Killer Dogs x Broken Arms, Dinner Parties x Dreams

If I could have any superpower it would be to jump really far.

But I want the momentum to build. I want each bounding jump to be a little farther than the last one, kinetic energy burning in my superpower-enhanced legs. When I was a night terror-racked child, I had the classic bad dreams of trying to run away from various things and not being able to move, but I (for some reason or another) could always jump down the entire staircase of my childhood house unharmed. I could not run, but I could jump.

My most recurring nightmare was originally a morphine induced one after breaking my arm at 8 after Easter church service, a perfect storm of meds and sleeping in my parent’s bed with the window cracked, coyotes that populated the woods across the street howling.

The dogs never stopped howling even as my arm bones knit themselves back together. But in my dreams I could always jump away.

Lately I’ve found myself wishing I had the power in my body that I have in my dreams. Perhaps this is exacerbated the health problems I find myself dealing with that I’ll keep semi-private, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sick (not proverbially unfortunately, but literally) trans experience and at least for me resentment of the blood and bones and nerves that keep you alive - pretty ungrateful, but I just can’t seem to help it.

I would welcome a killer dog nightmare at this point. I can’t sleep these days.

Yesterday I turned 24, surrounded by friends and my fiancee following a perfect weekend of dinner parties and dancing at the goth club in Parkdale. I love my birthday, call it attention mining but I enjoy not just the event but the act of aging. It feels like the one milestone I don’t have to work for, an accomplishment that rewards the days I just hung in there or did nothing (or slept for 14 hours as a result of the aforementioned health problems). I feel so intensely grateful for the folks I call my family, and every birthday party I love to sit back and watch people chat, eat the food I cooked, or play drinking games we’re getting too old for (chugging red wine at 24 is markedly harder than a G&T at 20). These are, I believe, the good old days, and I hope people feel the same as I do.

February also marked a million job/gig interviews and a mix of rejections and opportunities. I am holding out for a couple this week that I will not mention by name (for that would be very unseemly indeed), but regardless of outcome it’s a privilege to feel like I’m making strides as a playwright and director, with every showcase and offer and letter of intent I chip away at my life’s work like a cringe boomer comic of a guy old timey mining for jewels— you know the ones. What is mine will find me, what is coming is exciting, rejection is learning, and the people I’ve had a chance to work with are dazzling (most recently, shout out to Valentine for letting me direct your Rhubarb show at Buddies, now THAT was epic).

In general, the 23rd year of my life was so lovely I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I hope lady luck remains amenable to my case this year. When the other shoe inevitably does drop, I have my partner and my friends and my parent and my dog, and I will not jump away.