The other day I listened to a Longform interview with Jonah Weiner in which Weiner mentions “mystique” as one of the core ingredients of his newsletter Blackbird Spyplane’s “special sauce”/success. I was listening while walking up a steep old road in a snowy pine forest that falls apart every time there’s a heavy rain. I crunched through the snow and considered my relationship to mystique. I came to the conclusion that while some people have “no chill,” I have “no mystique” or at least, no mystique when it comes to the production of this newsletter.

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Then, I had a night of bad dreams, the kind of night where you go through bad dream Level 1, solve it, get up to go to the bathroom, return to bed thinking everything is fine, and then another terrorist appears. The only thing that allowed me to move out of the Level 2 dream is that I made a plan to escape by crossing the Penobscot River in Bucksport, right where the river narrows. The air was mild, the water might follow, I figured. I allowed myself to fall asleep in the dream because I had a solid plan for the early morning hours when I would make my escape.

Between the dream and where I stood blinded by the afternoon sun, was a map.1

When I woke up (the version of me that is writing this now, not my dream self), I dropped my car off at the shop and spend the morning digging into stories. Sometimes thinking through stories requires maps. I wanted to know elevation levels, shapes, geological formations, the puzzles of land and sea, what if there were no bridges, etc. The location of the story I was thinking about is Verona Island (panáwahpskek - where the rocks spread out). Then I looked north to the place where I planned to cross the river in my dream, and saw that the Penobscot name for it is “place where one crosses.”

Of course, I’ve looked at these maps before. Of course, I had taken these names in. Of course, I had forgotten them, save for the ones I’ve knowingly integrated. Of course, the spot where the river narrows would be where people crossed. It was for the Penobscot. It was for the Hancock-Waldo Ferry. But now, it’s not. (Except in my dreams, perhaps)

As a working parent of two young children in schools 20 miles apart my days, typically, are fairly rote and bridled. Deviance from routine requires discussion, which can serve to snuff spontaneity, even within an equitable partnership. But that day, I decided to take myself to the spot I had dreamt about to see what would happen. There is nothing I love more than lowering the proverbial drawbridge that frees me to explore whatever I set my sights upon—the feeling of not knowing what will happen or where I will end up is euphoric.

By afternoon, I was in Bucksport. The foliage was not verdant as it had been in my dream because the spot I had been dreaming of is covered by a former paper mill/future salmon farm and because it’s February in “Maine.” There are things I could say about what I know of the history of that place and how it is represented by plaques, among other things, but either because of my new awareness of the power of mystique or because I hope to write about it later, I will refrain.

Here’s what I found in the place of my dreams, though: two employees of a local establishment working together to dump a giant bucket of cooking grease into a dumpster that was already full, yellow oil oozing over the sides. This skeleton sitting at a table in the basement beside the dumpster, playing with trash and an empty bottle of Dasani water. People taking themselves for brisk walks. The former paper mill vibrating loudly. Windy, squinting light.

The next day, I tried to buy two slices of pizza for $3 on my lunch break but the pizza place was closed. Two women walked passed me. “Bucksport,” one of them intoned but I can tell the difference between coincidence and instructions. I bought soup at an alternate location and obediently returned to my desk at my day job.2

(Admittedly, I may have lost the mystique thread but it’s the last day of February and this newsletter must be released by midnight or else.)

New Work in the World

Applications to programs, residencies, grants, encouraging conversations, a pitch accepted, an ongoing Wilhelm Reich project (the reporting continues, the vessel for the story yet unknown. This one has become a story that lives alongside me, an animal, a housemate, a personal weather), a turn toward the potential of audio storytelling, like everyone else.

A few weeks ago I was full of so many ideas for stories and projects, momentum, and incredibly vexed because my time does not offer the space I need in order to bring these things to fruition and because bringing them to fruition, to you, makes me feel so alive.

So I started a Patreon. More on that here. You can become a patron for $5, $10, or $20 a month. It helps a lot, I promise. There’s a lot in the cards, many destinations to reach when the drawbridge is lowered.

Currents

I fell into a wall while dancing to A Hampster’s Life the other day. It’s that good. My kids have a Chinese dwarf hamster. We are all-hamster, all the time.

Hampton the Hampster is a great musical artist and I’m so happy you made it to the end of this newsletter. Thank you.

Thank you for reading hells bells.