May
11
At some point in time the email notification plugin for this blog started getting weird and then the actual publication function started getting weird and now it’s all been weird for so long it’s just an expected part of the process: I hit publish on an entry, WordPress seems to mouthbreathe about it for a bit then gives me a vague error that implies the Internet has had quite enough of my garbage, even though the post actually does get published in some sort of unsatisfying behind-the-scenes way. Meanwhile, the email notification whatsit seems to be interpreting the error as either an indicator there is nothing to notify anyone about, or it too has applied machine knowledge over the years and has now decided there is certainly nothing of WORTHINESS to announce. Plus, on the rare occasion that the email does come through, it gets plastered with hostile security warnings (at least that’s how it appears on my end) which is pretty dramatic for a website that as far I know does not host a thriving poodle porn (tragically including all trendy variants of ‘doodles) empire but then again I no longer understand anything about how it all works so maybe it DOES.
Oh and also, I used to get email notifications when someone left a comment, and now I hardly ever do, which is very annoying and more than once has led me to assume readership had dwindled to literal zero.
It would be easy to be all what’s an old-school blogger to do, who can possibly keep up with all these newfangled tools? However, the tools have not in fact changed since the forever-ago when I installed them, which is to say their inner workings remain as baffling to me now as they did then. There’s honestly no excuse for not getting these things fixed except for how that sounds exhausting, soooooo.
After nearly twenty years of Interwebs writing it seems fairly ridiculous that I have neither 1) adapted to modern trends and tech nor 2) wisely closed up shop, but there’s just something I will forever and ever love about an 00’s-era blog. In fact, now that I think of it I’m basically doing my part to preserve a vintage content experience through my utter ignorance selfless historian services, and I suppose if I haven’t found a reason to quit yet I’m just gonna keep at it.
Anyway. Thanks for being on the other end of the screen, friends. Sorry the place is kind of a dump these days but I sure appreciate that you still stop by.
May
5
Over the last several months John leveled up from a Forged in Fire enthusiast (I confess I enjoy this show too, except for the part where they gleefully test blades on giant dangling pig carcasses) to a full-blown knifemaker. He now has the forge, anvil, various pieces of the kind of machinery that looks like it may potentially come to life at night like that one Stephen King story where the industrial laundry machine went evil-sentient and start killing the shit out of everyone, the man-apron, the whole nine yards.
The kinds of knives he’s been focused on are made from Damascus steel, which is a blend of different alloys of metal that form a distinctive wavy/mottled/liquidy appearance. You know how a puddle with a film of vehicle oil can be surprisingly pretty, because of how the oil refracts the light in those rainbow-colored swirls and patterns? That’s what these blades remind me of.
Damascus steel is known for its beauty and also its strength. John sandwiches layers of stainless and carbon steel together, which get sent into the forge over and over again as the layers are stretched and folded over upon themselves. The eventual hard-won result is so lovely because of its contrast, it’s sharper and more durable because of the combination of different metals.
Three of his blades hang in our kitchen, they’re the best knives I’ve ever owned by a long shot.
I like seeing them there; they serve as a reminder that it’s possible to not only survive the fire but come out stronger on the other end.
On the day that I’m writing this, May 5th, John and I will have been married 20 years. Twenty! We have spent just about half of our lives together, which is mind-boggling in and of itself before I even start really considering all the changes we’ve experienced over the last two decades. It’s like we got in a car back in 1999 with a vague destination in mind — probably a bar — and we just kept driving, through increasingly complicated landscapes.
In many ways, I can’t believe we’ve made it this far. We were contrasting elements to begin with. We have been in the fire over and over and over again, and I don’t mean a cozy campfire where you talk out your feelings but a skin-peeling inferno that threatens to scorch away what fragile ties remain.
This marriage should be rubble. This marriage should be ashes. This marriage should not have survived so many trips into the burn.
The last few years have been the hardest, and I hope to someday be capable of writing about that in a way that’s authentic and respectful. In a deeply polarized culture that advocates for severing ties over political differences, I’d sure like to see more examples of how people manage to stay connected.
The TL;DR of our love story is pretty simple, though: we’re still here. We’re still standing side by side, and on most days, hand in hand.
Our twenty years of marriage have intertwined our lives, our two wildly different selves, woven them together and pulled them far apart. We are mixed together, combined but wholly separate, blended but not dissolved. We’re held together by love and family and shared memories and respect and a mule-stubborn refusal to give up on each other.
The other day I caught sight of John and thought how dear his face is to me. How it’s nearly as familiar as my own. How I feel a mini-rush of love whenever I see him, not the pulse-quickening kind that comes primarily from hormones and uncertainty, but a deeper kind of vibration that feels like it involves my whole entire heart.
I can see this complex love going on and on as long as our bodies hold on, this never-ending story of us that is made stronger and more beautiful not despite of, but because of our differences. Because of the hard times.
Twenty years in, what I most hope for is that we are lucky enough to get at least twenty more.
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