positions, waiting another five or ten minutes for sleep to return. It was a long, restless night.

I think part of it is the root canal I have scheduled today. It needs to be done, and it’s already been rescheduled twice—not by me, I’ll add—but knowing it’s coming has clearly been sitting with me more than I realized. There’s a particular kind of dread that doesn’t announce itself loudly; it just hums quietly in the background until night falls and there’s nothing left to distract you.

I’ve put soup in the slow cooker so it’ll be ready when I get home tonight. At least that’s one small thing handled—something warm and soft waiting at the end of the day. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to take a nap this afternoon and let my body catch up a bit.

I hate when things keep me up at night. Sometimes it’s dreams I can’t quite remember, fragments of emotion without a story attached. Other times it’s the simple dread of the coming day. Last night felt like a mixture of both—a blur of unease, half-formed thoughts, and the stubborn refusal of sleep to stay.

Here’s hoping tonight is gentler.