I took some days off from work this last week, simply so I could have some days off but I ended up being sick with a sinus infection. So I cleaned my house since I was miserable anyway and put clean sheets on the bed and ordered pho ga from the place two blocks away no less than four times. I went to yoga but held back greatly, mostly interested in the increased breathing and a tiny bit of sweating, anything to get this body of mine pumping and running and back to normal. I drank an entire bottle of red wine, directly out of the bottle, while floating in a saltwater pool long after the sun had gone down. I made enchiladas for one and told somebody I didn’t want to go to a barbeque by saying, I can’t join because I don’t want to. I didn’t apologize. I masturbated every day. I took a photo of myself in underwear and a bandeau bra, simply because I liked the way I looked. I went for an impromptu forty mile bike ride and let my underwear chafe my vagina. I loved how strong my legs felt the next morning. I watched some movies with subtitles on. I kissed each of the cats probably no less than 150 times each. I laughed at this orgasm I had, chuckling and smiling and saying, What? I thought about something a friend said to me recently. In order to discover new land, one must be willing to lose sight of the shore for a long time. I talked to an 80 year old art dealer, she called me M and we giggled together like we were schoolgirls. It was probably the most satisfying conversation I’ve had in months. I made plans to visit a friend and his fiance in two weeks. They live on the ocean and leave their windows open at night to the sound of the breeze and the waves. I finished a watercolor and made a few resolves. I tried to open my heart. I remembered life is magical, if you’re open to that sort of thing.

I still drink tea out of the sushi mug because it reminds me of the boy I was with when I got it. It reminds me of the girl I was then, a walking body of tears, head always at the sidewalk. I cried in public a lot back then. I was incredibly sensitive and also a terrible communicator, terrified of talking about the things I was feeling. I drink out of the mug to remember to never be that again. To never be afraid to get help the way I did for so many years. To remember no matter how much you love someone and no matter how much they love you back, there are not many forevers you are gifted in this life.

I brought that mug to use at my desk, three jobs ago. I drank tea out of it all day, staining my teeth and keeping myself caffeinated late into the night where at home I drank out of another mug, one I bought all by myself, sometimes out of the one gifted from my grandparents, soothing chamomile to calm me to sleep. Changes were made and I didn’t use that mug maybe at all when I was with the next boy. I didn’t want to remember then, not who I was, not who he was. I didn’t exactly forget but it taught me history is doomed to repeat itself. Again, I was sensitive and sad and really, really terrified. But I was also terribly hurt because he betrayed me. While the betrayal itself stung and I tried to hide the tears by hanging back on my bike a little, by letting the wind sting and wipe them away, it was the loss of trust that ultimately let our relationship out to dry. We never really got back to anything good after that night and my communication skills were poor and I was so inside of the situation I couldn’t barely tolerate stepping out to see what the hurt was all about. I don’t think it would have made a difference, the relationship would have ended regardless. But sometimes I like to think back on what would have happened, would we have been more kind to one another, would it have hurt less?

I woke at three am this morning. A cat was cuddled into the crook of my arm while I slept on my belly, the other in a kneepit. I laid there a long time in the dark, not really thinking or feeling or moving until the tears started flowing for reasons I’m not exactly sure of. Pour a glass of water and the cats and I go to curl up on the patio under the moonlight. At five am, give up on anymore sleep and make a cup of chai the way the boys I’m with always learn to love it by. Watch the steam rise from the sushi mug, watch the sun rise, let the cats take turns snuggling into my warm neck, purring into my throat chakra.

I’m working on using this mug not as a reminder who I never want to be or be with again, but as a reminder there is only now. I can make or break each of my own moments. I can love myself or hate myself. I can choose to make my lows not so low and my highs not so high. I can choose to be kind to the next boy who comes around, to communicate better, to drink out of the mug and maybe it holds no significance. I am choosing this mug for me to remember to, as Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure said it best, Be excellent to each other.

Synopsis. Vignettes.

She’s almost three months old and everybody is drunk, 10 of us crowded around a table celebrating a birthday, ordering more food. More drinks. More stories. More laughter. I’ve propped her on the edge to the table so we can have a face to face conversation. You are so much more than beautiful, I tell her.

Sometimes I think the saddest words besides, Stay, are, I don’t feel like myself.

That conversation where you’re explaining why it’s so difficult to be friends with so many females so much of the time and somebody says you must not be a feminist.

Pyramid salt.

My neighbors quit smoking as a couple. One of them has taken up secret smoking on the side of their house but the peeping tom is back and the sneaking around makes me nervous and unsure when to call the authorities.

Unfiltered raw honey scoops out of the jar like jam and melts in your mouth from the spoon.

More than Speaking Your Truth or Embracing Yourself. Be Here Now is the most difficult thing to do.

I listened to somebody rage about how evolution is not real. I quietly asked her about her god, how her god says not to pass judgement unto others. I asked her how her approach to kindness is working out for her. We haven’t spoken since. I was not upset nor was I rude but sometimes asking others to accountable for who they are is the quickest way to lose them from your life. I am done with toxic relationships.

You ever wake up scared and you’re not sure of what or why?

I still think our energies are connected. I don’t know if it was ever love but I can’t shake you. What a strange world I live in I don’t believe in a god or karma or heaven or hell, but talk to me about cells and energy and intention and I will shake my head in agreement.

This was July.

There is no other photo of me that captures my spirit animal so thoroughly or has ever made me laugh so hard. Camping this weekend was magical.

There is no other photo of me that captures my spirit animal so thoroughly or has ever made me laugh so hard. Camping this weekend was magical.

I don’t believe in a god or karma. I’ve said this before. I do think human kind responds positively to other people who are positive. I do think energy is a thing. And sometimes I think, the universe knows exactly what I need. If I did believe in a god, it would be Ganesha, the deity of wisdom and beginnings. This probably says a lot about why I don’t like endings, why I focus so negatively on them. There’s always another discussion for that. But the universe knows what you need. What I need. And tonight was a long phone conversation with somebody in distress, a friend, somebody I genuinely say I Love You to her face. This week I have been unkind and self-centered. I openly admitted it was because of a threshold I made up, of limits I didn’t consider expanding. And then tonight, this phone call reminded me of other people’s circumstances, of their sufferings, to always be kind. Because kindness pays off. To you and to others and to the universe. It comes in ways you don’t want, like in the form of phone calls while you’re making broccoli fritters for dinner but by the end you will be grateful and full of love and kindness will ooze and you’ll ask for forgiveness through your actions.

It’s really difficult to fight your human nature. I have realized I am one of those people who get so invested in my own unhappiness that I think that when the opportunity comes around to allow me to help myself out of it, if I do, I will unjustify my unhappiness. It’s a really idiotic approach to life because if you can’t rely on anybody else for your happiness except yourself. I have been fighting this natural state of myself and this week, I was losing. Until this beautiful human full of love swooped down and helped open my eyes again.

Oh lordy, you guys. Please help me remember to be kind. To give people space to be themselves. To have the bravery to be my own best friend. To know I don’t have to know where I am going to know I am headed in the right direction. I remember to accept love, from myself and others. To always, always remember. To be open and forgiving and flexible and kind.

You know how sometimes the words are all inside you but they don’t really want to be wrangled out and instead you flirt with the bartender who smiles at you with a kind face and you notice the shadow on your rug looks like a cat profile and you pick up a book over and over again but you don’t make any progress and you drink more water than you think possible in one evening but it’s every evening lately and at lunch today you went to the store to buy some bread and cheese and ended up buying three loaves of bread, three whole loaves but you can’t remember the last time you even had a loaf in the house but you couldn’t choose between the sprouted wheat sourdough or the seedsational or something organic something something you laugh at people’s reaction to your new hair and you love the way it’s all over the place all the time now and there’s a conversation that’s been lingering in your head about a coworker who said his dad is his best friend and how that makes you think of your own life, the brother who can’t seem to stop messing it all up and the parents you felt like the glue for your entire life, never mentioning when your pants were too short or shoes needed to be replaced and you stayed and you stayed and you stayed despite your overwhelming desire to leave because you thought you had to to keep it all together and yes it sounds absurd today but any failure you could make would put you in the brother failure territory and everybody has dealt with that enough for one lifetime but how do you explain to a younger self that be courage to do the unknown and admitting it isn’t for you isn’t a failure and oh the life you could have lived and the words you could have told if only you could have been brave enough to get them out of the way.

Sundays north of the desert.

Sundays north of the desert.

This was yesterday. My hairstylist was right. I have the best bed head now.

This was June.

This is the time of year the golden hour seems to drift on for an endless period, washing the city in pastel pinks and blues and yellows. The sky brilliant with an explosion of dust, the paint you used in college, smeared under an eye when you had an itch. It lingers and lingers like the day will never end. I drive in it and walk in it and bike in it. It’s all about being inside of yourself in this loudly quiet time. Somehow alone, making you smaller and less and more and a tiny speck of dust in a tiny speck of time in all there is, wholly insignificant and yet important. Maybe important to nobody’s timeline except your own but nonetheless, this is not a time to be picking at threads. Stare at the sky until you go blind. Be alone. Be inside yourself. This will not last forever no matter how much you want anything to.

Get home from work, eat a piece of aged cheese while walking around with a sports bra and yoga leggings on. Pick up the cats one at a time, hug them and stand at the kitchen window asking them about their day. Did you go to Paris in a hot air balloon today, I ask. And when you were there, were the locals confused by you saying wee wee wee needing to go potty but they just keeping saying Yes? back to you in English. A long loud meow in protest. I want down, I want out, I want more. Girl, I feel you, I gently murmur as I set them down on the tile floor. My days are mostly alone now. Alone with my thoughts and alone in spirit and alone in physical-ness. It’s very quiet outside and inside, of which I suppose is a positive thing.

The lavender under your nose and misted on your pillow will not make your dreams any less strange. Or violent. Or sad. It will not wake you up ready to conquer the world. And some mornings you’ll be so tired while making your tea you accidentally use a chamomile bag instead of the chai. You will learn to sit up straight through the exhaustion and grit your teeth like a pro. It’s about stamina and it’s about letting it all go. It’s about making it as quiet as possible. Becoming the wallflower you were as a young adult but in a totally different way. I’m still learning to be kind enough to myself to ask myself in the morning, Where did you go in your dreams? To Paris in a hot air balloon saying wee wee wee?

I miss dancing with you. Obviously
I miss sex but really I miss this public form of sex with you. A thousand words on the subject and it comes down to this.



Obligatory photos in a ten minute period of the first haboob dust storm of the summer.

Before and after. Apples picked at 5a and two evenings later, eight of them baked into one Russian apple cake, dusted with cinnamon.