I don't have much time to talk

Packing for my two-week trip to cold cold Minnesota. Looking forward to family time. Gunna miss Dave and the kitties.

Here's one of my fave songs that shows up on my Pandora all the time...

I don't have a sick, unhealthy relationship, but I do remember how awful and delicious they are. Kate Nash kind of nails it in this one! Enjoy.

My Head Can't Fit Through the Door

It's too big! The ego boosts from this weekend have inflated it! Firstlies, I got my first blog award EVER! Yup. Carissa at the lovely dove awarded me this:


I have to admit, as a fairly newbie blogger myself, i go to all these sites and see the awards wallpapering the sidelines and wondering, "hmmm....woes me, when will little ol' me get an award?" But alas, I wait no more!

Then, of course, reality sinks in. I kind of have homework now. Terms: To accept, you post with the award and link. Then, you link to approximately 15 new blogs you've found and enjoyed. Last, you notify your lovely blog buddies. Riding on my blog award high, I'm gunna be diligent and just get to it...

Note: I'm really going to take that "approximately" to heart and go with 7 tags. Because I'm kind of a slacker (and I truly don't know if I could genuinely list 15 new blogs i've found).

1. I'm going to just re-tag Carissa at the lovely dove because she is a newer blog I found that I really do enjoy. She's got the cutest colorful blog. Lots of great fashion and photos. She loves Etsy stuff, so she's posts all sorts of eye candy. Also: her giveaways are bomb.

2. Phoenix at Res ipsa loquitor. Because she's honest and open and she just seems like someone who if I met her in three-dimensional life, she'd be a great friend with exceptional conversation skills.

3. Steph(anie) at Unsweet Mama. She posts great music and also sometimes when she's feeling it, she writes real raw true thoughts. I dig that.

4. Bethany at Bloom. She's probably the newest newest I've discovered bumbling about the blogosphere. And she's delightful. She writes about gardening in a refreshingly quirky way. Case in point: her last blog was titled "hairy balls" but was really about some kind of plant. She is also artsy and writes about her life thoughtfully.

5. Lena from Bits on the Nippy Side. Because she's so feisty! And she swears. I tend to like swear words in blogs.

6. Laura from Piece of Cake. Such a beautiful blog! The pictures are divine, the words are poetry, and to top it off, she makes the best looking cakes EVER.

7. Perhaps you guys have some suggestions of other new blogs I might dig. Tell me your FAVE! Five of my faves that I've been reading for awhile are in my blog's righthand panel. Check them out, I really really really like them! (I realize this isn't really a tag).

O.k., donesies. To all the ones I've tagged, feel free to follow in my slacker footsteps and do five. That way, I kind of look like an overachiever, because, look at you, you only did five.
SOOOOO.....in other "can't fit my head through the door" news, I sold two paintings on Etsy this weekend!!! omg omg omg omg omg omg....

I posted three paintings a few weeks ago in my new Etsy shop. I didn't tell you. I know. I was afraid. And I'm still afraid to tell you, because now, I only have one painting there and it's not my fave fave. So I'm going to put more up and then I'm going to link it. Eventually. I promise.

I've never sold my art, only given it away. I've never taken it seriously, just kind of did it for fun. But per my New Year's resolutions and part of my blog's very purpose, I put myself out there. And WHAM! sold sold sold! Two pieces!!! Turned my world upside-down, so excited!

I better get to painting! Perhaps my life-long dream of manning my very own booth at an art fair will come true :-)

Cat Tales

So Dave and I have this cat, little Diego. He's about 1 1/2 years old. We also have a cat named Trick Daddy. He's about seven, short-haired, and black. But this isn't about him. This is about Diego.

We found Diego in the back of Ocean Palms Hotel in Carlsbad, CA in September 2008. In fact, he woke us up. On the last day of our vacation. There we were, snoozing to the sounds of the ocean breeze, when his high-pitched screams cut through our laissez-faire dreams. For atleast a half-hour, we let him whimper and whine outside our window. We put pillows over our heads, willing it to go away.

Dave and I are both kind of suckers for cats. Me, because I'm a bleeding heart wet blanket. Dave, because of that too, but probably more so because he grew up on a makeshift farm, where his mother and father raised horses, sheep, cows, chickens, and the like. Dave, born of this creature-friendly stock, is genetically predisposed.

He especially likes cats, maybe more so than any other animal. I love this about him. Lots of guys like dogs better. I love that Dave doesn't. He prefers cats. Not that he hates dogs. That would be weird. I don't hate dogs. Neither does he.

You should always be wary of anybody who hates cats OR dogs. But ladies, be especially wary of the boy who hates cats. NEVER date a guy who hates cats.

Here's a list of proverbs from around the world:

"A house without a dog or cat is the house of a scoundrel." --Portugal
"Beware of people who dislike cats." -- Ireland
"The man who loves cats will love his wife." -- Russia

Or, how bout some famous people who HATED cats?
Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, & Napolean Bonaparte

Got it? Good.

Soooooo, finally, Dave and I creek out of bed to investigate what all the ruckus is about. Behind the bushes, we find our little scraggly buddy, a ball of black fur, wandering around in the mud with about three of his siblings. The tykes are no bigger than my palm. Their eyes are barely opened. They're perhaps three weeks old.

We manage to follow one wobbly wee one to a dark vent underneath the hotel. Peering out from the wet darkness is mama cat, a skinny black beggar cat that we fed hamburger scraps to the other day! Mama cat, distressed by our presence, eventually ventures out of her soggy cave, grabs each kitten by the neck and totes them home.

The problem is: she leaves one out in the wild. She abandons our screaming wake-up call, who is still cying like the world is ending. Our hearts break as he wobbles aimlessly in the mud, searching for home. We leave for awhile, hoping mama will save him when we're gone. She doesn't.

When we return, we find our miniature fur ball even further from home. We are desperate. Sadly though, I didn't think we could take this one home (even though I wanted to). Dave is allergic, and it took tears and humidifiers to convince him to let me keep our first stray. Plus, we've had our other cat, Trick, for six years. He's not typically described as "nice." While deeply devoted to us, he doesn't take well to strangers. Cats included.

Luckily, something in Dave snapped. He marched back into the hotel room and grabbed a small towel. He went behind the bushes and arose with the little guy clutched in his towel. He shoved him into my arms and said, "Let's go."

Shocked (and elated), I said, "Are we going to keep him?" And he said gruffly, "Well, I'm not going to just leave him here to die." And that was that.

On the car ride back to our then-home in Phoenix, we picked up kitty formula and learned how to bottle-feed. The kitty slept in my hand. Convinced it was a girl, we named her "Maybe."

At the vet, our veteranarian reveals to us that our little short-haired girl cat is actually a long-haired boy cat. And health-wise, a fungus is eating his foot. Also, his entire tiny body is infested with fleas.

While the anti-fungals save his foot, he's too young to treat with regular flea meds. So, after three rounds of Dawn dish soap and hours of dutifully picking stubborn fleas off his back one by one, he's finally clean.

Dave was frequently in charge of bottle-feeding him and wiping his ass, as I was working long hours at the time. Now, a full 18 months later, his allergies seem o.k., and they have a special bond.

Diego is quite the charmer. I can't imagine him living on the street; he would of never made it. He loves people more than any other cat I've met. Are you a complete stranger? Great, you're his friend.

His stray cat, homeless ancestry makes him completely mannerless though. He eats like a loud hog. He drinks from the toilet. He digs in the garbage. He'll eat watermelon straight off your plate.

Him and Trick have grown, much to our surprise, to be kinda sorta friends. I even caught Trick bathing him recently.

Bottom line is: we love Diego and can't imagine life without the little buggar.

(This long story was originally intended to tell you how we had Diego professionally groomed the other day. Have you ever shaved and bathed a cat? It was a really funny story, I promise. But alas, I'm whooped. For now, just know, he's trimmed and handsome :-).

Deep thought: Sometimes our plans get all muddled up in between the beginning and the end.)

Rain Away

The sky is crying crying
Hard.

I know what she is thinking...
that the world needs a wash;
that she mimics the way Haiti wails--
when blue air collided with cracked earth,
she saw the people sucked in
and protested
Hard.

I let the wind
throw the blinds into the living room air.
I let it speak,
I let it whine.
I don't want music. Not now.

I am so safe and to tell you the truth
I'm guilty; I feel guilty, warm and happy.
Stupid, I know.

Tonight, we gather ourselves in our coats
and feel the rain soak through our shoes.
Our car wheels sound like little wet cymbals
as we glide
over the reflections, the streaked yellow globes of light
on the black cement.

When we arrive, we shake off the chill and sit down.
You crack me a beer so we can whisper at each other
inside this dark blue bar,
legs draped over your lap.

It's all so far away--
the rumbling
at the window.

I'm so safe
who's not safe
we're not safe
At all.

If I Can't Write More...

Then I'll just write this: That I can't write more.

I don't know why my words feel like quicksand now. I don't feel like giving them up. I want to hold them close to my chest now, like a poker hand. I'm bluffing.

I feel like I can't tell you what I think now. I can't tell you how anxious I am. I can't tell you how simultaneously excited I am. I can't tell you how I feel.

So I don't.

I stand here like a mute.

Writing this makes me want to challenge myself to just Let. You. Know. I'll start with just one thing...

It's been almost one half year of trying to make life grow in my belly. And there's nothing. And I can hear half of my support system sigh right now and say, "Don't say that. Don't be negative. Don't. Don't. Don't." They don't want me to talk about it. Ever. In fact, they say if I do, I jinx myself. Just thinking about it, apparently jinxes me. "Just relax," they chide.

But I don't think me just wondering about a natural thing like reproduction makes me stop reproduction. I'd rather they tell me that no matter what I think about, 'it is' or 'it ain't.' Because that's what I think. And how can I not think about it?

I want to hear, "No worries dear Darc, everything'll be fine." Or, "hey, I heard pineapple is great for fertility." Or "it took me one year, but it finally happened for me!" When I hear, "If you worry too much, you'll never get pregnant," that makes me feel desperate and frustrated. Like not only am I unable to conceive thus far, it's also my own mind's fault, not just a fault of my body. Now I got TWO problems.

To the many who have said this, I just had to say this. I still love you.

I want you to know that I do believe. It WILL happen. I have no doubt. But in the meantime, can't I kind of fuss over it?

Ten Things i ask for zis New Year...

O New Year...you ancient thing...

these are my dreams for you...

1) smoke-free, one whole year (progress thus far? check.)

2) new home that IS a home. all this beige in my apt. bugs me out. i miss our green carpet in az.

3) paintings and photos and drawings that spill out into the digital atmosphere and gather money.

4) writing enough. writing more. writing to live. out loud.

5) a little being in my belly that grows and then coups my heart. my life. my little baby born.

6) i want this new volunteer opportunity with foster children to spill over the brim and make me break down, make me re-grow. again. get bigger. big. larger. large. gather the whole wide world in its arms.

7) minimize the distance between my family and i.

8) eat food like i'm taking medicine. it's meh vitamins. it's life. Stop fucking around.

9) Start making money that doesn't depend on The Man.

10) read and believe that i will do all of these things...

Cabin Fever

With the holidays tucked neatly behind us, we're disheveled. You are in the next room, clearing your throat and sucking snot through your nose, as you play some loud thing. I pound green tea to prevent the body from giving in to the cold that hovers in our living room.

Alaska: you are so large and dark in the winter. When we first landed, our plane shook in your freezing air. I held my stomach and averted my eyes from the window. When we are sick, we are alone.

At touchdown, we clacked onto the peach shining tile of the new Anchorage airport. Things change, you must have thought. Your hometown, where your heart grew in its palms, grows without you. It mars your memory. I know this because the Fargo from my youth doesn't exist anymore either. It is something else entirely. It is present. I am past. When I visit, its new buildings tell me, I don't belong anymore.

Through the cold window in the car, the night white snow mesmerizes me. I am not speaking as the black spokes of the trees zip past. A dark organic silhouette emerges on the street, lit by the yellow globes of the quiet winter street. There's our moose, sauntering through the streets like a living poem. Only in Alaska...

I am grateful to love your family. Grateful to hole up in the dim light of that cozy cabin. Grateful for the five-day hibernation that felt like a warm hug. Grateful for blankets, tea, Christmas lights, and carbohydrates.

We were so silent together, the five of us. Even the dogs outside barely barked. When Humvee, the sheep, wanted crackers, he butted his head against the window without a cry. The only peep I heard from him was when we were leaving; his thick hooves crunched in the driveway as he galloped after the car.

I saw you unwind there. I'm not sure who needed that more--you or me. Since we moved to San Diego, I've seen you hold that tight rein around your life. Squeezing it so hard your knuckles whiten, your neck stiff. I know you do it for us and I love you for it, but I miss you.

It's temporary. It's temporal. It's necessary i know. But gawd my heart screamed when I saw you breathe. Even as you got sicker and sicker, your nose stuffed and your head clogged, I was still relieved. It meant, to me, your body letting go. Laying down. Sleeping.

When we boarded the return plane, you handed me our tickets: first class. You smiled at me. I punched you. We sat down and you held my hand. I started to cry. You said, 'we'll figure it out.' And we will.

We Blossom Don't We

The blossoms outside my apartment changed. From winter white to winter purple. Cold purple. The kind of lavendar that chills. My breath freezes in front of me, 'was it like this yesterday?' No. The color changes in a day.

I keep on waiting for you. Tapping my fingernails on the black iron. A hollow yell. I make plans for you. My hopes and dreams: they come and go.

Knee-deep in December, the presents pile by the door. Their bright red wrapping, crisp and shining, mocks the heart. You will not see your family, the postage remarks. I wait till the last minute to send them, trudge to the car, drive mindlessly to the post office, and go mindlessly about my day. I already miss the memory we haven't made.

We went to a party tonight. The white icicle lights blinked on the wall. When I smiled you smiled and then we went away...

The Hipster's Holiday Book-Giving Guide

Since we're all in the Christmas spirit, spending our hearts away and whistling to the classic holiday tunes, I thought I'd share ten of my fave books EVER (in case you're looking for gift ideas for you or others). These books touched my life in a profound way--either by blowing me away with their artfulness, enlightening my perspective on things, or just plain changing my life.

1. Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks - This book began my love affair with Russell Banks. This easy-to-read, coming-of-age tale of a troubled adolescent dabbling in drugs and homelessness displays all of the components I like in fiction: twisted, deep, vivid and well-written.

2. The Art of Happiness, A Handbook for Living - I've owned this book for atleast ten years, and it still sits near my bedside. The Dalai Lama, guided by psychologist Howard Cutler's questions, very clearly and simply explains the importance of compassion and how to cultivate it. It explains how to deal with suffering, overcome anger, and operate from a place of loving kindness.

3. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hosseini - While I loved his first book, "The Kite Runner," this book about modern Afghanistan (before, during, and "after" the Taliban's rule) shook me to the core. The haunting images in this book still make me shudder. While the history lesson enlightens readers, the personal story makes it sit like an anvil in the heart.

4. Student's Vegetarian Cookbook by Carole Raymond - At age 18, this was the first cookbook I ever bought. While I am not a vegetarian, I don't eat a ton of meat either. This book is just one of my favorites, years later!

It is so tattered and tore apart--it's sad. Many of the pages are burnt from when I accidently set the book on fire while crafting the very very scrumptious Broiled Zucchini Parmesan. I lost that recipe in the fire, but the survivors still make my mouth water. The recipes (think Easy Asparagus, Chipotle-Black Bean Chili, and Baked Bananas) are so quick and easy and tasty, ANYBODY would benefit from this book, not just students.

5. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan - This tale, based on extensive historical research, follows the intimate affair of the infamous American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, and his well-spoken mistress. Not only do you get a deeper understanding of the eccentric genius of Mr. Wright, you read a beautiful and scandalous love story.

6. A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah - Written by a former boy soldier who lost his family and was forced to join the "government army" in Sierra Leone at age 13, this memoir speaks about Beah's tragic childhood and some of the gruesome acts committed by himself and the army. Removed by UNICEF from the violent war at age sixteen, he talks about forgiving himself and trying to heal. This eye-opening book sheds light on the situation in Sierra Leone and the complex forces of its perpetual violence.

7. The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - O.k., the movie was pretty bad (minus the fact that Eric Bana is some pretty special eye candy). If you haven't seen it yet, or read the book, then please go purchase this book. Niffenegger's writing is artful and gorgeous and she crafts one of the most unique works of fiction I've read in a long time.

8. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl - Frankl spent years enduring the horror of the Nazi death camps during WWII. His memoirs will disgust and enrage you as he details the unspeakable things he experienced. Also a renowned psychotherapist, Frankl's terrible experiences led him to craft a theory: man's motivation for living is the search for meaning. This is a philosophical and analytical book on everything from God, the afterlife, suffering, and ultimately, happiness.

9. Native Son by Richard Wright - A hefty classic, this fictitious tale follows a young black man in America who commits a horrific and senseless violent crime. It unapologetically weaves through the complex psychological and social fabric of race relations in the early 1900's in America. It's a thorough and thought-provoking work of genius.

10. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold - Go read this, quick, before the movie comes out! Like "The Time Traveler's Wife", I'm not sure how they're going to translate this heart-breaking and gorgeous work of prose to the screen. Either way, it won't be as good as the book, I promise you that. So go read it now. Easy-to-read, this book is really unique, sad, hopeful, and truly, lovely.

Because I Can

I'm just going to talk politics. Because I can. And I'm not going to care what you think. But I am.

I'm so sick of all this chatter. All of these talking heads have got me so far down that I can't think straight. Did it always used to be like this? All of these opinions swirling about?

What I like about the digital age is that we're all so much closer. My gawd, what did we do before google, right? What we know about the rest of the wider world is so much more now. It's so quick, so NOW. We can see suffering. We can hear it thubbing through our digital bones. Into our hearts. Hopefully. O, do i ever hope we hear it...

(Again). I like that we can hear each other. Look at us all here. Making friends on the screen, reaching our words into living rooms across the globe. We care. We're here. Reading with voyeuristic mania and good intentions.

But what I don't like--what I hate is--all wrapped up in the same gift. All this togetherness makes my head spin. All the noise! Sometimes, I really don't think everybody should have a platform to speak from. Sometimes I think CNN should not really try to listen to all sides. Sometimes I don't think we should try to understand where the serial killer is coming from. Or Republicans for that matter.

When thoughts and ideas are just plain messed up, I don't think we should be all listen-y with one another, even if it means we're muting half of the population. Sheer size doesn't warrant credibility.

The conservatives are breeding like crazed lunatics--if you do the math--progressives (known for their 1.5 children and charming homes) will be overrun in two decades, Tops. So let's enjoy our last run without "trying to understand each other," huh?

I hate that everyone picks away at Obama. Dems included. Who on God's green earth do you think is going to do any better? It took a long line of very poor decisions to steer our gassy country into the shitter. And most of them stem from our own individual hearts (not mine, of course, i'm an angel).

All that collective crap just trickled up to Bush. But then, luck would have it, we noticed the horrid smell, and our hearts manifested a good guy instead. Hip hop hurray for us.

Now let's sit the fuck down and let true integrity guide us. For Once.

I just can't stand listening to all the nuts in the peanut gallery.

This One's For My Mom

because she whines and cries that I don't write enough. So here I am. Two in a row. Back to back. Boom.

I'm thinking a lot about Christmas and what I want. what i want what i want i want i want. Gotta get those lists figured out, hand em' out, divvy up meh goods.

With this wish list fulfilled, I'll be accessorized with all the necessary material things that go with my capricious ideal. I'll BE better, by and bye.

So here's one paragraph of things i want, without inhibitions and completely unattached to reality...

i want i want i want a full-loaded MacBook Pro, an entry-level DSLR camera, Adobe Creative Suite, an end table for my bedroom, a navy blue Volvo, a black Pomeranian, an eco-maid, an uber special spa wrap, a ticket to New Zealand, my two front teeth (literally, i need new crowns), and world peace.

While I'll receive nary a one of these, it is now very apparent to me that I'm an aspiring yuppie. Are you happy now, mom?

Giving Up On Numbers

It's the pattern of the holidays again. It's the drown of an entire month spent spending, forgetting that last year we said, "it'll be different. we won't ever do THAT again." But we do.

Not that I'm complaining. I love gift-giving. Even better, I love receiving. I welcome this trade. Sometimes I like to just give. However, just getting something makes me uncomfortable. If you get me something, rest assured, I won't leave myself indebted long.

I act out of the fear that people might whisper, "she always takes, never receives." And so I super give back. You won't be chiding me and my friendship skills later. O heck no.

...


Been traveling back and forth to Phoenix the last couple weeks. Dipping myself in my recent past. I drive around, trying to remember if I ever belonged there. I think I did. Once. Twice. Yes. For weeks and months at a time.

I hit a wall though, somewhere near 2003. I wanted to leave the desert. I wanted to forget her hot hug on my neck. Rip her sweaty kiss off of me. I disliked living in her spiky landscape, even if I did it for love.

And so, back there...the old comfort of familiar friends and family makes me oooh and aaah for my old place in the world. There's a chair waiting, their presence reminds me. The table is full and topped with flowers.

But I must be filled with ice. I'm so cold. My heart is closed to this past of mine. Already. It's as if the wound of me leaving was closed quickly, like a zipper. Simple as that.

Yet, I know it's not a stone heart that keeps my eyes dry.

It's knowing I've done the right thing.

...

I saw my niece Nova, her and my sis traveled down from Minnesota. She's so precious. All moving and kind of mumbling and screaming and crawling.

I didn't get enough of her though, and that breaks my heart. It sucks that I can't get myself around it. I can't find a solution and I'm a solution girl. I hate problems without solutions. Especially when it involves not seeing some of the people I love most in the world.

...

On a positive note, since a handfull of my readers mistakenly think I'm thisclose to offing myself: Today was a beautiful day. The components of this prettiness? Painting, music, and chilled oranges. And this too. This moment right here, tapping out prose like a metronome.

Naming the Blank Nothing

It's weeks like these, we roll up into ourselves.
We gather our arms inward, into the deep
dark, the unmoving silence.
We try not to let the fear grip us, the impossibility
of life's lightness moving us.
I feel so silent and sad,
so frustrated with the present.

We laugh as the television blinks on and off
our faces, the bone smile of your smile
can make me fly out of winter.
for now I need you
tangled in my arms.

I ache
today like the
entire world as if the
entire world's sadness
could break me.
i want to
back up
back down
back bone
grow...

You're sleeping.
I want to make you tea.
Put our hearts at ease.
Love, what is that unknown thing?

My words struggle to find
their syncopation. They're out of step,
out of line.
I start them
I fail them
I let them fall out of my mouth
into the crawl space between
now
and now.

What (i think and i think) i'm trying to think is
i'm so scared and so not scared of everything.

I can hear you breathing
"Let's tear down the night anyway."

Day 150-something - Oh My Mega Mall

Went to the mall today. I like to shop on my day off. I like to pretend that I'll buy something. But now-a-days, my tight budget's got me strangled. I walk around from rack to rack. I like this. I like that. I walk away.

It seems like prices haven't really moved at all. The recession hasn't made any retailers really anti-up their $50 sweaters into $15 sweaters, or even $30, or dammit, even $40. What's wrong with them? Whose buying this stuff? Seriously? Almost everybody I know is hurting.

Sure, there's richies everywhere, but the majority of the people are in the $17 sweater range. Let's be honest. Is everyone still putting this shit on credit? Isn't that what got us into this mess? I refuse to charge a thing.

The cash in the pocket. It's real. Tangible. I have X amount of dollars per month to spend on clothes. And my taste could kill it on a nice pair of shoes. I love clothes. Shoes. Material things. Shallow I know. Sometimes when I'm in the mall, it's like a torture chamber. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink...

I resist. Every time. Bite my lip. I'm an outfit shopper, so going piece by piece is a bit like tearing my flesh off in strips. I tend to over think things anyway, ask anyone I know, so you can imagine the analyzation of trying to make my tired wardrobe sing one sweater per month.

It all goes a bit like this...

I start out practical. I go to Charlotte Russe. I mean, they have cute stuff. Cheap. Yet immediately upon entrance, I can't help but think...I'm thirty, aren't I too old for this? And plus, the clothes, they last four wears and they are done. Isn't that a waste of money too? Perhaps I need to invest more in quality pieces...

So I then go to Express. They have more sophisticated, classic clothing. I see a dress I like. $79.99. Damn. One dress. Which really wouldn't be the end of the world, except I need an ENTIRE winter wardrobe. F$#%.

It's here I start to notice the impossibility of building this phantom wardrobe. First off, this season's sweaters are noticeably missing sleeves. Which to me is just clever marketing. They make you buy a long-sleeved undershirt too. Which is two pieces, as opposed to one whole sweater. That equals more money for them. Trend? Or clever recession strategy?

Second that, with the whole flat boot thing. Absolutely adorable. BUT. You have to wear skinny jeans with those. And if you're like me, you've avoided the whole skinny jean thing for a very long time considering most of us are not built like a 13-year-old boy. BUT jeans in boots = cute. So now I guess I need skinny jeans too. As of yet, none of this potential outfit is even accessorized. I re-check the cash in my pocket. Depression sinks in...

RE-evaluation: I go to Forever 21. Where I think...I hate teenagers AND their stupid clothing. Barf. Also: hot pink flannel? really?

How bout Macy's? That seems middle of the road, semi-affordable and semi-well-constructed. I accidentally end up in the high-end section first. The cutest BCBG stuff assaults me. I'm spinning. When I finally get to "my" section, everything looks cheap and old. I leave immediately.

Three hours deep in mall-ville, I ended up with a pair of work shoes and Aveda foundation to replace what I've run out of. I also gained a severe need for bipolar meds. Oh my mega mall. You bring out the worst in me.

Yes, I know I can go to Target, and sure, I could perhaps piece together an outfit a month there. People are starving, for pete's sake, my thoughts are so small.

But today, I dreamt and swore. I want to get all debaucherous on shopping. Just once (or thrice). I want to just blow a wad of cash on what I love. Rub quality fabrics all over my skin and walk haughty in my super-fly new heels, my well-constructed dress.

I know these thoughts won't get me to heaven. But I'd ask for forgiveness afterwards. I promise.

Day 140 - On Books, The Big and Small

1. The Big

The bookstore is a magical place. For me, a trip to the bookstore is probably like a spa day is to a rich dame. I get there, and it's all *sigh*. Sanctuary. Everything can be fixed here.

I can learn to cook, knit, meditate, and travel right here. Everything I need to know is a book away. I'm reminded of how many things there are to love in this world. How many words I need to read. How many countries to see. How many heart-aches and transformations, the world weeps. I'm surrounded by memory and possibility. Left-over pictures and paragraphs. Remnants of thought, experience. It's days like today, where I have nothing to avoid (DMV or dishes), that I get the most done.

I'm relaxing into life here in San Diego. It's home. I haven't felt like this since Fargo, circa childhood and early adolescence. I have a wandering spirit. A rogue will. I like to strive for the next best thing. The here and now has no hold on me.

I can hear your words now. You'll tell me that that's no way to live. And I know that. That's why I want to say it out loud. Call it like I see it. Don't we all wait for tomorrow? But that's enough of that. I tell my inner nomad. Relax.

I wish I could live moments inside other people. Live their moments for them. Perhaps that's why I love books so much. In fantastical chapters, I'm in South Africa as a dying man; in Pennsylvania as a lonely seamstress; I'm in India, the son of a zookeeper. I'm the world's consciousness. I'm in my living room.

Isn't that why we're here? In cyberspace? To pity and love one another? To read that never-ending reality T.V. show?

2. The Small

I noticed "The Nook" being advertised at Barnes and Noble today. The Nook is the new device where we can all read our fave novels on the small screen. You can buy books like apps. You can read "Crime and Punishment" on your laptop.

And I totally get it. I think in a way it's good because I believe in conservation. And if I have/use a brain, I realize that to make books you have to make paper. You have to shave it from trees, chew it up, and release it into pages. I know that the spines on my bookshelves come from the spines of the forest.

But I think we can also all agree that it's just not the same. Just as we've lost the art of the CD cover, we'll lose the art of the held book. While I don't miss CD jackets so much, I would absolutely miss the colored words on my mantel ledge.

I need the smell of them. I need to turn the page. Not push the button. I need the tangible journey. I need to see the pages I've past to see how far I've come. I need them to pile up. I need to see how far I have yet to go. Electronically, you lose all that. You're just swimming around in book space. You're on a page, but you can't see physically where the end is. There's something to that.

I also secretly believe that people who love those electronic book devices, possibly don't really love books at all. I don't have any basis for this assumption. But there it is.

So I'm thinking we should compromise before we go all e-booking all over the place. How about more books from recycled stuff? Or maybe we could just stop making magazines into pages? I can read mags on the screen, no problem.

But novels need real paper. They need to be quiet, run without batteries. They need to remain unattached to the real world. Like little paper sanctuaries. Mini-revolutionaries protecting us from the buzz and the whirl.