"
Animal Rights 10.1.07 Monday
I was at work yesterday and a woman in the store had a little white dog with her. (People often bring their dogs with them -- it's no big deal to have them in the store.) I really enjoy talking to people about their dogs. They refer to them as members of their families, which is cute, I suppose.
Anyhow, this gal is walking around with her pooch, limp in her arms, browsing the merch. I walk from the front of the store out the side door to the patio behind her and say "Ohh, what a cute little dog!" thinking she'd gush and swoon and give her little mutt a smooch or nuzzle. She turns toward me, pup still in arm, and says "I'm sorry. We don't use the 'D-word' in our house."
"
October 20, 2013
Musings: Setting Forth
"
1.7.08
At this precise moment I feel like I'm doing precisely what I'm supposed to be doing in such a way that my doing it is somehow precisely in accordance with the universe, the planets, the stars... precisely.
Sitting in my cozy room, lots of windows, fading yet brilliant late afternoon light, a cup of tea, Beethoven sonatas, and my journals. This is it, right here, ladies and gentlemen. This is ME.
Falling over, falling off.
Tipping over, tilting --
Slow motion, it hits the floor
and I am still
unwilling to accept a clumsy label
unknowing of motive behind
mishap,
after mishap,
after mishap --
I think it's vanished, a fluke, the moon,
but retaliation is futile,
Sticking, there in my mind to remind me
of my ineptitude, remind me
I am Human.
from 10.3.07
1.7.08
At this precise moment I feel like I'm doing precisely what I'm supposed to be doing in such a way that my doing it is somehow precisely in accordance with the universe, the planets, the stars... precisely.
Sitting in my cozy room, lots of windows, fading yet brilliant late afternoon light, a cup of tea, Beethoven sonatas, and my journals. This is it, right here, ladies and gentlemen. This is ME.
Falling over, falling off.
Tipping over, tilting --
Slow motion, it hits the floor
and I am still
unwilling to accept a clumsy label
unknowing of motive behind
mishap,
after mishap,
after mishap --
I think it's vanished, a fluke, the moon,
but retaliation is futile,
Sticking, there in my mind to remind me
of my ineptitude, remind me
I am Human.
from 10.3.07
Pangs of guilt and regret of years of wishing and waiting, nagging like your own shadow surprising you on a dark walkway under pale diffused light, leaving you jolted, embarrassed, and still alone, still --
Like your empty bed sitting cold in your cold room with little beetles burrowing between the sheets and they'll be there when you get home, having seen no one and talked to no one worth mentioning or worth the feelings of your absent heart.
from 10.15.07
"
Musings Overview
I found a very tiny faux Moleskine in a bucket on the bottom shelf of
a bookcase. It is filled with beautiful, breathtaking, completely
insightful and wildly delicate drawings, words, ideas from late
2007-early 2008.
I was in college then.
I remember these tiny sketchbooks I kept. At the time they were merely a dumping ground for all the gunk floating around in my brain at any given moment. A place to purge. Remove. Record. Repeat.
I never suspected I would encounter one years later and be fully swept away by its contents.
It is truly a gem. Anyone who knows me knows this is not a sentiment I reserve for my own makings. I am simply that struck.
Tiny, itty bitty portraits drawn with one of those stupidly fine Micron pens, ones I would inevitably end up throwing away because I pushed too hard ONE time and the tip was toast. Face after face of fleeting, careful moments in the day-to-day existence of a 22-year-old college student whose life just seemed so. Hard. Always…
Microscopic doodlings of J so delicately exacting the most perfect mark with a razor blade on a sixty pound chunk of stone.
The wiry outline of a Volkswagon sitting across the street from the bus stop I grew to love and loathe.
A crisp rendition of a bottle of Crystal Geyser water perched on the edge of my workstation, embodying the soul of those moments when I realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Wanting to crawl away and sleep.
Haiku after ridiculous haiku about nothing at all, like I am a small child first discovering he has legs, and deeply understanding the power such knowledge wields.
And writing, too. Poetry, sense impressions, thoughts... I will post a few here, as I'd like to continue enjoying them over and over again, and maybe you will too.
XOXO
I was in college then.
I remember these tiny sketchbooks I kept. At the time they were merely a dumping ground for all the gunk floating around in my brain at any given moment. A place to purge. Remove. Record. Repeat.
I never suspected I would encounter one years later and be fully swept away by its contents.
It is truly a gem. Anyone who knows me knows this is not a sentiment I reserve for my own makings. I am simply that struck.
Tiny, itty bitty portraits drawn with one of those stupidly fine Micron pens, ones I would inevitably end up throwing away because I pushed too hard ONE time and the tip was toast. Face after face of fleeting, careful moments in the day-to-day existence of a 22-year-old college student whose life just seemed so. Hard. Always…
Microscopic doodlings of J so delicately exacting the most perfect mark with a razor blade on a sixty pound chunk of stone.
The wiry outline of a Volkswagon sitting across the street from the bus stop I grew to love and loathe.
A crisp rendition of a bottle of Crystal Geyser water perched on the edge of my workstation, embodying the soul of those moments when I realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Wanting to crawl away and sleep.
Haiku after ridiculous haiku about nothing at all, like I am a small child first discovering he has legs, and deeply understanding the power such knowledge wields.
And writing, too. Poetry, sense impressions, thoughts... I will post a few here, as I'd like to continue enjoying them over and over again, and maybe you will too.
XOXO
July 2, 2013
Trying My Hand
"I've been sitting in the coffee shop for almost three hours, reading the second book I flipped through at Powell's four and a half hours ago. I could be a writer, if I were disciplined. I'm great at first drafts. I don't even like to read, but this book and I have quickly developed a strange and very fast relationship. It's like it knows me. It's like the book is reading me. It simultaneously makes me feel less and more lonely than I did last night, when I cried emptily into my soft pillow with the lavender case, the inky mascara stains growing bigger and inkier with each plea.
I prayed for sleep. It took nearly four hours, two glasses of water, one muscle relaxer, and the sun setting, but God finally answered. While I slept for what felt like an unnaturally long time, I awoke alert and weak at 4:15am, wishing there was more sleep left in me. I remained still, like I didn't want the other person in the room to know I had woken, only there was nobody. I stayed curled in a tight ball, wishing myself away. Wishing I could reverse time. The hole of loneliness in my belly grew bigger and more intense, throbbing, urging, and then waned, over and over again, in a terrible cycle. Somehow, though, I was able to keep the tears back with each sweeping wave. I did this for three hours, until I couldn't take it anymore and finally agreed to one cup of coffee, and we would see how things go. (And by "we" I mean Me and Myself.)
The stories in the book are both deeply disturbing and also comforting. The tales of broken women and the desperate quietness of their shortcomings strike me as equally beautiful and tragic. The beauty is the part that makes me less lonely; the tragedy, more.
I have been drinking the same cup of coffee for three hours and I've yet to see the bottom of the mug. It's probably because it makes my stomach hurt, but I drink it anyway, because I love it. I suppose that is an unhealthy perspective and not too dissimilar from an unhealthy love relationship. I am writing now only because I spent this time reading a book by an author I have never read, and now I am writing like her. It makes me think I am too impressionable. I see drawings and mimic them in my own. I see women and think I, too, can be adventurous in fashion. I read a particular style of writing and want it to be mine.
I have only spoken to two people today and both were working registers. My face has not moved really, since last night when I finally found relief from my own mind. It feels like plastic.
It is warm today and my eyeliner is melting off, leaving smudges underneath, and I don't care. I am so still, and my hair is ugly, and I keep drinking the coffee, and I don't care.
I have a hard time being the rock in the stream. I am always the water. Is it because I am easygoing? Or because I am afraid? Or some woven combination of both? I have needed to pee for one half hour but I can't make myself go. The thought of asking someone to watch my backpack for two and three quarters minutes makes me cringe. And I despise public restrooms.
Today is not about talking to other people. Today is about being away from home, about not being alone, and about being silent. Though, I am starting to tire a little from the R&B music that is playing the slightest amount too loud. The kind of volume that interrupts the thought every three to four minutes or so, making it very difficult to write the first draft that I am fairly certain I will never finish. The coffee shop has nearly emptied out but I am reluctant to leave. Maybe the too-loud music is the only thing keeping me from myself right now. I don't want to be at home. The evenings are the worst. But I am impossible. I want to live alone for seventy one more years but I do not want to be lonely. I cannot help that my Sun, Moon, Venus, and Mars are all in side-by-side signs. It is a non-complementary duality I keep telling myself the perfect person will be able to negotiate. Preferably, with skill. Maybe it's just too complex a thing.
Maybe I actually do like the R&B filling the warm, still room with the high ceilings and worn wood floors. (This town is pretentious about the decor looking just worn enough.) Maybe the R&B is keeping me from myself, just enough. The pressure in my abdomen has increased to such a degree that I won't make it fifteen more minutes before needing to locate the nearest loo. Only, I am going to make it more challenging by refusing to use the public one, even though mine at home is probably dirtier, and the floor has more hair on it. It's been almost four hours now. My face is hot and I am stuck in a rock wall of indecision.
The sun is going to be out for at least another three and one quarter more hours and my bedroom just doesn't get dark enough to sleep before it's time. I may need to invest in some Tylenol PM."
I prayed for sleep. It took nearly four hours, two glasses of water, one muscle relaxer, and the sun setting, but God finally answered. While I slept for what felt like an unnaturally long time, I awoke alert and weak at 4:15am, wishing there was more sleep left in me. I remained still, like I didn't want the other person in the room to know I had woken, only there was nobody. I stayed curled in a tight ball, wishing myself away. Wishing I could reverse time. The hole of loneliness in my belly grew bigger and more intense, throbbing, urging, and then waned, over and over again, in a terrible cycle. Somehow, though, I was able to keep the tears back with each sweeping wave. I did this for three hours, until I couldn't take it anymore and finally agreed to one cup of coffee, and we would see how things go. (And by "we" I mean Me and Myself.)
The stories in the book are both deeply disturbing and also comforting. The tales of broken women and the desperate quietness of their shortcomings strike me as equally beautiful and tragic. The beauty is the part that makes me less lonely; the tragedy, more.
I have been drinking the same cup of coffee for three hours and I've yet to see the bottom of the mug. It's probably because it makes my stomach hurt, but I drink it anyway, because I love it. I suppose that is an unhealthy perspective and not too dissimilar from an unhealthy love relationship. I am writing now only because I spent this time reading a book by an author I have never read, and now I am writing like her. It makes me think I am too impressionable. I see drawings and mimic them in my own. I see women and think I, too, can be adventurous in fashion. I read a particular style of writing and want it to be mine.
I have only spoken to two people today and both were working registers. My face has not moved really, since last night when I finally found relief from my own mind. It feels like plastic.
It is warm today and my eyeliner is melting off, leaving smudges underneath, and I don't care. I am so still, and my hair is ugly, and I keep drinking the coffee, and I don't care.
I have a hard time being the rock in the stream. I am always the water. Is it because I am easygoing? Or because I am afraid? Or some woven combination of both? I have needed to pee for one half hour but I can't make myself go. The thought of asking someone to watch my backpack for two and three quarters minutes makes me cringe. And I despise public restrooms.
Today is not about talking to other people. Today is about being away from home, about not being alone, and about being silent. Though, I am starting to tire a little from the R&B music that is playing the slightest amount too loud. The kind of volume that interrupts the thought every three to four minutes or so, making it very difficult to write the first draft that I am fairly certain I will never finish. The coffee shop has nearly emptied out but I am reluctant to leave. Maybe the too-loud music is the only thing keeping me from myself right now. I don't want to be at home. The evenings are the worst. But I am impossible. I want to live alone for seventy one more years but I do not want to be lonely. I cannot help that my Sun, Moon, Venus, and Mars are all in side-by-side signs. It is a non-complementary duality I keep telling myself the perfect person will be able to negotiate. Preferably, with skill. Maybe it's just too complex a thing.
Maybe I actually do like the R&B filling the warm, still room with the high ceilings and worn wood floors. (This town is pretentious about the decor looking just worn enough.) Maybe the R&B is keeping me from myself, just enough. The pressure in my abdomen has increased to such a degree that I won't make it fifteen more minutes before needing to locate the nearest loo. Only, I am going to make it more challenging by refusing to use the public one, even though mine at home is probably dirtier, and the floor has more hair on it. It's been almost four hours now. My face is hot and I am stuck in a rock wall of indecision.
The sun is going to be out for at least another three and one quarter more hours and my bedroom just doesn't get dark enough to sleep before it's time. I may need to invest in some Tylenol PM."
June 13, 2013
From June 12, 2013
I know I have quite a bit of catching up to do -- I don't think I've yet posted the photos from the FIRST figure drawing class -- but I figured while I'm here, I might as well stick up the ones from yesterday.
My mark is getting freer, my line more unabashed.
It is delightful.
My mark is getting freer, my line more unabashed.
It is delightful.
 |
| (my fave <3) |
June 1, 2013
In Blended Pursuit
Today I did a very grown up thing.
Today I welcomed myself into the twentieth century.
(Yes, I said twentieth century.)
Really, I welcomed myself into the 1920s.
(Yes, I had to Google the year the blender was invented. 1922, if your curiosity is just burning...)
Today: I bought a blender.
The times I ever do anything "grown up" are typically when my desire to consume something delicious outweighs my ability to deflect the craving any longer. This is the only method by which I learned to cook. Shit dammit frick. I want [insert amazing delectable dish], just like Mom makes...
With The Method, I've become especially proficient at Breakfast: An Adventure in Baconology, and moderately proficient in Sides: Excerpts from Coleslaw, Deviled Eggs, & Salad Dressings.
Anyway, back to the blender. So I went for a four-mile run (jog) tonight and it felt amazing! I'm gradually working up to where I was before the car accident. I'm close, and I'm patient. The process is fairly exhilarating.
When I got home I was completely spent and all I wanted in the world was a fruit smoothie. Nowhere near my house is a place to get a smoothie (plus I already spent way too much money for twelve ounces of smoothie earlier in the afternoon and for whatever reason my mind would not allow a similar purchase twice in one day.
(I know, weirdo.)
I also think the process of making a smoothie also seemed rather desirable on this particular eve, so a purchase of said blender emerged as a logical pursuit.
I came.
I blended.
I conquered.
Today I welcomed myself into the twentieth century.
(Yes, I said twentieth century.)
Really, I welcomed myself into the 1920s.
(Yes, I had to Google the year the blender was invented. 1922, if your curiosity is just burning...)
Today: I bought a blender.
The times I ever do anything "grown up" are typically when my desire to consume something delicious outweighs my ability to deflect the craving any longer. This is the only method by which I learned to cook. Shit dammit frick. I want [insert amazing delectable dish], just like Mom makes...
With The Method, I've become especially proficient at Breakfast: An Adventure in Baconology, and moderately proficient in Sides: Excerpts from Coleslaw, Deviled Eggs, & Salad Dressings.
Anyway, back to the blender. So I went for a four-mile run (jog) tonight and it felt amazing! I'm gradually working up to where I was before the car accident. I'm close, and I'm patient. The process is fairly exhilarating.
When I got home I was completely spent and all I wanted in the world was a fruit smoothie. Nowhere near my house is a place to get a smoothie (plus I already spent way too much money for twelve ounces of smoothie earlier in the afternoon and for whatever reason my mind would not allow a similar purchase twice in one day.
(I know, weirdo.)
I also think the process of making a smoothie also seemed rather desirable on this particular eve, so a purchase of said blender emerged as a logical pursuit.
I came.
I blended.
I conquered.
 |
| Hallo, Beauty. |
May 27, 2013
Before the Rain Arrived [Cultivating 'Today']
Yesterday I felt some restlessness creeping in while the afternoon approached. For the most part I fend it off well enough, but the doubt worms a little hole in my brain and unease can then readily take over. I find when this happens, and when I become too self aware, too observant of me going about my day, rather than simply going about my day, experiencing nature helps tremendously. It gets me grounded. Kind of like a "reset" button on my mood. Most often it is as simple as taking a walk.
I decided to sit on a bench in the beautiful park across the street and see what might happen in my sketchbook. A few drawings of the sinking sun, some budding roses, and thick puffy clouds later and my mission was complete: fully grounded, fully here. Doing this simple activity was music enough for my spirit, but the sun soon disappeared behind a curtain of cumulus, the air turned cold and the wind became insistent.
I began my short walk back through the park towards Home. The old trees towered over me and the sky, in varied and deepening shades of grey and blue, churned steadily after me like someone stirring a gallon of paint with a skyscraper-sized stick. The chilled air kissed my cheeks. I could feel my soul sigh with peace and happiness. True happiness. I felt it surge up from my feet, through my knees, my gut and settle in my chest, heavy but happy.
Contentment.
Then a thought, fully formed and revelatory: "What a gift, what a blessing it is that I get to live the life that I want." And what else is it besides a blessing that not only do I have the opportunity to live the life that I want, but that I am actually doing so, living it, and then it brings me real fulfillment? The last three days have brought overwhelming contentment and satisfaction, the feeling of not needing or requiring one single thing more in this whole world. That in these moments, I have everything I want and need, and I am Whole. That I have the ability to cultivate today, not yesterday or tomorrow, and each moment I breathe unfolds as its own tiny miracle, over and over again. As I described it to Brother: All of my many buckets are full.
While I understand I cannot always feel the bliss of such supreme moments, I cherish them when they gently arrive and float back out again, like a wave kissing the shore.
I decided to sit on a bench in the beautiful park across the street and see what might happen in my sketchbook. A few drawings of the sinking sun, some budding roses, and thick puffy clouds later and my mission was complete: fully grounded, fully here. Doing this simple activity was music enough for my spirit, but the sun soon disappeared behind a curtain of cumulus, the air turned cold and the wind became insistent.
I began my short walk back through the park towards Home. The old trees towered over me and the sky, in varied and deepening shades of grey and blue, churned steadily after me like someone stirring a gallon of paint with a skyscraper-sized stick. The chilled air kissed my cheeks. I could feel my soul sigh with peace and happiness. True happiness. I felt it surge up from my feet, through my knees, my gut and settle in my chest, heavy but happy.
Contentment.
Then a thought, fully formed and revelatory: "What a gift, what a blessing it is that I get to live the life that I want." And what else is it besides a blessing that not only do I have the opportunity to live the life that I want, but that I am actually doing so, living it, and then it brings me real fulfillment? The last three days have brought overwhelming contentment and satisfaction, the feeling of not needing or requiring one single thing more in this whole world. That in these moments, I have everything I want and need, and I am Whole. That I have the ability to cultivate today, not yesterday or tomorrow, and each moment I breathe unfolds as its own tiny miracle, over and over again. As I described it to Brother: All of my many buckets are full.
While I understand I cannot always feel the bliss of such supreme moments, I cherish them when they gently arrive and float back out again, like a wave kissing the shore.
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