"Between the Crock Pot and the Clouds"

A day of solitude, drag‑show memory, fasting, fog, and the small lessons that lift us.

Guarding the Quiet
Some days the urge to write arrives like a tide—steady, insistent, impossible to ignore. On those days, the smallest interruption feels like a theft. The solution is simple: shut the world out. Silence the phone. Close the door. Let solitude do its work.

I’ve accepted that I’m no longer a “phone person.” I prefer to be seen on my own terms, not summoned by a ringtone or a blinking screen. The idea of being a “Zoomie”—someone who thrives on constant calls and video chats—has never appealed to me. I choose when I’m visible.

Breaks, But Only the Necessary Ones
Even on a writing day, a few breaks are unavoidable. Joaquin is the rare exception—he knows how to exist in my space without disturbing the current, even if he lingers at my bar a little too long. I let him be.

The real break comes later, when the fog lifts and the rain gives up. That’s when I head to the gym. The air is still cold, but softer than before, and stepping outside resets something in me.

Fasting and Preparation
Today we’re fasting until sunset. Thankfully, everything is already slow‑cooking in the crock pot—a gift from a generous bartender at Whiskey River. That small act of kindness means I can write without worrying about food. When the fast ends, a warm meal will be waiting.
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A Story That Stays With You
I’m finishing Amrou Al‑Kadhi’s You Made Me a Monster, a story that has had me laughing from start to finish. Al‑Kadhi writes about the moment his mother told him, at fifteen, “You’re not you, you’re me!”—a declaration that shook him to the core.

Labeled a problem child, he spiraled through blackout weekends and bruised returns home. But drag saved him. Drag gave him glamour, power, and a way to turn fear into self‑expression. It let him reclaim the narrative.

One line lingers with me:
“And even as someone who makes a career out of confident provocation, I yearn for safety and normality too.”

Looking at the old photo on the cover for this blog—one I took at a drag show in San Francisco—I’m reminded of the electricity that happens when someone steps fully into themselves. The lights, the glitter, the unapologetic presence—it’s the same energy Al‑Kadhi writes about, that moment when performance becomes power. Drag has a way of turning fear inside out, transforming it into something luminous. Even as an observer, I felt that charge, that sense of possibility. It’s a reminder that visibility can be both dangerous and divine.

Safety, Community, and the Places We Call Home
I understand that yearning. I love Peekskill, but it doesn’t always feel safe. The gay community here is quiet, often hidden. I’ve been verbally attacked by a stranger simply because of my walk. Even on good days, caution is part of the routine.

New York City is different. There, anonymity is a kind of freedom. People don’t care who you are or where you come from. Here, visibility can still be dangerous.

A Moment of Peace
But then I look up through the fog and see a young eagle gliding toward the river. A small reminder to breathe. To smile. To keep going. These moments—unexpected, fleeting—are what anchor me.
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Funny how the universe works: a drag queen in San Francisco and a young eagle over the Hudson both teaching the same lesson — rise anyway.