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Current Curiosities [Reading] Gaysians by Mike Curato [Listening] Lovett or Leave It Presents: Bravo, America! (with Bronwyn Newport) [Watching] Charlie's Angels + Full Throttle Cue Holiday Anxiety in 3, 2, 1 There comes a time for Christmas Every year around this time, I feel growing anxiety and a nostalgia, a grief for a past that never really existed. I know it's the shorter days and colder weather. Though I do love snow, and when Diego Dog was alive, I loved taking walks with him in the snow. And I know holidays are layered with unrealistic internal and external expectations. Complicated family dynamics and histories exacerbate these expectations. This year, I'm being more deliberate about how I spend my time and with whom. I'm even being intentional about how I listen to Christmas music in order to combat anxiety and to cultivate joy and wonder. I have a modest vinyl collection, which features a few Christmas albums, so instead of hitting next indefinitely on Spotify trying to find the best song for a particular ephemeral mood, I'm slowly down and listening to whole holiday albums. And honestly, it's really helped. I don't have to think about what song is coming next. I can just enjoy the ride — until the needle reaches the end of the track and the record needs flipping. Unsurprisingly, I really like the tactile nature of vinyl (careful of fingerprints, dingdong!). And turning over the record requires movement — stepping away from my desk, taking a quick break from a project — providing a moment to breathe, to decompress, to reset. Anyway, here are a few of my favorite Christmas albums from my collection:
Remember to take time for yourself. Remember no is a full sentence. And remember to cultivate your own joy. Wishing y'all warm, relaxing time with friends, family, and chosen family this holiday season! Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form. Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): Sherpa Ugly Christmas Sweater 2018 Limited Edition Pen Cover [Sharpie]
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Find It Where You Can Get It
Originally, I planned a post interrogating my internal cop. But in our season of rapidly rising fascism and eroding First Amendment rights, I wasn't striking the right tone for a reflective post on internalized policing. I'll continue revising this short essay until I find the right feel. Until then, I thought I'd share some things that are giving me joy during these heavy times. In no particular order, here we go:
Of Possible Interest On Friday, October 3, I'm presenting a workshop on navigating Human Resources for queer and trans folks at the North Dakota LGBTQIA2S+ Summit. I plan to cover why HR system are not meant to work for or support marginalized people, how to document harassment and discrimination, and explore some local, state, and federal (LOL) resources. After the workshop, I'll write up the biggest takeaways. Check out that post in November. Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form. Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): Sherpa Total Blackout Pen Cover [Sharpie] Current Curiosities
[Reading] American Teenager: How Trans Kids Are Surviving Hate and Finding Joy in a Turbulent Era by Nico Lang [Listening] Unicorn Girl [Watching] Thunderbolts* Transparent Writing Whenever I'm feeling anxious or need to start a new writing project, I close my laptop, set aside my iPhone, and either journal or outline essays by hand. Lately, more often than not, I use a fountain pen. The controlled pressure and movements slow down my brain, allowing me to deeply consider my thoughts and feelings, to take stock of what's going on or what I need to accomplish. I have a theory about particular writing instruments and what they connote about my own frame of mind. I've noticed when I'm feeling afloat and needing a sense of permanence, I write with Sharpie. When I'm exploring new ideas or need space for mistakes, I use pencils (either wooden or mechanical). While engineering marvels, I usually avoid ballpoint pens, as their ink is clumpy and inconsistent. But when I'm feeling confident and content, I return again and again to fountain pens. I'm probably overthinking these everyday tools, but their usage often corresponds to what's happening in my life. Working with children or for a construction company? Sharpie, it is. Working in Higher Education, pencils offer the pretense of impermanence. Pencils' erasability communicates writing is a process and nothing is fixed permanently in place. And then there's fountain pens. Thought, sometimes I'm too shy to use fountain pens in public — either in the office or at a coffeeshop — because Fargo-Moorhead is weirdly conservative for a relatively diverse Upper Midwestern metropolitan center, and as a queer person, I try not to draw extra attention to myself. But fountain pens are where my writing heart lies. In first grade, my parents asked me what I wanted instead of flowers for my first piano recital. (As a shy, anxious kid, I was ready to have the experience of playing an oversimplified Ode to Joy behind me.)I thought long and hard about what I wanted. A new Lego set??? Something else??? Then one Saturday a few weeks before my recital, my parents took my sister and me to Zandbroz, a now-shuttered eclectic home goods and stationery store anchoring Downtown Fargo. (In the 1990s and early 2000s, Downtown Fargo was hella queer. Sadly, in recent decades Downtown Fargo has been Burgumized, lobotomized, sanitized of queerness and culture in favor of the beige comfort of conservative white women.) Anyway, I wandered around the store, discovering glass display cases full of pens neatly knolled — ballpoints, rollerballs, and of course, fountain pens! While my dad browsed books and my mom and older sister perused bath and beauty products, I scoured the pen cases. The shopkeep (a queer woman, who I'd later encounter again working in my undergraduate library) came over and asked if I wanted to see anything up close. Fuck yes! I asked to see a blue plastic Lamy Safari, an ACME Studios No.2 Pencil, and a black-lacquered Cross, among others. But what caught my seven-year-old eye was an inexpensive colorful Parker Vector. The barrel was covered in a Mondrian-inspired pattern and had a black arrowhead clip. I told the shopkeep what it was for, and she asked if I wanted a box, as this particular pen was open stock. As she boxed up my new fountain pen, she slid a few extra blue ink cartridges on the house. What a kindness! Now, I had to wait a couple weeks to receive the pen after completing my Ode to Joy performance. I thought about that pen every day until the day of the recital. As everyone else received carnations and roses, I was handed a wrapped box. I was so excited to open it that I barely made it to the car before tearing into the package. I slept with it and a spiral-bound pocket notebook under my pillow for weeks and found excuses to write anything and everything down. One of my favorite books (and movies) growing up was Harriet the Spy, and like Harriet, I wanted to explore and document the world around me. I used that Parker Vector until the plastic barrel cracked from my screwing the section and barrel too tightly together. Overtime, I've forgotten what became of that pen. Maybe it's in a box of childhood stuff in my parents' basement??? During my doctoral program, while trying to find anything to do other than research for-profit immigration detention centers, I got the urge to find another colorful Parker Vector fountain pen — either used or new old stock (my preference). I still have yet to find one, but I have purchased several of the rollerball version on eBay. Nostalgia is a helluva drug. When I studied in Spain junior year of undergrad, my family would send occasional care packages. My sister and brother-in-law sent an iPod Shuffle after my blue iPod Mini died on Day One in Segovia, as I danced to the Spice Girls "Wannabe" across the Plaza Mayor on my way to class. (Can you believe I was still passing as straight???) I say sent because when I opened the box, there was no iPod in the package among the candy and jars of peanut butter. (Peanut butter is my favorite food, and it was not very popular in Spain at the time.) I called my sister on my Orange Mobile cellphone and asked if the missing iPod mentioned in the enclosed card was a joke. Shocked, she said no. Later, we learned the person who packed the box at UPS had stolen the iPod before sealing package. So I read a lot of books on buses and trains and planes and between classes. The next package I received was from my parents. Hidden among the jars of peanut butter (I don't think y'all understand my deep love of this pantry staple!) and other surprises was a box the size of a glasses case. On the outside of the brown box Cross was embossed in gold foil. I dropped the care package on my bed and opened the smaller box (more carefully than my former Parker Vector). Inside I found a royal blue Cross Century II fountain pen with several black ink cartridges. I used this pen every day to take notes in my art history, literature, and Guerra Civil classes. I used this fountain pen when I sat (in-need of introverted recharge) and journaled in the sunshine on the steps next to the Roman aqueduct or in the shade of the scenic Alameda or outside La Colonial drinking chocolate. (Not realizing I needed to empty and clean the fountain pen before flying home, my Payne's Grey military-inspired jacket, which I bought in Barcelona, still carries a small black reminder next to one of its pockets.) While I loved this Cross fountain pen (and still do), I noticed I would become anxious not knowing how much ink was left in the cartridge or converter. I'm a planner and wanted to easily know if I had enough ink for the day. This might be a symptom of my low-key anxiety, which is conveniently complemented by post-traumatic stress disorder (a lovely gift from my doctoral program). How could I comfortably use fountain pens, if they were causing additional stress??? While scouring one of my go-to online stationery shops, JetPens, for new pen(cil)s and notebooks, I discovered demonstrator fountain pens. Demonstrators feature transparent barrels, usually clear, though sometimes shaded, allowing the writer to see how the pen's internal mechanisms work, and more importantly, how much ink is left. From childhood through adulthood, I've always been curious about how things work. I'd take apart any and every ballpoint or rollerball pen hand to me. My favorite question to ask has always been why?, which annoyed several teachers, both of my parents, and a few past supervisors. I need to know the how and why. (I think this is why I'm good at translating complex theories and systems and STEM concepts into understandable copy in my professional life.) While writing with demonstrators, I witness the mechanism in action. I see the ink move from the chamber, through the section, and down the feed using capillary action as the knife-like nib connects ink to notebook paper. I can monitor ink levels and the inevitable settling of shimmering elements. Demonstrators have become my go-to fountain pens by removing the unknown. Some demonstrators use visible cartridges or converters. Some are high-capacity eyedroppers (pens that don't use cartridges or converters, but instead are filled by loading ink directly into the barrel). Others have built-in filling systems (piston or vacuum), which free you from the messiness of converters and the waste of plastic cartridges. These are my favorite style of fountain pen. Having taught interdisciplinary courses on literature and Environmental Studies at the University of Kansas, I'm particularly drawn to this ecological angle of fountain pens. Not only can I see how much ink I have for the day, but also I am contributing less plastic waste by foregoing cartridges. The other thing I appreciate about demonstrator fountain pens is they show off the vibrant color of each new ink. Most of mine are inked with blue hues (see below), though one is loaded with Noodler's Borealis Black ink for boring official documents. I usually have four or five demonstrators inked at a time, as each model has its own idiosyncrasies depending on its weight, material, and nib size. Different inks also change the way a particular fountain pen writes. (The combinations of foundation pens and inks and papers is endless and a way to unleash my curiosity and experimentation.) One of the cool things about fountain pens is over time nibs conform to your individual pressure and style of writing. (Never lend someone your fountain pen; unintentionally and just by writing normally, they will fuck up the conditioning of your nib.) Your hand learns the singularities of a specific fountain pen and the pen adapts to your touch. It probably doesn't surprise you that I outlined and initially drafted this essay using a demonstrator fountain pen (TWSBI Eco with Noodler's V-Mail Midway Blue — see below). Writing by hand and especially with a fountain pen, slows down my anxious brain. Writing with demonstrators grounds me, in the way dog walks used to, in the way others use the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique. Writing with fountain pens allows to me to silence, to exorcise my anxious inner cop (more on this in the next post). Writing with demonstrators, with their exposed mechanisms and visible ink chambers, keeps me curious about the world and its machinations. And now that you've made this far, here are some of my favorite fountain pens and inks. Current Favorite Demonstrator Fountain Pens
Demonstrators on My To-Buy List
Current Favorite (Blue) Inks
Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form. Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): Sherpa WTF Pen Cover [Sharpie] Current Curiosities [Reading] How to Lose Your Mother by Molly Jong-Fast [Listening] "The Trial of Tommy Manzo" Parts I-III on The Bravo Docket [Watching] Final Destination: Bloodlines Diego Brown | 5 May 2014 - 10 June 2025 Yesterday, I picked up Diego's ashes. Diego died suddenly one week ago today. During the last ten years together, Diego and I bonded over long walks and sharing french fries. We soulmated harder than I expected. I'm heartbroken, yet happy and grateful to have known Diego.  Diego during his first afternoon at his new LFK home When I finished my doctoral coursework and prepared to read for my exams, I decided adopting a dog may be helpful to break up long periods of study and get me out of my apartment regularly. I was newly diagnosed with anxiety and PTSD after experiencing some truly bizarre and unexpected workplace mobbing from fellow graduate students and a few faculty members in my department. (For what it's worth, my PTSD manifests mostly as sleeplessness. I hate I feel the need to clarify my symptoms, but folks often assume you're dangerous with this diagnosis.) Breaking up study sessions with regular walks would not only help me process and make connections among the texts I was reading, but also walking would (hopefully) improve my sleep. While attending a Kentucky Derby party, I learned the Lawrence Humane Society was hosting a Clear the Shelter day because they were overflowing with recently rescued dogs and cats. The next day, I drove to the edge of town, took a deep breath, and entered the shelter. I wandered about the crowded kennels, seeing so many surrendered bully breeds, one after another. Then I turned a corner and saw two dogs sitting calmly together in their own kennel in the midst of all the excited, agitated chaos. One was an overweight Chocolate Lab; the other was a black and tan terrier of some unknown variety. They were a real George and Lenny. (Until last week, whenever anyone asked what breed Diego was, I'd say Humane Society Terrier.) Immediately, I fell in love with both dogs. I asked a staff member what their story was. She told me the boys were picked up the day before wandering together on the streets of Kansas City, MO. And they'd only been at the shelter for about eight hours. Even though I was apartment living, as underpaid graduate students are wont to do, I was prepared to adopt both dogs. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the Chocolate Lab, whose name I cannot remember, was adopted by a family with small children. This left the terrier, Pauly D, a name given to him by the staff. I rushed to fill out the paperwork. Pauly D, named after a Jersey Shore character, hopped onto the leather backseat of my silver Jeep Grand Cherokee, looking a little anxious. We drove to PetCo to pick up the essentials: kennel, collar, lead, food, snacks, and a Chewbacca stuffed toy. We also bought a new tag for his collar. Do I stick with Pauly D even though it was a name new to him and I'd never watched the show? Or do I choose something else? Previously, I'd had a dog named Frida (after Kahlo), so I decided Diego was the perfect name to pay homage to his predecessor.  Diego snoozing with his Chewbacca stuffy (we went through six of the furry guys) On June 6, 2015, Diego, joined Watson the Cat and me in the apartment. Watson immediately took to Diego and cuddled him, showing Diego he was home. That night it became apparent Diego had trauma of his own. I will never know what happened to him and his Lab buddy on the streets of KCMO, but whatever Diego experience had a lasting impact. Watson and I tucked Diego into his new kennel, complete with new memory foam pad and blankets that smelled like me and his new cat friend. I climbed into bed and turned out the lights. Diego started panicking and crying. His kennel was in my bedroom, and Watson and I were close. But the kennel must've reminded him of being trapped earlier in his life. I let him out and Diego slept next to Watson on the bed. After that night, we never used the kennel again. And Diego slept in my bed (whether or not I had a manfriend) for the next ten years. Slowly, Diego found his happy places around the apartment — the bed, couch, cold tile floors (kitchen and bathroom). But his most favorite place to sleep was under my bed. Overtime, it became his little bear cave, his wolf den. If ever I could not find Diego, I knew to look under my bed. Under my bed became Diego's safe place. For example, when that drunk frat guy tried to break down my front door in the middle of the night (and the Lawrence cops refused to do anything about it), Watson the Cat stood with me by the door ready to fuck up this straight man, but Diego was nowhere to be found. Once the dust of night's events settled, I found Diego shaking, hiding under the bed.  Diego snuggling with his best buddy Watson in Northfield As I mentioned earlier, Diego had trauma of his own. This might be why he and I bonded so completely. Diego was sensitive to loud noises, such as the sounds of a drunk frat guy trying to break and enter. I learned to keep my tone even around Diego, especially when talking about challenging topics — queerphobia, police brutality, the 2016 election — with friends and family. Diego was also wary of UPS trucks, not other delivery trucks, only UPS trucks. On walks, he would lose his mind when one drove by, even more so if one stopped near us on our route to deliver a package. I've always wondered why UPS trucks are such a specific trigger for my little walking buddy. Diego also panicked whenever he heard fire alarms or other warning systems. This not only included every time I set off our fire alarm frying green tomatoes, but also anytime a klaxon sounded on the TV. My reaction times became faster than a sprinter at hitting mute on the clicker as quickly as possible when sirens blared. (Curiously, thunderstorms and fireworks did not affect him.) His reaction to his triggers followed the same pattern. He'd start shaking from nose to tail and then either run under the bed (his safe place) or sit next to me and Watson. I'd give him tight hugs and act as a kind of human weighted blanket. Over time, I'd feel Diego's shaking subside and his muscles relax. Then he'd be ready to play or walk or (more typically) snack. One of Diego's cutest peculiarities was nursing on throw pillows when he was feeling anxious. Sometimes Diego would feel overwhelmed when friends and family visited. He'd greet them and then find his current favorite pillow and begin sucking and nibbling on a corner while watching them out of the corner of his eye. Honestly, it was so sweet and adorable. Though, we did go through too many throw pillows to count. So every time I visited Target, I'd pick up a few discounted pillows from an end cap. (I love Target end caps; they're such a mishmash of sale items that I don't yet know I need.) Until last weekend, Diego had a fully stocked stable of throw pillows at his disposal. I learned so much about how to care for Diego. I restructured my life to support my buddy and his trauma. And I would happily do it again.  Diego posing in the fall leaves in Northfield On our walks, Diego paid little attention to other dogs (except a Great Pyrenees named Denver in our LFK neighborhood) or other animals — except rabbits. On sight, Diego would morph from my sweet, sensitive 25-pound terrier into a gun-toting Elmer Fudd. Over time, I became adept at spying bunnies before Diego, so I could redirect or distract him or tighten my grip on his lead. (Years of Where's Waldo and Find Freddy came in clutch.) One time, as Diego and I walked through the park, he started sniffing a spot near a large oak. I wasn't paying attention to what he was investigating because I was distracted by the Queer Eye team filming at a house in our neighborhood. When I realized what he was up to, I screamed with horror. Diego had the decaying tail of a gray squirrel hanging out of his mouth. Dry-heaving, I used a two poop baggies like latex gloves to pry it out of his mouth and wrap up the tail. The rest of the day, Diego only ate Greenies. To paraphrase The League, Diego was now forever unclean. You can take the dog off the street, but you can never take the street out of the dog. Indeed, while Diego was pampered, he remained a street dog at heart. On walks, he'd find chicken bones, which we wrestled over and which were curiously scattered all around LFK. Were they from dead backyard chickens? LFK had many backyard coups and a healthy fox community. Regardless of where the bones came from, Diego would find them. He was such a silly boy. In addition to our LFK neighborhood walks, Diego and I walked through Oak Hill Cemetery, which is a sprawling historic graveyard on the east side of town. It's hilly and filled with gorgeous landscaping, stunning memorials and mausoleums, and labyrinthine paths. Several times per week, Diego and I would hike through the cemetery exploring new smells and processing theoretical texts. Walking with Diego through this graveyard are some of my best memories of living in Lawrence, KS.  Diego in our LFK happy place — Oak Hill Cemetery After leaving the academic side of Higher Education, Diego moved with me back to Fargo, ND, to lead LGBTQ+ Programs and Inclusion Initiatives on a one-year contract at a hella conservative land-grant university, and then to Northfield, MN, during the early days of the pandemic to coach private college students on how to write grants and collaborate with community partners. Finally, we moved to Moorhead, MN, to be nearer my nieces and nephews and aging family members. Diego adapted to every move. As long was he was with Watson and me (and had snacks), Diego was happy and relatively (for him) relaxed. And in each of these new homes, Diego helped this introvert engage with neighbors along our walking routes. Walking with Diego provided low-stakes opportunities for conversation with folks living in my different neighborhoods. (What a cute dog! He looks like Benji! What breed is he?) And Diego must have a thing for Great Pyrenees because he immediately made friends with another one in Moorhead named Bowie. I haven't had the heart to tell Bowie's mom that Diego is no longer with us. Every conversation about Diego feels like I'm losing him all over again. I need to remind myself it's only been a week since we visited the emergency vet and things fell apart. I hope it becomes easier with time.  Diego and Watson always cuddled (usually imitated by Watson, rarely by Diego) This past week, I've struggled to understand what my life looks like without Diego. He was my organizing principle, the cadence to my day. He's why I woke up every morning ready to walk and explore the world. He's why I took breaks throughout the day to go for walks. He's why I could sneak out of social gatherings early to go home and snuggle with him. He's why I've become softer, calmer, more open with my love. I miss his breath, snaggletooth, and soft belly. I miss the way Diego used to silently bark for the first few years of his life with me before eventually finding his voice. (But man, do I miss his barking lip syncs!) I miss how much Diego hated bananas and cucumbers, but loved whipped cream and an occasional coffee bean. I miss Diego's anger at shower time. (He'd get so mad about being clean that he'd jump up on my bed, lock eyes with me, and pee.) He was such a goofy and very particular little man. I miss sharing french fries with him. I miss walking with him. I miss him. Every day, I catch myself still peeking under the bed to see if he's sleeping in his safe place. This might be a sign that the best place to put Diego's little urn is under my bed. Diego was indeed the puppy love of my life. Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form.
Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): Platinum Preppy [Fountain Pen] | Noodler's Borealis Black [Ink] |