bits & pieces

flowers & stipes






saddle bag

mud blossoms



tennis ball


I am

the old house

November 11, 2015

I forgot what art for art’s own sake felt like. Art as it lives and breathes in all its phases of incompleteness, nothing much to look at for most of the process. I miss existing in a total city of that. Before marketable bankable came the norm with all its gloss and price tag. 

I miss when walking into a building meant feasting your eyes on the jumble of personality that means that someone or several someones have been there for lo this long time, painting in the layers of the time that they have been here.

The soft edged imperfection of a piece of work in progress; a sort of community collaboration you can’t find in prefab trending funk.

a sneak pink

November 8, 2015

I finally got myself a dinglehopper for my lengthening hairs:

It is really actually laugh out loud funny that I can’t brush my hair unless I flip it upside down, even though it’s still way too short for that. Ancient muscle memory dies hard apparently.

the resolute urgency of now

October 14, 2015

Thanks to a sudden lack of dishwashing soap in our household, I have spent a good portion of the morning mopping water off the kitchen floor and chasing huge drifts of soap suds out the back door. Who actually knew that the dire consequences of substituting palmolive, as outlined in books featuring Curious George, had not been grossly exaggerated?


Anyhow, one quick trip to the internet later, everything is looking up. The dishwasher is still sudsing, but now it can only make sad thin little suds that slide down the front of itself like time off a Dalí clock. This is because the internet said, and is apparently not wrong about, to throw a cup of white wine vinegar in, and some salt. I initially suspected the internet of fucking with me via a mom blog, determined that in fact vinegar and baking soda are what create grade school volcanoes, and with hope in my heart doused the innards of my dishwasher liberally with salt and vinegar. Why is it that vinegar is the answer to everything? I do not understand.


I am super sorry not to have any pictures of the winter wonderland that so recently blanketed my kitchen, but I kind of lost my mind when I looked up from my laptop and saw it creeping toward the living room. Suffice it to say that I now have a very clean kitchen floor, (something that does not often happen for me as apparently it takes a tragedy to incite me to mop), and I really wish I had a kid today. Experiences like this are wasted on grownups.

I am

August & September


by the sea

blue sky







321 bottle


blood moon




I am

a secret magic past world

September 29, 2015

There is a part of me that really dislikes success.

I know we are all raised to fear failure and what-not, but I have never been over averse to it; with failure, you have a place to start again once you’ve picked the old self up and brushed it off.

Success leaves a vacuum. Success leaves a gaping hole where purpose used to be. Success means you have to think of something new to do, just when your brain was getting the hang of that last thing. Success is a pain in the damn ass, especially in a world where it is not recognized with stickers of any shape or metallic quality, or candy of any kind. Success is such sweet sorrow.

I know I sound like a total Eeyore (also possibly like I am disguising boastfulness under a mantle of gloom) but I have never been good at holding onto a sense of purpose. Work goals have always been a nice way of ballasting myself through the overall pointlessness of life, and any chapter’s end is always accompanied by a heavy increase in nihilism. Add to this the fact that I am no longer pursuing any school goals of any kind, other than to pass a yoga 101 class, and you basically have me drifting in the doldrums, wondering what I’m supposed to be doing with this, my one existence.

It’s obnoxious that the only answers are ‘find something new to do’ or ‘distract yourself.’ It’s just never going to be that kind of life where the stuff to do rolls up on a silver platter and then you hero all over that shit. At this point it appears that I am never going to be over that. No wonder we as a species are so great at doing what we’re told; we’re built to crave external direction and prompting, just like we’re built to crave freedom of action and independence of thought. What ridiculous exercises in contradiction we all are. What a lovely and devilish thing it is to be a human.

squash blossom

I am

It’s marvelous, this.

One of the best single lines ever delivered in a film for context and solemnity.

Oh jeez. I am blogging this live here as it were (notice the accent already creeping in) and I forgot how real this shit gets. And how funny, and unexpectedly joyously uplifting. Hooray the grubby glorious little human spirit.

No wonder I love this song! It’s in both Fern Gully AND The Full Monty. But damned if I know what it is.

Musings brought to you today by my unfailing need to discuss the darling geniuses of my favorite movies.

I am


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