who am I to disagree

November 27, 2017

I midway wake up a couple times a night, and ruminate drowsily on the most recent of my dreams.

Last night I halfway woke up trying to remember the name of a real world acquaintance: Felicia…Christina…Clabberstein…

I’m sorry, what, my brain enquired of itself, now fully awake. Did you say Clabberstein? A word that has probably never in human history existed as a surname, and you’re offering it as a possible first name for this lovely twenty first century woman?

My brain does not know where it gets this stuff from.


all the games you play

November 20, 2017

I recently rediscovered the words with friends app, and incidentally the fact that I am a huge baby when anyone plays a word that I suspect exists solely for use in scrabble games.

I was on the point of refusing to play the word ‘qi’ because it smacks of desperation (and is worth so many points it kind of feels like cheating) but then I remembered this, which I have consistently depended upon throughout my life to check my instinct to do myself and nobody else any favors by clambering onto horses of superior elevation:

alone in my principles

but rock lives on

November 19, 2017

Today I spent like five hours making crayons, from motherfucking scratch, and beeswax. Also multiple other waxes, and natural pigments.

They’re for the gift bags we’ll be donating to Doernbecher children’s hospital this Christmas. There were many air bubbles. There were many pigment mistakes. There were many crack and crumbles. I had to remelt and re-tint/re-cast so many of them I thought it would never end. But, at long last:







I may never actually get the wax out from under my fingernails and my arms are probably permanently pock marked from countless splash and sizzles, but I am superbly proud of myself. Yesterday I didn’t know how to make crayons. Now I can make them like a little eight armed robot. Almost.

something about porridge

November 7, 2017

I was standing at the sink just now, washing dishes and thinking about a story I read recently called Some Like It Hot, about how some people use hot water to wash dishes and some people use cold water, but really it doesn’t matter because the soap is what kills the germs anyhow. Let it be known that I am vastly suspicious of this reasoning. As I stand here typing with fingers whose upper layers have just been scalded away by dishwater hot enough to melt crayons.

Anyhow, I was thinking to myself the words ‘some like it hot’

and suddenly my brain just took over and rushed in all of its own accord to add

some like it cold; some like it in the pot, nine days old.

How many brain cells do I actually have just sitting around up there keeping track of nursery rhymes and the plots of Poirot episodes and Babysitter’s Club characters’ names? Either I am not using enough of my brain cells in my day-to-day life or I have a generous allotment to use on nonsense. (yay).

Furthermore, now I am wondering if we are being too uptight about our food use-by dates these days. Nine days in the pot sounds pretty nasty to me, but if people back then had as many issues as we currently do with gut bacteria, they don’t seem to have documented it very well. Or maybe we just haven’t tied it all together? I am considering leaving porridge in a pot for nine days and seeing what happens. I am not considering eating it.

cut my life into pieces

November 4, 2017


I’ve decided that next Halloween the dogs can go as these two.



the other is gold

November 4, 2017

Nobody in the world but my family members starts an interaction with

‘so you want to hear a funny story about Bob Hope?’

to the southern wind

November 3, 2017



fruit life




del rancho