Maybe this is what happens when I’m happy. Maybe this is what happens when I have a life of my own and my independence, and my freedom. Yeah, it probably is. After months and months of on again off again doubt and rage and fear and terror, I have my feet on some ground and fucking look at that, I’m floating.

Life is peculiar in the most precocious way.


Yesterday we went on a sailboat across the bay to Treasure Island, made a loop around Alcatraz to see the prison, I got slightly seasick after a bit, and it was grand. I got to steer, and I learned about tacking and all the gauges, and I spent the whole time freezing in my bare feet with a white skirt and a baby mistral whipping around me, and I felt fucking badass. I also felt intimidated by several large tour boats and barges, and I encountered with distaste the original definition of the word ‘showboating.’


On Treasure Island there was a ferris wheel and a music festival, and I flatly refused to go on the ferris wheel. The only time in my life that I have been on a ferris wheel is when I decided that my sister Priscilla needed to get over her fear of ferris wheels. We went on and halfway up I felt like dying and she started howling at the top of her voice, so we flagged the operator boy down and made him let us off after only one revolution. My family and I, we are frequently inglorious basterds.


The music festival was the best thing to happen to me in a damn while. It has been so long since I heard music so phenomenal and saw a live show so entertaining. My absolute favorite was Kruder and Dorfmeister, they reminded me of Devo from another era on another planet. Also we saw Dead Maus, and that blew my mind. It also reminded me of the rat gang from Cowboy Bebop, and that made perfect sense to me.


Of course, this is all while I’m sick as a dog. So right now I’m sitting on my couch in my blankets gently tripping on Robitussin. I don’t like Robitussin. I never drink Robitussin, not even as a child. But now I have a job I love and a boyfriend I love and an events calendar I love, and it’s really hard not to gogogo and just chug Robitussin all weekend. Do not worry – Robitussin is not the new cigarette. I will not be tweaking around in six month’s time with a Robo bottle in my purse that is actually a plastic FOREVER21 bag, scratching my ass through my skirt that is actually a child’s slip, talking to you through my six teeth in a roboslur about how I can’t feel my arms but I can still feel my fingers, isn’t that weird?


I can’t feel my arms but I can still feel my fingers, isn’t that weird?


Someone found my blog today by googling ‘objects made of wine bottles.’ This makes me happy. Thank you for my good day, wine bottle art loving person!


October 15, 2010

I’m reading the Alchemist right now for the first time, and it’s been giving me a lot of delicious food for thought. The whole concept of personal legends has hit me at just the psychological moment; I’ve only just begun to be all, ok, have a job, have a longterm boy, what else do I have? Is that all I need? Should I be doing more? Do I want more?

And of course I do. I want lots more. I feel like beginner’s luck is with me again, as I traverse the path of righteousness that rocks in pursuit of the best my life has to offer. I really do want my life to be full and rich and busy and messy. I want more, more, more. And I no longer have the constraints that I used to. I can now go anywhere, live anywhere, study anything, master any skill, do any job, love anyone, heal anyone, sing any song, dance any step (ok, that might not be true but for the sake of continuity let’s go with it), topple any mountain, fly any sky. Finding faith in myself has been the biggest step forward of my life since finding peace in myself. Now that I have both, I feel fucking unstoppable. Because I AM unstoppable, bitchez! The only thing that can stop me now, as ever, is my own decision to stop. (because it’s too hard, because I guess I didn’t want that anyway, because apparently the universe has other things for me). Not anymore. Now, when the going gets tough the tough are going to keep going. Because while flexibility is a requirement of continued existence, firm resolve is another. I’ve been down with the flexibility for ages, I can basically stick my situation heels behind my circumstances head; but unwavering belief in what I think is good and worth it and right for me even if it’s going to be harder to get and keep than I originally supposed, that is a natural selection survival skill that I haven’t really honed so well yet. And it’s one of those things that I’m nervous about, because it’s an extremist thing and extremist things make me nervous. For the last several years I’ve been all about erring on the side of flexibility, which I still believe will keep me supple and open and fling wide the doors of all sorts of new experiences, but at last I’m realizing that flexibility for its own sake is as lopsided as doing your own thing just for the sake of doing your own thing. I don’t want to be the shrinking violet who just goes along with whatever everyone else wants, and I don’t want to be the raging bull who does what he’s going to regardless of what anyone else wants. I want, as usual, that center line made out of smoke and tears and lines of cobweb that represents a life lived with intent to balance the silver spoon of lady luck on one’s nose while tiptoeing along invisible well worn roads, smelling the roses, celebrating the sky, and not falling down. Any more than one needs to fall down. Collecting very small rocks, and pine cones. Humming a little, and howling at the moon whether it’s full or not. Generally it isn’t.


I just want to add that last night I dreamed that I was in line for the ladies room and I met a two year old named Tabby. I told her that was my name too, and she lit up like a christmas tree on December 24th. We talked about how there are never any name bracelets or toy license plates with TABITHA on them. And that’s all.


lips like sugar

October 12, 2010

I’m sitting at my kitchen table, curling my bare feet around its black iron claws. I’m waiting for my coffee to cool. We’ve been out of milk since probably Wednesday, so I’ve been drinking it black. Joel smelled the milk carton and said that the milk was still good, expiration dates are more like guidelines anyhow and judging from the smell this milk was only about to go bad, but. I can drink my coffee black.

A boy is in the shower and a boy is sleeping on the couch in the tonton sleeping bag. It’s so warm that I have to take off my little gray sweater before I sip my coffee. I made blueberry bran muffins because Jess and Ross and I are going to have a breakfast club. I’m the crazy girl that makes dandruff drawings, and blueberry bran muffins. I also highly advocate smoothies, because they’re portable and delicious and apparently you can have your servings of kale in them without ever tasting it. Eating kale without eating kale? Priceless.

I wanted to write to check in with myself and the universe, but it’s slow going this morning. I think if I had a less frantic job I’d be writing more, but the constant tommy gun pace of my office is almost brain deadening. I have to learn to have it all; god knows it only offers more material.

The sound of the traffic here is immense. Leaving the windows open lets gorgeous sun warmed night cooled air in, and the noise of a million billion scrabbling bugs taking their machines to work. Today I am thankful not to be one of them. Today I am just so pleased to have a job I can walk to on glorious days.

I feel better all the time. I made an hours long personal history drawing on Sunday. I sat on the back steps and drew and thought and wrote tiny obscure notes to myself. I don’t think it’s finished, but it sure has lots in it already. I didn’t put any pressure of any sort on myself, I didn’t think of anyone ever seeing it but me, I didn’t try to filter anything, I just put it down as it came. Now there is a large piece of paper in the world that basically serves as the answer key to my soul. I drew all my happinesses and sadnesses and dreams and fears. I drew them just as they are, looking simple, looking crude, and I knew they were true and I was ok with it. I didn’t even have to analyze their origins or plot their demise, I just sat with them and thought about their existence.

Everything I put down feels like a cliché to me, because it’s a cliché of me.

I learned things.

I learned that I both love and long for and hate and dread going to extremes. It seems that everything I want, I want but not too much of. One of the soul stoking images is a balloon alone in the sky; one of the terror inducing images is a balloon alone in the sky on its way to space.

There was a woman,

a mother tied to selfish others by both wrists and the ground floor by both ankles

a flamboyant voyeur dying wasted alone on a brittle bed of solo adventure

a silicone saddled sex toy

a lumplet who had tried and was rebuffed, and curled angry in on herself like a paper in flame

There are a lot of people I’m afraid of becoming.

On the other hand, there are a lot of people whose shoes I rush to fill.

There were stars and trees and a gypsy wagon with a carriage lamp; there were leaves and paths and devils and angels, and a scarf going down a lane through the fog. There were women with blossom amber lips and shadow children and men with straight shoulders, and music and music.

There was nothing I could do about anything except sit and balance and breathe.

Sip coffee.

Listen to pink floyd.

Pet cat head.

Trust own self, to avoid the prefab personality boxes and live on the edge of the greased dinner plate.

Kind of wish for a motorcycle, so as to immediately test the edge of the greased dinner plate.

Wait for all things to come with sunkissed warm toast shoulders and pinpoint freckled nose.

Grab pull in punch punch punch down.