There was one person doing laps around the rink with speed and grace and not falling on her back every three steps like the rest of us. I jealously wondered if she had brought her own skates, and if the blades had been sharpened, unlike our dull footwear. Someone told me that this is what professional figure skaters train on, which confused me even more. Because HOW??

The word “accountability” seems impossible to avoid for anyone paying attention. Repeatedly, people with power abuse their position. Repeatedly, communities clamor for accountability, a just outcome for all affected persons, and satisfying solutions that will excise the rot from which harm festers and breeds. It is difficult not to feel disillusioned by the usual wishy-washy or dismissive responses, feigned ignorance, and lack of material progress in terms of repairing harm and promoting safety. How are we supposed to hold people accountable, so to speak, if they won’t take accountability?

An examination of our cultural rejection of humanity’s interconnectedness with each other, the ecosystem, and various natural cycles for the sake of endless exponential growth and parasitic profit margins. Putting life, death, and internal inclinations into perspective through the cyclical nature of the seasons. And questioning the need to appear evergreen - a resource ready for use - always in a state of doing, just to get by.

On December 14, I was lucky enough to attend the PNW premiere of Life on the Moon, a play written by Anna Tatelman, directed by Jeremy Radick, and produced by Baker Theater Workshop. Hosted at ReAct Theatre, Life on the Moon is a family drama that centers on the relationship between siblings Piper, an 18-year-old with autism, and her older brother Spencer, who has just returned home from the army for the holidays.

Communion Restaurant & Bar sits inside the historic Liberty Bank Building in the heart of Seattle’s Central District. For me, this wasn’t just dinner; it was a return to my roots. I grew up on 20th & Union, and this exact spot used to be Thompson’s Point of View, a restaurant I frequented all through elementary school. Eating here felt like stepping into a memory with a modern twist.

Dear reader, if you would indulge me during this absolutely heinous Seattle winter (I’m looking at you, atmospheric river!) and let me introduce you to a beloved childhood gem of mine, I would be most grateful. While we are taking quite a big step away from the Puget Sound this month and going across the pond to England, I promise this little trip will be well worth it. If you need something warm and cozy to read like I do, read on. 

Central Cinema looks incredibly industrial from the outside, but once inside, it's a single screen of terrific movie magic.

The building that houses Central Cinema in Seattle's Central District was erected in the late 1920s and has housed both a car dealership and a milk bottling plant. The idea to turn a piece of the space into a combination movie theater and pub came to Kevin Spitzer, a metal artist, when he was renting it as his studio. In summer 2005, Kevin and his wife Kate opened the theater and have been operating it in the 20 years since.  

There are seasons when life gets so loud, whispering stops working. You stop tiptoeing and walking on eggshells around your own truth. You stop shrinking to make other people comfortable. You stop pretending you're “fine” when your soul is over there banging pots, trying to be heard and have that hurt validated. At some point, you match the volume. That’s where I’ve been — healing OUT LOUD. Not in a reckless way, not in a messy way, but in a “my heart said testify” kind of way.

Drums rolled from the brick alleyways and converged upon the square, each musician followed by a small mass of people. They carried things with them: Bits of furniture and fragments of wood. Dresser drawers and desk tops. One group hoisted a billboard overhead from one of the Upper City’s tech institutions. 

Crow’s Nest Comics, formerly the beloved Outsider Comics shop of Fremont, has made the move to a much cozier location in Central District, just a tiny walk from I-90 (or the 7 or 554 bus will get you just a block away). Though the shop has moved and changed names, they are still offering their warm, inviting atmosphere, stunning collection, and commitment to accessibility, all from a better location.

One of the greatest joys about fashion is finding the perfect fit. Yet for fat or plus-size shoppers, that joy is rare, often overshadowed by an exhausting search for options that barely exist.
Earlier this year, in partnership with Seattle Restored, the Seattle Fall Mall emerged as a pop-up community space in Downtown Seattle where being fat or plus-size was centered and celebrated.
For eight months, the founders—Amber and Alyss Seelig, Candace Frank, and Kwame Phillips-Solomon—brought together local artists and fashion designers who challenge industry norms through body positivity and collective liberation.

So here I am: rebuilding, relearning, re-everything. Washington State, bless its procedural little heart, makes you wait a full 90 days before you can even finalize a divorce. Raggedy. I could’ve been free by now, had my soon-to-be-ex not spent nine rounds avoiding the process server like it was tag at recess. So yes, I’m irritated.

I winced when my therapist—a doctor, mind you—named him a narcissist who love-bombed me at the beginning. You could’ve held my hand for that, sis.

I have watched The Return several times now since its release in 2017. Each time, it feels like descending into a cave that should feel familiar—haven’t you been here a hundred times already? And yet, each descent into the third season of Twin Peaks feels almost alien. There are always hidden caverns to explore, new narrative threads to pull and unravel that often feel like they lead you nowhere.

Two days after the dream, I entered a darkly lit theater in Northwest Film Forum to the familiar sound of the synth-heavy, nostalgic yet eerie Twin Peaks theme song, and shuffled into a seat. I was about to spend two hours watching episodes five and six of Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), as part of a collaborative screening of the entire 18-episode season held by Northwest Film Forum, SIFF, The Beacon, and The Grand Illusion Cinema between November 13 and December 16 of this year. I had only watched the first four episodes of the first season of David Lynch’s masterpiece series set in our home state. But there I sat, going in blind.

Their exhibit opened to the public for a one-day event on Saturday, November 15 at Studio 18 Artist Collective. “This is a very historically [sic] arts building. They used to throw raves here in the ‘90s, early 2000s,” Reinhardt stated. The building is tucked beside train tracks underneath busy roadways—empty and bustling all at once. At the top of a thin staircase was the gallery opening, alive with visitors and music.

Last year I was privileged to speak with local filmmaker Shea Formanes about her first feature, I Watched Her Grow. Recently, Shea and I spoke again, this time about shooting a short film she is currently working on. We spoke about her process and how this particular film, titled Diwata (a Filipino word meaning “muse”) went from an idea into her current project. We also went into great detail about how a film like this gets made and the partnerships she found along the way.

In the winter of 2022, Cafe Nordo, a company who created beloved immersive theater and dining experiences within Pioneer Square’s Nord Alley, closed its doors and set its gaze to a dream of the future. After thirty original productions hosted in its two venues, the Culinarium and the Knife Room, the company decided to seek out a larger, more accessible home to produce and sustain boundless creativity. As they searched for real estate with sufficient accommodations, the dream world began to take shape. A rift, so to say, opened beneath Cafe Nordo, and out emerged Nebula.

Each femme featured their own unique prop or presentation. Some read Queer theory, some read Sappho, and some read two books at once. The queens who weren’t reading were reapplying their makeup, doing the splits, singing Chappell Roan, or giving flowers out to the crowd. To gain their favor, contestants would flirt with the audience through notes, suggestive gestures, handfed strawberries, and at one point a collar-and-leash lead.

I think Trans* people should be in control of their own stories the same way I believe that any community should be in control of their own stories. This isn’t to say that other writers can’t include Trans* characters in their stories—they absolutely should—but that Trans* folks should be the ones to own the Trans* narrative. We should decide what is an authentic recounting of our own experiences. No one else knows the experience like we do, and when others take over our stories, they tell it wrong, boiling down the Trans* experience to stereotypes: focusing on surgery, making their Trans* characters completely androgynous, or minimizing the experiences of dysphoria.

Corey Skullcrusher, an artist with the Waiting Room, appeared in full aristocratic flamboyance to accompany their “monstrosity.” From dress to wig to bloody neck, Skullcrusher embodied beheaded nobility. The presence of such elegance brought forward a message of resistance. Skullcrusher explained that the guillotine was historically the most humane way to oust those who were abusing power. While the golden cardboard guillotine may be a bit campy and cheeky, “it’s very specifically a message.”