Push Me, Pull Me

On My Spring Visitor

It's that time of year. Spring. I love spring. I do. I really do. By my birthday, I'm aching for spring. In Tennessee, you never know if it'll already be full on spring with the trees fully bloomed or still have tentative little buds on the trees by my birthday (April 17). Last year, the buttercups came in February and by my birthday the trees had been leafed out a month. This year by my birthday the trees had not quite burst forth with leaves-- they still seemed tenative.

And every year for the last decade, I have my annual blossoming, too. Every spring, when the sun comes back into our hemisphere, I break out in little (sometimes not so little) itchy red patches on my legs and arms. My face also gets itchy. My eyelids itch. Everything itches. It took a long while to figure out that I had a medical condition. I have something called Polymorphic Light Eruption (PMLE). It's not long lasting-- not harmful. The red itchy bumps I get only last until my skin adapts to the new UV rays it's missed over the winter. They leave no scar. And, if I continue to go outside with skin exposed, I don't get them any more. It's a process called "hardening."

It can, I suppose, be called a sun allergy. It's a hypersensitivity. No one knows what triggers it. There's some evidence it can lead to eventual autoimmune issues but that's not necessarily the outcome. For the most part, it's just a pain in the ass. It just means that every spring I itch like the devil and mope around the house asking Tammy, "Do you love me?" and "Are you sure you love me? I look like a freak!" And she reassures me and so long as I don't stay out of the sun too long, I'm good. 

Now, if I stay indoors for weeks and then venture back out, well, here we go again. Especially on the legs. My face and arms get enough just going out and about that one break out is normally it. But unless I get some sun on my legs every couple of days, then I'll have those annoying red patches all damn summer.

As medical problems go, this one isn't a biggie. Just annoying. Looks a little freaky. Like the time I went swimming and (apparently) hadn't had sun on my ass cheeks for years. My ass and upper thighs were itchy, tender, red. It looked like I had sat somehow on a griddle.

So, spring brings me that, but it's okay. It brings me the end of the school year (thank you, baby Jesus!) and hummingbirds and rose breasted grosbeaks (which only come in the very early spring).

Winter is a long, dull affair. The world is drab and I actually do, sometimes, feel like part of my self, the most vibrant part, is packed away, awaiting the unfurling of the leaves, and the return of the hummingbirds, fireflies, and butterflies. Maybe those itchy red patches are really just me remaking myself for the new year?

On Remaining Positive in the Face of Tragedy

 

It's not quite 8 am on a Tuesday morning, April 16th.  Yesterday afternoon there was an explosion in Boston very near the end of the Boston Marathon. I saw the news on twitter and my phone, then when I left work, I went and took a three mile hike in the woods. I came home, turned off my phone and went out to dinner with friends to celebrate my birthday (Wednesday) and one of theirs (23rd of April) . I kept the activities of the day out of my dinner and enjoyed my time with them. 

When I got home, I went to twitter to ask someone a question (too lazy to turn the phone on and was already using laptop) and saw lots and lots of tweets about Boston. I really didn't comment because 1. I don't pray so saying I would seemed phoney and hypocritical and 2. No one really needs me to point out it's awful and sad. Everyone with an IQ of over 50 knows bombs that go off and kill people are bad and it makes for a sad day.

In my brief few minutes on Twitter, I ran across a Tweet that essentially said "If you don't think humanity sucks, you aren't paying attention." It gave me pause. I didn't comment. It wasn't to me. It could have been about me. It could have been about someone else. Doesn't matter. I don't care either way. But it did make me consider, do I think humanity sucks? Is my generally positive attitude from lack of paying attention?

My considered answer, after a night of waking up, thinking about it, is no, I'm paying attention just fine.  

In fact, let me illustrate how well I do pay attention. In the last decade, somewhere between 2,000 and 3,300 people were killed in Pakistan by drones --a country we aren't even at war with.  Nearly 13% of those were women and children civilians. And 100% of them were human beings with hearts and hands and minds. 100% of those were loved by someone and lost forever to them.

Five million children go hungry every single year all over the world. Meanwhile, developed nations seem quite happy to eat too many calories of all the wrong foods (fatty, salty, sugary) and dig themselves into an early grave with only a fork and a spoon. These same people who are happy to subsist on Doritos and Mountain Dews and Hot Dogs then fall into lapses of depression because they eat garbage and never move. That calls for a doctors visit and the doctor, not wishing to "trouble" the patient by telling them they eat shit and are lazy prescribe pills for restless legs and constipation and depression.

Our food system is broken. Our justice system is broken. So much seems broken. And yet, I'm hopeful. I'm positive. Why? Am I not paying attention?

On the contrary, I AM  paying attention. Not just to today, but to yesterday as well. Yes, we have lots of tragedy today. That's not new. It's not news either.

In 1212, there were 30,000 CHILDREN taken from Europe to fight in the Crusades and combat Islam in the Holy Land. Many starved. 

In 1860 in the US, it was legal to own other human beings. To sell their children. To beat them to death. To rape them. All perfectly legal because those human beings weren't classified as human beings but as property. A horrible war came and there were 630,000 casualities-- but it ended slavery.

In 1960, a hundred years later, African Americans still couldn't vote in the south. Lives were lost. And now, while not a perfect place, the south is more diverse and equal than it ever was.

In 1990, I couldn't accept I was gay. I never talked about it and largely hid it-- even from myself. I thought perhaps I was evil, perhaps it was a phase. That was the culture I lived in. Then, something amazing happened over the next 23 years-- society shifted and changed. Now, not only can I live a reasonably open life (it's the South so I can't engage in PDAs with no fear but no one says anything about two grown women living together) and can, if I so choose, move away to a state where I can get married.

Think about that a second. In 1990, I was afraid of my gayness. 23 years later, I could get married. Now, granted, I can't marry here in my home state. But I can marry. (And will. Very soon, I will get married.)

I see a world where change, huge change, can happen relatively quickly. 20 years may seem like a long time, but in the scope of human society, 20 years is a blink of an eye. Yet in that time, we've gone from a society where I felt hated to one where I feel I could (if I moved) marry and hold hands in public.

I'm paying attention. I really am. I just choose to not sit in my house dwelling on all the things in the world that are shit. There's plenty that is. But there's plenty that's good too. There's the love of a faithful pet. There's the music of a band you love (Stone Gossard has a new album coming out! And I'm seeing PJ in July!). There's hugs from people you love and the feel of warm sunshine on your face. I'm happy.

I pay attention to the news but I also pay attention to the people in my life. I love them with all I have in me. I pay attention to my body. I move it and rest it and feed it with good things.  I read good things and enjoy them. I watch good movies and good tv shows (the few there are) and watch silly youtube videos. I laugh alot. Loudly. Often. I'm happier than I have ever been.

Why shouldn't I be? I'm paying attention. To everything.

Attitude is everything. Change your attitude and you just might change your life. 

Don't it make you smile?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Patton Oswalt On Boston Tragedy: 'The Good Outnumber You'

Reading

A cold and rainy day today. Reading a little. Watching the birds. Spring is slow in coming and my mind is easily taken off the subject at hand. I always get a little antsy this time of year, a touch of ADD/ADHD. I want to sit down and read but over a thousand things pop into mind to do. The technology doesn't help.

I sit down to read-- I need to check Twitter. I need to check my email. I need to text someone. I need to go pour myself some tea. I read 5 pages. Check Twitter, texts, post progress of book reading on Goodreads, go pee (all the tea), finally to return and read for 15 minutes before I have to do all that all over. Such is the curse of the modern age. All the ways to engage with language (and all that I am doing except drinking tea and peeing  is reading related, oddly) is shortening my attention span and keeping me from reading anything for over about 15 minutes. 

My mother says that she thinks it's because my books "aren't interesting enough" to keep my attention. She also says that the fact I read more than one book at a time is an indicator I need to "read better books." Both make me laugh. I like what I read. I don't finish what I don't like. And as for the multiple books going at one time-- I never did that before college. I never wrote in my books before college either. I think both are indicators that I'm more advanced as a reader now than I was in my 20's.

But, she doesn't understand the smartphone and the lure of twitter and the fact that texting can interrupt my reading every minute or two. And I think that's probably true of many people. I know it's an issue for me. 

So, I have to scale down my phone time-- especially in the evening when I am home. That's prime reading time, there. And I have to turn the phone off and settle in. It won't be easy at first, but it's possible. And then, just read. Just sit and read. No phone, no tv, no nothing but me and my book (and maybe my tea).

And, once the semester is over (please hurry! please!) I think I will take a 3 or 4 day media/technology fast. I think I need it now, but sadly, I have to have my phone on and check my email and online classes for work. I can't just shut it down. But, I can limit it, making times that are "phone and internet free" so as to help get me back on the reading track.

I have a goal this year of 65 books. That's official. Check out my progress to your right! However, I'd like to hit 100 this year. I've done 65 before. I'm on track for 65. I'm behind for 100. But, 100 is what I want.

I've got 4 books going now-- Pete Townshend's Who I Am, and Murakami's 1Q84 among them-- and am going through somewhat of a slump. I am having problems focusing on reading. So, I will be taking phone breaks to stretch my addled concentration and working on reading since reading is as important to me as music is to some of my friends.

Not to worry, I'll keep you apprised of my progress. After all, it's also a goal of mine to write two blogs a week this year. And I'll have to have something interesting to talk about. Right?

On Food and Birthdays

My 41st birthday approaches. I wrote a post last year saying I would be vegan the entire year. I have to admit, I failed at that. I have not remained vegan. I've had lapses, eating meat, eating dairy, and also periods where I just seemed to eat only junk food.

I think there's a confession that must be made here-- I realize now that while I escaped drug issues (never done anything harder than some pot when young and some drinking) I did fall prey to food addictions. I binge eat. I also will work very hard to get shitty food and claim it's because I don't want to cook-- too tired, nothing in the house, deserve a treat-- and I have come to realize over the last year that the reality is, it's not bad habits. It's a food addiction. It's compulsive overeating. And where junk food (and fastfood falls in my definition of junk food) is concerned, I'm addicted.

There might be shout outs that one can't be addicted to tacos from Taco Bell, or one can't be addicted to Doritos. Friend, let me tell you something-- after a particularly tragic weekend in which I ate a bag and a half of Doritos and felt miserable afterwards, I can attest that one CAN and IS addicted to shit food. I certainly am. If it's in the house, I'll eat it. If it's not in the house, I will sit here and think of all the reasons I should go get it.

And I'll swear-- this is the last time. This will be the last time I go to Domino's and get a cheese pizza and a huge bag of Doritos. Just one last ride, then, tomorrow, I'll start anew. If I had a dollar for everytime I have said that--oh, trust me, I'd not have many money issues.

Isn't that the fucking definition of addiction? Constantly engaging in behavior that alters your chemistry when you know not only is it killing you, it's also making you feel worse? When I quit smoking (12 years ago in July) it took a long time-- years, actually.  It also took a huge realization on my part-- I realized that I was as dependent and addicted as my alcoholic father. I was as hooked just as any dope fiend ever was.

I'd actually stopped smoking when I truly got the confimation that I was completely addicted. I hadn't had a cigarette in a month (something I had done a couple times before, but like any addict, I thought I could handle just one cigarette and what followed was a descent back into smoking 30-40 cigarettes a day) and I found myself walking behind a young man who was smoking. 

We got to the building we were both going to and he threw down his cigarette. I paused. I looked at the cigarette lying on the ground. Two thoughts went through my mind at one time. One voice saying,  "I could pick that up and smoke it" and another screaming, "OHHHHHHH--- GIRL!!! NO--- NOT ONLY IS IT LYING ON THE SIDEWALK LIKE TRASH, IT WAS IN THAT STRANGER'S MOUTH AND NOW YOU WANT TO PUT IT IN  YOUR MOUTH!!! WHAT THE FUCK???"

And I realized, I was done. I could never have another cigarette. Whatever happened, I couldn't ever smoke again. Smoking was no longer an option for me. Ever. For the rest of my life. And that was it. The last time I smoked became the last time I smoked.

I have wanted to smoke. Have craved cigarettes. Have woke from dreams where I still smoke and feel bitter longing that I don't even though in the dream I am angry at myself that I've started smoking again. It's a disgusting habit. I don't want it again. Yet, sometimes, I still crave it. Even though I know it would make me sick, would kill me, I still sometimes want it. If that's not addiction, then what is?

And I realize now, my relationship with fastfood and junk food is much the same. I feel good when I eat whole, healthy food. Yet, I go and eat crap and feel crappy. It's not rocket science. There's addiction at work here. So, saying "Vegan" isn't enough. Cutting out the parts of the American diet that are killing me (and killing us all, if we are honest) is no different than quitting smoking in that I can't ever just have a couple of oreos. It doesn't work that way.

A friend said to me, when I expressed this, "But moderation is good, yes?" Sure, moderation is great. Eat one banana, not ten. That's moderation. Consuming "food" that has more additives than actual food made by nature-- what is moderation in that case? 

Sure, plenty of people can eat two Oreos and call it a day. I can't. Plenty of people can drink one beer and call it a day. I can have one beer and call it a day. I have friends who can't. Difference is, society doesn't preach to my friend that they should continue to drink beer-- that moderation is the key. It's not.

So, looking back over this last year, I haven't done what I set out to do. I have, however, learned something.  I want to leave you with a thought.

The way Americans eat now is killing them. Meat at every meal, dairy at most, too few fruits and veggies. There's a lack of whole and wholesome food, and a reliance on packaged garbage foods. And we run to the doctor for pills to fix diabetes, high blood pressure, gout, limp dick, and all manner of disease. Yet we continue to stuff garbage into our mouths. In moderation.

Plague used to kill humans by the 10s of thousands. We conquered bacteria and most viruses. We've come so far. But now, it seems the plague is us. We've created a way to kill ourselves by pleasuring ourselves to death with food.

In "moderation." 

 

Leonard Cohen

 

I had the pleasure Sunday night of doing something I thought I would never do. I think like most people my age (or a lot of them anyway) I became a Cohen fan by way of Jeff Buckley and his version of Hallellujah. It's a gorgeous and haunting song. If you haven't heard it,  go here and give it a listen.

The vocals are incredible-- it is Jeff Buckley after all-- but the words are haunting as well.  Those are Cohen's words. Buckley makes them all the better. Jeff Buckley could have sung about the phone book and made it haunting. Yet, something about those words just reasonates deep in the soul.  

For example:

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

That's poetry in the deepest sense. It's visual yet not overwordy. It's simple, and yet at the same time, deeply profound. And this is the first song I'd ever heard that Cohen wrote.

Granted, his voice isn't for everyone (I'm told this, but I don't really understand it. It's deep and not very wide ranging like Buckley's, but there's a stark beauty about it. I suppose people who like Bob Dylan wonder why I can't stand his voice like I wonder about people who don't like Cohen's.) I can't imagine, however, how one can hear his lyrics and not love the poetics.

So, Cohen was coming to Memphis. I live an hour from Memphis. We had to make it happen. Tickets weren't cheap but Cohen's 78 and touring because his manager stole much of his retirement savings. Not very nice at all-- but it did mean that I would get the chance to see him. And, at 78, it might be his last tour.

And he was delightfully spry. He ran out on stage. Yes, ran. He also, many times during the show, got down on his knees, singing to the audience, to his band. And I don't mean just once or twice. If he got down on his knees once he got down there 40 times. And every time, he popped right back up. He looked fit and in good health. His voice was strong and when he left the stage he SKIPPED. Yes, he SKIPPED off stage. Did I mention he's 78 years old? It made me happy to see this. It also made me think, "Hell, he might tour a couple of times before he retires at 90!"

The show was wonderful. He recited "A Thousand Kisses Deep" as spoken word poetry (much of his lyrics actually are poetry set to music) and I wept. I love that piece and to hear him recite it-- it gave me newfound respect for poets, for words.

I'm a writer-- I've written a poem or two-- and I tell you most of his songs move me with their beauty, leave me speechless, and make me feel envy simply because I won't ever tap into anything that beautiful and write it down. Or, if I did manage to tap into it, my gifts are not such that I could convey it. That's what art is-- especially if you are an artist-- you love it, admire it, but you feel a little envy, too. You wish the muse came to you as it came to that artist. And few artists made me feel that love and envy like Cohen. Such a happy, happy night. 

I won't bore you with details of all the songs. Hopefully, you'll check him out on your own. There are various DVDs and cds. Go watch him on youtube and then buy a cd. Support this artist. Support this art. Which brings me to a final point before I leave you.

I have an ongoing argument with someone about concert ticket prices. This person complains about ticket prices-- specifically Eddie Vedder-- being too high. It is, he tells me, "Too high. He's gouging his fans." He also claims this about the merchandise at the shows. Something I noticed at the Cohen show-- the tickets were higher and the merchandise slightly lower. Also, the tickets for Cohen were varying rates (and the cheapest were the price of Eddie's solos show) whereas Vedder's tickets were all the same price-- front row or back.

I point this out because one of the things that has always disconcerted me about this argument/debate is that I don't really understand why if an artist is rich, they aren't supposed to charge. Cohen's made millions (and now, sadly, lost them, too) and he's charging over $100 a ticket! And, truth is, I'm happy to pay it. I was happy to pay $30 for my t-shirt and $5 for my lapel pin. I won't grumble one bit. 

The reason why I won't grumble one bit is because Cohen's an ARTIST. Art is an expendable good. We pay for art because it makes us happy. Cohen makes me HAPPY. I buy the ticket because it makes me happy. I buy the shirt to remind me of the happiness not just of those songs but of that concert. I pay it because I want to recall the event.

This person I have the ongoing debate with seems to think that an artist should never charge above $45 for a ticket. Anything above is "gouging" but I just don't see that. The artist puts a price on what they do-- when they are small and unknown, the price is lower to entice fans to participate, to come see. As the artist grows in popularity, so does the ticket price. Why shouldn't it? Consumers don't question it when it comes to potato chips that are cheap when they first come on the market, whose prices then rise once they are popular. Why should we with artists?  Chips  don't make life better. Art does.

Sunday night was money well spent.

 

 

 

 

 

On Submitting Work

So, this last week, I've been trying to send out writing. I've always found it tedious. It's not enough to write a story, book, poem, one then has to get it published. And that's the part I've always hated. I sometimes think that I don't write simply because once I do, I'll have to do all the necessary things to send it out. 

I can fully understand how Emily Dickinson just put all her poems away and left them there. I hate sending work out. Maybe Emily Dickinson was just like me, though-- poorly organized and not at all ambitious.

I'm not particularly invested in getting published. I mean, I'd like to, sure. Mostly, though, I'd like to just stay home and write and read all day. Unfortunately, this means I have to find someone to pay me for what I write since no one's ever just offered me money to stay home and leave folks alone.

Well, I finally found a system whereby I can send out work. It's organized and it's easy. And, if it's easy, I'm far more likely to do it.

On days when I am in my office (MWF) I print 3 stories. I already have my giant envelopes stamped. I have the SASE ready. Both are in holders ON MY DESK!

I have a form cover letter on my computer. It's on the desktop so I see it as soon as I turn on the computer. It's there, screaming, "Don't do anything till you get ME done first!" 

I print my story. I then do three cover letters. I address the large envelopes and stuff them with letter, story, and SASE. Couldn't be easier. It's a shame it's taken me this long to set it up, honestly. But that's not really the hardest part. I mean, the hardest part is this-- I have at least a dozen stories. There are hundreds of places to send them. Some are snail mail and some are digital. After you send your story to the 6 or 7 places that you are really familiar with, how do you keep up with what you've sent to whom?

This is the sort of practical stuff I wish they'd taught us in grad school. Alas, no one ever did. The closest they came was once I asked my thesis advisor how she kept up with it and she said she had a recipe box with index cards where she kept track of it. I tried that for 15 seconds. It was too much for my poor brain to deal with. I just couldn't imagine how that was done.

Then finally, a couple weeks ago, Tammy got herself a calendar. We are both obsessed with calendars and day planners. Because she loves me, she got me one too.  It's a Moleskine. I love Moleskine. Go get you one-- RIGHT NOW. It's okay, it'll open in another window. I'll wait. And while you are grabbing the calendar, grab a journal too. They are pretty fucking fabulous. Personally, I prefer the sketchbook but if you don't write hard and like normal pages (I like my paper thick) then the regular will do.

I digress. Sorry. Anyway, so she gets me this calendar and it's absolutely perfect for keeping up with my work and where I send it to.  Of course, the first step was to put a little Pearl Jam on the front, right? 

But the inside is really what's helpful. I just write what story it is that I am sending out and what magazines I am sending it to. If I enter a contest (which I did yesterday) then I write that down as well along with the amount spent. It looks a little like this:

Every writer is different. We work in different ways, have different tricks, different ideas and rituals. And the sending out of work isn't much different. You have to find a method that works for you. If you haven't, keep trying. Organizational skills are not high on my list of strong qualities. I'm funny and smart and a good cook. Keeping up with my ass with both hands? Nah, not so much.

But, I've struck upon a system where it's easy to get work together and even easier to keep up with where I send it. Win/Win!

So, fellow writers, how do you keep up with where you send your work?

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On Spring and new starts

Pearl Jam, Atlanta, Midtown Music

On Spring and new starts

It's the first day of spring and it sure as hell doesn't feel like spring. Woke up and it was 37 out. But, I refuse to bow to the demands of my environment. I wore capri pant and sandals anyway. I don't care if I freeze, I'm not wearing a fucking coat in March. I refuse to.

I'm in a pissy mood right now-- I should be in a good mood-- but I've got my mind on sleights that have been done to me in the past and I can't quite get past them. They aren't even in the distant past, so maybe that's okay. I suppose the thing is, when you are very open and accepting and love people immensely it hurts when they don't reciprocate. 

This is a pattern that has repeated with me throughout my life. So many friends who just sort of slide away, and it isn't unusual that I, in a panic to keep them close, do or say something stupid that pushes them away entirely. 

And then there are friends who I have held on to for decades even though we have nothing in common and don't particularly seem to even like each other. When we get together the only things we have to talk about is work (theirs, not mine-- no one wants to hear about teaching or writing and no one wants to read a friends writing either. Ever.) and television. That's it. That's the sum and substance of the friendship.

I have no fear that my friend will even read this as 1. my friend has never read any of my writing and 2. my friend has no idea I even have a blog. So, one wonders, is this person even my friend or just a habit from childhood? I tend to think it's the latter. This person is just an attachment. Not an attachment in the sense of love, either, but in the sense that I cling to people and things seeking permanance. 

This is perhaps in part because of my feelings of abandonment from my mother's absence from my life, but it's also a manifestation of a desire for continuity. Buddhism teaches us that suffering comes from desire. So it stands to reason that my suffering from friendships is my own making. I suffer not because I love them but because I want them to love me. I want their love in very real and concrete ways (a text, a kind word, them telling me that they are thinking about me) and while they may feel it, my misery is of my own making.

Still, it's very hard to not feel hurt and offended when friends take no interest in your writing or only pretend to care that you write. I had a friend ask me last year to read my thesis-- or "Why haven't you given me your thesis to read?" in a hurt and outraged manner. I said, "Because I never presume just because someone is my friend that they care to read my writing." I was told, in no uncertain terms to "Send it to me. I want to read it." I replied saying, "Okay, but if I send it and you don't read it, I will be hurt."

I was assured they would read it. Now, I don't expect anyone to get my 170 page thesis and read it in a week. I don't even expect anyone to ask for it, honestly. However, if you ask for it and you never read it, then I have every reason to feel hurt and upset. I have every reason to get angry when it takes over two months to read the first story (and one story is 1 page long. None are over 26 pages) and all you have to say about it is one word. 

It's the equivelent of "Oh, I read it. It's INTERESTING." Follow that with a series of banalities about "Who are the characters based on?" and "Why did they do x, y, and z?" and that's what the exchange was. No mention of my writing has passed between us since.

So, am I to take it that I am not a good writer? I'm not a writer to their tastes? What am I to take from that, exactly?

It's times like this, I envy musicians. I'm pretty sure Eddie Vedder doesn't have to call up friends and ask them, "So, I sent you that demo two months ago. Have you listened to it? What did you think?" I can't see that Jerry Cantrell has ever had to beg someone for feedback on his guitar playing.

So, maybe the problem isn't them (because really, a lot of my friends would make great fodder for my material and I should keep them around solely for that alone. And it's not like they'd know, right?) but rather the problem is with me-- I expect something they can't or won't give.

Now, I must take a moment to add, Tammy always reads what I write. She always gives honest and good feedback. She insists I write and is proud when I do. She's my ideal and constant reader. And I am so grateful for her.

I told her last night-- every book I ever publish, it will be dedicated to you and to you only because you always believed. 

I'm writing more working at this job. I've started submitting stories. I'm publishing two stories this year. I'm finishing my book (non-fiction). Those are my goals. And while I might lament some things, there are things I have, gifts I have been given (a beautiful partner who inspires me and supports me, a cozy home, cats who make me laugh and love) that I simply have to be in awe of.

Do I want more? Of course. We all want more. All the time. It's the human condition. It's a disease of life, being unsatisfied with what we have. The secret to happiness isn't getting everything you want. It's wanting everything you have. 

Mar 19, 2013

Finally sent some work out. Aiming to send two more this week!

Nov 8, 2012

Glad to have a kitchenaid mixer. I have arrived.

Oct 25, 2012

Fall break. This guy is glad to have me home.