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I have had a new realization recently. Recently I noticed, for the first time ever, after years of being relentlessly bludgeoned in the head with it, that not all the answers I need exist yet.

FAH.

I have spent my entire life as yet laboring under the weighty impression that there is an answer to everything out there, you just have to bust your ass to find it, and also it is not some nebulous limp wrist bullshit like 42. This is how I have been feeling about things up till now, so you can totally imagine my frequent beleagered frustration. I have been working my ass off, now where are my answers?!

It is hard to accept the fact that some problems in life have not yet divulged all their factors, rendering them unfit for solving for an indefinite period of time. The really irritating thing about this is that the more you try to solve a snafu that is refusing to gift you the necessary info to just make it all go away, the more you drive yourself into a nervous collapse and also you wind up with a lot of stupid desperate useless badly planned silly looking crayon markings all around the problem.

I feel like I dance with faith all throughout my life. I remember faith, I lilt in its light, I gambol in its gorgeous, glittering freedom; and then slowly, slowly I remember that to lilt and to gambol is not to live dynamically, and that one really does need to do a bit of persevering and goddamn owning it, and eventually faith and I are all over the place in a crazy control freak tango, turn right, I said right, I SAID HEY I AM DRIVING HERE.

Obviously I have had eighty seven kabillion prior blog posts about this, the sundry realization that I am off kilter and that the key to life is not 42, it is balance. Jeez that 42 made me mad. I apologize to everyone who thought that was a good ending, I agree with you when I think that life is a joke. It is only when I think life is pretty serious business that I resent it. Anyhow, realizations. I think I have these realizations all the time because of how this faith/less dance I do always skims me back and forth between letting go and letting god or whatever, and mongering for control like an obsessive chihuahua. Engihland swing like a pendulum do, and so do I.

Currently I have decided that there is not the perfect apartment out there right now, because I have looked, and the fact that my perfect in every way finally bridesmaid dresses showed up an appaling shade that can only be described as flourescent shrimp is not the end of the world because hey! thank goodness for return policies.

Back to drawing boards. But, eh. Drawing is more fun and beautiful anyhow than scribbles around the hole in the plaster.

Oh, also:

box1

I am

ah, with the rising sun

February 4, 2014

 

 

foreground

 

vines

 

mirrored

 

lines

 

wunnerful

 

boots

 

gaga

 

cat's cradle

 

golden yellow

 

wings

 

I am

why we’re springer bound

February 4, 2014

I had a problem with a biker this morning.

Usually bikers and I do not have problems, I being pretty similar to what I have observed to be the driving norm for about 53% of the rest of Portland motorists. I see a biker, I hold my breath, I give them about three car spaces when I finally pass them at a roaring 25mph. Then I exhale. This is my general experience with bikers.

Today I was turning onto the construction ridden roadway that houses my parking garage and a biker slid up from behind, stationed himself in a position optimal for orbiting my passenger side headlight if a need suddenly arose, and made a hand signal at me.

Hand signal, went the biker.

Oh crap, went my brain, which one is that? because in my absolutely unqualified opinion, (I have never ridden a bike on an actual roadway since childhood and one time in San Francisco right after I got there and was the most severely horribly lost of all my horribly lostness there, and a trucker almost ran me over, I am certain that I am not the biking hand signal expert here), these hand signals never look the same from one biker to the next and in most cases it looks more like they’re flinging something anyway. Is that…a booger? Are they just flinging a booger? Or am I supposed to stop right here right now because they want to go left; or maybe the more practical thing would be to speed up right here right now so they can cut behind? But also their hand flang to the right a little bit. Maybe I am supposed to keep going and he’s just letting me know…? It seems like a very definite hand gesture to just be letting me know.

Garg.

All this to say that I did not understand a biker today and he made a disgusted face at me and then I felt stupid. I guess it is maybe time to get the urban dictionary’s chart of hand signs bikers make (dear god let that be a thing) and tape it to my dashboard.

I am