This Just In!!! Important Newsbreak: Dog Urnine Destroys Nature!

So I've learned.
Very important stuff here.

As my little buddy Oscar and I are reaclimating to our home after my much needed visit to my real home, and his little vacation with some ladies who love him too much, we have gone on a couple of walks. A couple, because we haven't been home that long. We do this because sometimes we like to reconnect with the world beyond. Because the apartment can get boring and we can hear excitement out of our windows we feel we just HAVE to be a part of (always in the action, he and I). Because we like wacky urban adventures. And because he's a Beagle, and he has to go to the bathroom.

Beagles, by breed, are hunters. They are commonly used for rabbit, or "hare" hunting, as well as other small mammals and water fowl. "They are determined, keen hunters, and their baying during a hunt brings goose-bumps to novice hunter and the oldest professional alike." Oscar, true to his breed, is determined, and even in the September of his years very much enjoys, nay THRIVES upon, chasing scents and investigating. Oscar's top likes include: Sniffing, trotting, cheese, meats, naps. Those are the main ones I've discovered so far, but there may be greater likes we have not yet uncovered, because of my next highlight.

We live in Bushwick. Bushwick, in Brooklyn, particularly the area surrounding my building, is not nice. I live in an industrial area with buildings that are only now being turned into residential spaces and invaded by poor white "artist" kids like me. The area outside of that is mostly low income apartments and government housing projects. Needless to say, it's not scenic. Along with it's not-scenic-ness, comes the extreme absence of nature. I have never seen my dog frolic in grass, or chew on weeds, or dig up dirt, because those things aren't really around. Due to his recovering from health issues we have not been able to travel to the country to play, but I'm willing to bet that he would like that. Because he's a beagle. He sniffs. He sniffs the trash and cruddy pavement around here whenever he is given the chance.

Due to highlights one and two, I try and let him enjoy whatever he can in his cement and steel urban lifestyle. Now that you know some of the facts, on to the event, or "enlightenment" of the day.

As he and I, along with one of our preffered female companions, went walking one afternoon, we came upon something glorious: a tree. To be fair, we come upon this tree, and the three next to it, each time we walk, as someone has had the kindness to plant their sad skinny roots in wooden boxes in front of the "here come the white folks!" art space, coffee slash video shop, and natural food store. We know they're there, but each time we see them it feels like the first time because it's so exciting. And naturally, in our excitement, we want to investigate them. On this day, as Oscar was investigating the tree in the wood box, he got the urge to do what any good boy dog would do, and lifted his leg.

As he was relieving himself, as close to nature as we can find, we were approached by a woman. This woman was really more of a girl. A hipster girl. I label her this due to the following qualities: shaggy shinny black well placed haircut. Jacket with pointy shoulders. That face make up they so often have that says "I don't give a shit, but look at me, look how good I look". Dark jeans that cling for dear life all the way down the leg and scrunch up the right amount of inches at the bottom. Boots that have that cowboy-go go dancer-Stevie Nicks thing going on. And an angry, unaffected, bored demeanor. This girl looked so cool she was even bored with herself. And let me tell you how cool that is to be bored with even yourself. Or maybe she was just having a bad day. Who am I to judge. Anyway, this girl--who is undoubtedly a popular public buddy since apathy about the world around you means elitism, which means desirability, which as we all know means "Super amazing interesting person!"--approaches us, rolls her eyes, and then locks them with mine like she is some sort of migratory bull.

"Could you, like, not do that?" she asks, so aggressively that my response was silent, but said
"Um, what? I mean. Huh? What did I--what am I doing that offends you so?"
"You need to not let him pee in there. It kills the trees."
I'm sorry. Now you're just speaking Chinese. Are you serious?
"...Sorry." is all I can say.
"Well, don't. It's not ok." The way she says this also says "You and your filthy dog are everything that is wrong with the environment and if I actually cared I would fucking punch you in your trashy face."
"Um. Ok." is all I can say, as I watch my beagle karate chop his leg against the tree, dominating it.
"Yeah, well, just a tip for next time. So don't."
Then I proceed to drag my dog out of the tree box, both of us confused, as I watch her turn and storm (or was that just her strut?) down the street.

So, while animals of all species have been relieving themselves in nature throughout the history of the world, apparently domesticated dog urine now destroys foliage in urban neighborhoods. Thank god I know now. That is so enlightening. But more questions have been brought up: Is it limited to just tress? Or does my dog single-handedly have the power to take down entire bushes, flowerbeds, patches of grass? For fear we might find out the hard way I will be sure to limit my dog's bathroom activity to pans in my apartment, which I will then pour into tin cans and dispose of like bacon grease.

I would like to send a big thank you out to that girl, wherever she is, for enlightening my mind and brightening my day. Thank goodness there are people concerned with doing good out there, so ready to lend a helping hand and spread the word.

And my duty, as a citizen of the world, was to share this important piece of information with all I can. Please, everyone, refrain from allowing your animals to do what they've instinctively been doing for thousands upon thousands of years. Together, we can beat this thing.

Dear Holli-Days, and I Remember Your Face or the Sound of Your Voice

Every once in a while the last couple of months I have had a reminder that there is something I haven't been keeping up with. Typically there are so many things that could be in reference to so I generally just hope it presents itself or goes away. Of course eventually I realized that thing was this blog. And yeah, a blog is a blog--just some self-indulgent or intellectually/culturally masturbatory thing that had no social relevance ten years ago--but damnit, if you're going to start something you should finish it. Especially when you take stock and look at all the really big things you still can't finish, a quiet internet blog feels fairly achievable.
And it's not that I haven't had anything to say. More has happened and been thought about arguably since I moved to New York. But that's just it, probably. Sometimes life happens, and you need to just let it happen. You can't be in the place to comment on it,,, or think about it through a medium like the world wide web.

Because of this, and the nature of never successfully catching up with time, I will not attempt to fill out the time that has passed. If anyone reading this has not been in touch with me and is truly curious about some things, please ask me questions, all of which I will answer with colorful storytelling in such a way that attempts to make up for October, and November.
Though to be fair, this has largely been a forum wherein I don't say anything that important anyway. So questions about important things might seem out of place.
Regardless, I am recommitting to the "blog". Maybe it's an easy first step to committing to the tangible things in front of me.

To be fair to the universe, I read an article today, which spawned much of this. Having Attention Deffecit tendencies, and being from the TV generation, I am one who can find extreme inspiration and great affectation from short simple sources. I am not an avid novel reader or investigator of culturally important figures. However, this article I read was about people who are, and it has had me stuck. Remembering the last time I was this hit by people who are gone, but so relevant they are still warm, is hard. I can't remember. But these people, with a love story so twisted and transcendent, and creative lives so twisted and innovative, are living inside of me right now. And one of them happened to have a blog. So. It reminded me. And woke me up. I should read more. If people like this are everywhere (which they may or may not be) we should talk to them. We should be them, but without all the suicide; all the early endings. Everyday here is a precious thing, whether you're making art that changes the world, or just reading about it in popular magazines.

I have been thinking recently about aging. To be fair, I think about this often. Because it terrifies me. It leaves me shaky and unsettled. But recently, I have wondered: does aging just become ok the more you do it? Like does being 29 feel fine when you're in it, eventhough when you're 19 29 seems like this point where you slow down and possibly start to bald? Do you feel more at peace / realistic about your age once you finally get there, or is it still as scary and sleepless as you thought of it eight years prior? I hope it's ok. I really do. Otherwise I hope there are some life-changing experiences that make getting slow and boring feel like the right thing. I kind of bet that's what happens. Otherwise there'd be a lot less middle-aged people. It has also occoured to me that eventually we will all be dating bald, fat people. And that's not bad nessiscarily, just strange. I still can't picture myself dating a bald, curiously overweight person. But then, I also can't imagine the place in your life where the greatest qualities in a mate are single-ness, and not having illegitimate children be-boping around the country. So, you know, I obviously don't yet see getting older in the most realistic of lights.
But what is out generation going to do? I feel like I know a fairly equal amount of people our age who either feel that getting marries id the thing they will never make the mistake of doing, or have found someone they connect with and feel unshakingly that they are their partner for the rest of time. I guess we'll just have to wait and see. All these products of divorce, not wanting, in their polar ways, to make more products of divorce...

This was all not what I meant to say. Or, in part, perhaps it was, but not in such ways that avoid the issues that qualify as "issues".

Will i ever be able to thank all the people who deserve it in the way the deserve. Will I ever be able to make peace enough with myself to build a solid foundation. Will i let go of necessary things to focus on the passions I have harbored so intensely all this time. Will I write down the things I need to before I forget them. Will I remember that worrying is futile since time is irreversible. Will I eat well. Will I sleep enough. Will I do my best to save the things I care about, like my dog, and my fingers, and my stories. Will I stand up for what I really believe in at the risk of temporary alienation, which is silly anyway. Will I listen as much as I think I am.

All questions still only half-asked. All so many more not yet recorded. It's a thick journey into honesty, and the internet is rarely the stage to explore it on.

So for this moment I am rehabilitating my dog, and not looking past the next phase. I am healing my emergency-room wound, and not fearing it has ruined my career. I am going home for Christmas (far and away the best present of all) and not worrying about the medical outcomes of being there. I am engaging in competition that brings friends closer together and makes Tuesday nights the best time of the week. I am laughing harder at one time than I have in almost a year and not feeling guilty when it's over something as simple as Helen Keller or the number 69. I am making new friends. I am talking to myself, sometimes out loud in my kitchen. I am writing rhymes I keep to myself(for now), and things I would hate to forget (trivial though they may be). And when men cat-call me on the street at 7 in the morning when I'm in pajamas, walking my dog with make-up running down my face and a poofy-ball hat on, I try to remember that unless I have the courage to ask them what they exactly want from the exchange that they have their own agenda I do not yet understand. Because there can't possibly be this many people in one place who are so demeaning for no reason.

For the first time in almost a trimester of pregnancy or something like it, this is me reporting back.

..."The message is brief. Here it is in its entirety: ‘Traveling very fast. No time to say good-bye.’ And then, ‘There are no dogs here.’ ”"...

Sincerely,
Mama

Bringing Home Baby

A change has occured. A long awaited, overly anticipated change has finally occoured. And before I can put pictures on here I don't want to say too much. But baby's come home. And, no, it's not a human one. It's a strange little one, who, in the next 48 hours will be announced like he was a human one, with the kind of bells and whistles you can read on the internet. Because after building it up for so long, we really should revel in the actualization.

It's going to be a scary and strange day when you can approach someone on the street you've never interacted with before and say "hey, we met on the internet", and instantaneously have a relationship of some form. The Internet: taking the middle man out of human connection.

So what I need is about 3-7 more hours in the day. I'm not even asking for 10. Just a couple more. Even doing things like this only take away from the meager amount of sleep time I'm alloted each night. I'd really like to remember what it feels like to just hang around a little bit. And not try "hanging around" for the sacrifice of something you really have to be doing. Who's with me?

I think sometimes you should only move to this city if you really need to. Enough people are from here and I know they wouldn't like my saying this, but sometimes I am overwhelmed at how fucking busy everyone always is. And people are so good at pushing through their own lives that they simply refuse to recognize the existence of the people around them.
How, HOW can you not notice the half-homeless man on the train who is so drunk he is drooling Old E down his shirt and bleeding from his hands? How can you not notice that he is alone, and can't take care of himself? And at one point he was six years old and only wanted to color in Mickey Mouse coloring books and drink Pepsi. People are so busy making appointments in their Blackberrys and playing games on their sidekicks or PS22-Pockets or whatever they're called and staring up at the advertisements about the semi-famous TV actor who donated his eyes when he died ("give the gift of sight--this guy did!") that they have little to no interest in taking in the fact that they are surrounded by people-who also matter-some of whom are not doing so well.
It frightens me. Sometimes it's like people in this city aren't living much at all. But they're moving so fast. What kind of community is this? If this is the city where everything happens shouldn't we have a little more regard or concern for what is happening around us? Shouldn't we at least admit that the world is happening?
I know I'm not from here, I haven't been here long, and I am very sensitive about things in general. But sometimes I worry that this city is meant to strip you of your sensitivity, and I think it's a really fundamental value for people existing around one another.
At least in college you could worry profusely about how slutty you were going to be when you dressed up for the Aerobics Instructors VS Cowboys party (never slutty) and who was getting the most shots in the drinking rooms, and how much you hated "that-one-over-played-dance-song-of-the-moment" even though you danced to it anyway, and who was making out with whom in which ex-girlfriend's vicinity. And that was fine, because at least you were accepting the terms of your environment.
It feels like terms here too often revolve around shutting things out, being impatient, and working relentlessly toward something more, though you are mostly working relentlessly to just stay afloat.
Maybe I'm way off base. Probably. But sometimes the things I see just overwhelm me.

Five in the morning also overwhelms me. Because then it means you have spent your sleeping hours as "hanging around" ones.

The new baby is barking in his sleep. I hope he's dreaming about chasing giant rabbits through a field of rainbows and cattails.

What I would also like is this: To be able to go into my itunes "radio" library, and click on a category of stations called "sleepy time". And then I can choose between a variety of men and women who will speak to me in soothing voices and play very soft songs (or sounds of babbling brooks) and lull me into sleep. Like a giant Mother Goose (or Daddy Goose) putting me in a giant cradle with a quilt blankee. Maybe the radio section should just be called "Giant Cradle". America? Anyone? Can we make this happen?

Dear Little Factiods and Peices at Random

When you think too much about yourself it becomes very hard to discern what you really are, what you have conditioned yourself to be, what you are as a result of your "oppressors", what you want in essence to be, what you are working towards being, and what you are in this moment as a result of something. But I suppose what you are is always a result of something. It's too much. It's like those stoned thoughts you could have for five hours at a time when you were 16 and overlooking a beach somewhere and asking the sand "why, man, why?", and there was Mike Patton playing on a ghetto blaster, and your canvas shoes were soaked with salt water, and people were standing around a fire somewhere near by, and really, in the end, there was nowhere you needed to be, but there. You only had to be there at that moment. I would like that again. So many thoughts to sort out with sand.

If we can't be ourselves with someone, why are we with them? It seems like people are always so dreamily caught up on "well, I can't say what I really think, or be how I really am around them, but goddamn they're amazing and I'm going to make it work." Shouldn't the mark of something good mean not having to make it work despite yourself? It just seems to me.

I think I'm constantly tipping cab drivers more than I should. But I think driving all day in the city would be such a terrible job, I can't help it.

Sometimes the concept that everyone is mortal really hits me--out of nowhere at all--and it blows my mind. On the subway, at my shitty job # 1, half asleep, talking to my mother, looking at maybe dogs, hugging, eating, doing laundry, walking home, whenever. What are we to do when everyone around us dies? I don't feel ok about this. I know it may be childish, but I can't. Let's just love eachother for all the time that we have. Whatever time we have.

I think text messages are actually a terrible way to communicate, but they are one of the most comfortable methods we have anymore.

At some point it was like having a negative outlook on life was really refreshing and funny, and now we can't erase it and go back to anything pleasant. But you know, all those days of my life when my grandmother took me to get McDonalds for breakfast--the same egg McMuffin, hasbrown, & orange juice everyday--those were really good times, and they didn't need a qualifyer to be good, they just were. Even if I can't have that again, I can remember it happened. And when I'm 35 & have a heart attack I'll know that the breakfasts of my youth were always very delicious. (of course my grandmother doesn't read my blog, but Nanny, I just wanted to say that even if I actually had a heart attack, I in no way blame it on you or the things you fed me, however fatty they may have been, because you only ever wanted the best, and when you were growing up nobody knew jack sh*t about partially hydrogenated corn oil or caloric intake. You just wanted me to be full. And you really are my hero. I should tell you this in real life.)

Seems like no matter how many times I say "I just want people to love each other." "I just want people to love themselves" I am always finding another way of saying it. it's probably old by now. AHH but I still feel the same.

So I know it's your birthday. And I know you, it was your birthday yesterday. So many dates that mean things, and so many things to keep track of. But you, the first you, I somehow seem to remember your birthday every year weather I think of it or not. It is just one of those things that reminds me it's there; a little window of memory, or a mysterious phone call I think I should make. And I know you don't remember my birthday anymore, and I don't blame you. Anymore I think it's funny that I remember yours. But you're an important person in the world, and so, even though I may not tell you straight out that I know it's your birthday, you should know that I am wishing you well. Because you deserve well. So, good luck.

Some huge questions have begun to be raised for me in terms of who we are as people to each other, and how we form relationships. Yeah, and I'm not going to start asking them, because I'll sound like a total dick (not an actual dick, but like that guy who tries to wax poetic when he doesn't have any metaphors), but I'm trying to figure out how I could. Every way you know someone is based on something that uniquely exists between you two, and that makes your relationship important. But what if that relationship is built on something less organic, or more unfair than it would appear? Vaguarities to be discussed further.

I mean God, I already sound like the biggest hippi on the internet. Though, to be fair, I don't read so many blogs. Probably there are bigger "hippis" than me.

On an ending note, my grandmother's family founded a small town in Washington, which holds a parade for us every couple of years. They make apple / nut fruit cookies there. Those cookies are delicious. My grandmother was much more than those cookies, which while being a suggary combination of apricots/apples and nuts and powdered sugar, were still not such an important part of american life. But now she lays in a graveyard next to the factory where we visit and thank her for things, and the factory trucks pass their dust over her on their way out of town to deliver their fruit treats to the greater northwest. So Grandma Mac, though you don't know what the internet is, I want to thank you for being here, or there. Wherever you were. You're not just collecting dust along the highway.

So it's back to the velvet underground...

So Everyone's Got Someone and I've Got Myself

This has occoured to me. And by everyone I mean some people. Some people you are constantly running into. And by that I mean that occasionally I care though mostly I don't. It makes me think of the homeless men I would meet on the street in Seattle when I was out with my male friends, and in an attempt to get money from us they would talk about how pre and real our love seemed, and how "he" should never let "me" go and "we're" something special. But "we" were always something special because we were not what the homeless man thought. But he flattered us greatly none the less, telling stories about when we would be older and how we would be and how the most importnat thing in the universe was love if only we'd give him a dollar. But no one in this city gives two shits about your fake or real relationships. So it seems that everyone holds them much more dear than if someone--anyone--else was to care. But what do I know. I just wish we could all be together like a family, and that we could all ride horses in Montana. All I want is to ride horses.

It's Simple.

As long as you're distracted, you'll never have to examine who you really are. Period. Stop distracting yourself. You're smarter than that, aren't you?

Dear Indian Summer & Adventures

First things first:
My mother told me that when she and my grandparents were talking yesterday, about me, my grandfather (Papa, the lighthouse) remarked "that girl can do no wrong. I love her so much." At first I thought "if he only knew...", and then I realized "I think he actually does know, and he believes that anyway." I think that's really something.

Secondly, I am noticing that when I get excited about something, or when something makes me "giddy" (I hate that word, but it's such a specific descriptor) I tend to just sort of freeze up and expose too many of those dorky idioms we all have that should be slowly leaked out over long periods of time. That, and I get hyper-conscious of what I am saying and worry that I will run out of things to talk about. That's why I can sometimes become that guy that just wants to hide under the tablecloth at parties with people they're really impressed by. Surely there's a way to remedy this. It's probably just to relax. Damn it.

The question still remains: when you spend so many hours of the day being so tired your eyelids stick together when you blink and you forget your own apartment number (I did that yesterday morning), why why is it impossible to fall asleep when it's time, and you just wind up repeating the cycle the next day? I swear to god, me and everyone like me still have that last-man-standing-slumber-party mentality. I was always the last one awake at slumber parties. But now most nights I'm at a slumber party with myself. It should stand to reason I'd be able to cash in the chips on that contest.

So I've been thinking about adventures lately. I think I have not been aware enough about what adventures really are. Adventures could happen all the time. For some people they do. For some people (and I'm putting myself in this category) they might be and no one is aware of it.
So what if:
Adventures can happen down the block or on a mountain top, and for no reason, and without the whole world knowing, and without a thesis of fun first, and without knowing what you want from it, and with or without a soundtrack, and through telling the truth, and through telling what you want, and being brave in ways that no one would catch but you, and deciding what you want from it right then and not the rest of your life, and you don't need five days off of work to do it, and you don't need money, and you don't have to surprise anybody but yourself, and you don't even have to surprise yourself as long as you're having fun, and that the purpose in an adventure--if there is one--is something only you can know & not something you can be instructed on, and you're not too old to do it, and you can be with eight people or one person or no one at all, and that expectations are what build the anticipation but also kill the adventure of you let the overcome the excitement and the just letting things be. Adventures are happening all the time. Or they can if you want them.
And with those things to think about, goodnight, for this brief hour.

Dear Mama's Sermon. Some Things. Lesson 1.

I need a stool. I am officially using an end table from the living room as a chair, because I am tired of squatting, and because, as a good person put it to me tonight, I have not "made it a priority" to clean my room. So end table stool it is. At least my feet aren't numb...not to mention the fact that there are enough piles of things clouding my room that it's as if trolls have moved onto mountains beneath my bed. Do they have treasures? Will they share them with me? I should clean my room.

A good cab ride. I finally had a good cab ride tonight. Living in a city like this, it can be so relieving to have a pleasant experience you don't have to guard yourself from the entire time. You know, to just enjoy things the way they can be enjoyed in other places. Thanks, cab driver. Thanks for the good talk, and thanks for not asking my name or how old I am. Cheers.

A thought on momentary realizations: Some more than "a" thought(s): It can be such a great feeling, such an alive thing, to know you don't want what you don't have; this "other"; this "completeness"; this true confusion and compromise of yourself. Knowing you don't want that is both liberating, and informative. Knowing you want to be your own is quite nice when you actually want it. But when you think of sharing, and you think of whom to share it with, other thoughts can be nice, too. Like, in this make-believe world there is no coincidence that two people look at each other at the same time about the same thing, which is about two people being together. And in this it is not strange that two people should get along so well. And, in this, it is not strange that people assume things about it, which they do. And you don't want anything from it, but you have to ask how much it might be the right thing, when teams are formed, and lies are made in unison, and hard things aren't made so hard. But the only way to know if something is really good or not is to take it somewhere it doesn't belong, like the Badlands, and watch it run, and see how it melts into something foreign, and how it adapts to something you find so beautiful. And maybe then, after that, you'll know what it's worth. But lucky you, if you get to bring anything to the Badlands. Lucky, lucky you.

What I think is so beautiful is that the world constantly shows you that moments between people are really beautiful if you are lucky enough to catch them. Sometimes you catch the moment, and it feels like that one thing could be the entire day. You don't need all the in between things. And those things are never big things, but just little things, little signs, that somewhere, something is right. I like knowing a little something is right.

So. I saw the look. I remember the dream. I replay the advice. I appreciate the upgrade of temporary susstainability. I write down the name of the nice person tonight to have record of a tiny angel. I review the work I believe in. I know things are as the should be. And I ask the question of importance, "how could they be?". I am not so stupid that things slip past me. I just have to think of them as they pass. You know, things always pass. But as long as we are alive, things are ok, and they are passing.

A movie for this would be too long. We can't Hum this. Sleep schedules must be corrected. Questions must be asked (why won't you inquire?). Organizations must be made. Opinions must be stated boldly. We must learn to love ourselves enough to stand up for what we believe is real and good.

And even if I sound like a rote, sleep-deprived, drunken hippie, if you've ever thought about these things at all, you know what I am talking about.

There is nothing wrong with admitting what you think. There is nothing wrong with admitting you believe in magic.

Don't tell me stories, Don't tell me dogs.

The only Chris' I have in my phone are the professional ones. Very, very funny...

Tonight I had two conversations, quite dissimilar, but involving the same theme.
That theme was: "I know more than I am going to let you know I know. And I will make you feel good because I am keeping my mouth shut." Those discussions were about acting, and canine behavior.

Now, I don't susspect I am an expert on either subject, but I hate to talk about either, just based on the fact that they are both so close to me. I have this elementary feeling that if you talk too much about something you care about, others will try to take it away from you with their debased understanding of it. Almost everyone in this city is, or was, an "actor". And almost more people think they understand dog psychology and breed behavior because they knew a couple of people with pit bulls, and they hung around some shiba inus, or puggles, or irish wolf hounds. Those people don't know anything. And that I can tell you for almost certain. Well, most people don't know anything, and that can be said for almost certain. But by the end of the evening I was close to appaled at how long I had sat silent in more than one conversation when, in both instances, I knew so much more about what was being said than the one who was lecturing me.

But what could I do? I hate argument, conflict, and I really hate proving to wrong people that they are wrong. So, on some really immoral level I guess I just wanted them to feel like they were doing something great so that the whole conversation wasn't a bust. Because arguing doesn't get you anything, except maybe a win. But when you're arguing with people who never get wins, you just get the glory of making someone feel badly--again. And that is no glory.

So I sucked up everything I know, twice in one night, to avoid argument, and let someone feel good. But I almost feel like that's wrong. Should I have been honest about how much I know? Would that have been the right thing? Even if it was proving someone wrong? Someone who seems rarely to be right? That doesn't seem just. But here I am. I know nothing of "justness".

And you know, I would never bring it up, but it's come up many more than once, that I will either have to admit what I know, or hide it. And I hide it to protect people. But then, how am I protecting myself? Should I just be honest? No one will, but someone tell me. I hate arguing people. But I also hate being condescended to.

So don't tell me about telling stories. And don't tell me about dogs. I know those things. Unless you specialize in them, ask us to have a conversation; don't ever plan to have a condesntion; a lesson. I've had my lessons, and I'll have the rest my own way....

Dear Questions: When Will We be Happy?

A girl finds something after the fact: Seems the thing you wanted was closer than you thought. Though funny how you were not granted access to any part of it. ...and watched it ride by....

I'm starting to understand that it is only very late at night that I start thinking of things. The Everything, the "big things", the things people wonder about, gaping-mouthed when they're stoned. And because this kind of thinking is limited to 6:30 in the morning when I am either too tired to function, or half drunk and too tired to function, it is striking me as being a very overwhelming thing. "Big Issues" should be brought up early on in the day so that you can mull them over, consider the pros and cons of them, and feel pleasent about your momentary conclusion. Not twenty minutes before bed, when, all of a sudden, you cannot go to bed anymore, because these things are staring you in the face, asking you "why haven't you learned to meditate?" and "when are we going to solve this?', and "why don't you go sit on the roof and think about this for two hours?', and "can you really sleep if you know these things should be addressed?". Suffice it to say, it has created burn marks in my desk (see: the last post). There are no answers to the bigger questions, there is only time.

I know that when I saw the picture of the couple on their wedding day, and of all the people dancing for them, that I understood there was something out there yet to be discovered or deconstructed. Our mysteries are great and still lay before us...

I know that when I was ridding in the cab tonight something donned on me, or rather, a thought crept over me. Which is this: Why are people always asking God to not let them be so lonely?
No one seems to want to be alone. And when they are not alone, why are they always asking for a greater sence of happiness? Is the discovery of partnership not enough? Is it really just that people feel alone no matter who they are with? Is that just because we are actually alone? If that is so, couldn't people stop asking to find someone and start asking to find themselves? That's probably too much to ask. But I look around at everyone I know who is unattatched, and I see that the root of their unhappiness comes from the lack of a relationship. And I look around at everyone who is attatched, and the ones whose brains are still active seem to be searching for something beyond what they have. So what is the problem here? If god is listening, and he/she/it/whatever brings you someone to be with eventually, and you still feel a sence of longing, how are you supposed to resolve that feeling? I suppose you never do. And that is part of what keeps life moving. I guess I am just put in awe by the fact that everyone is crying to god not to be alone, and that not being alone is never enough. Maybe these are generalizations. Maybe these are common truths. All I know is what I see.

I smoked the last crackhead's cigarette. No, it was my cigarette, the crackhead just led me to it. And after she had I kissed her on the cheek, gave her a dollar, and watched her boyfriend steal five dollars from me. But they left me the key I would have otherwise lost. And they stood up for me. Her name was Chanel. She guided me through the streets, and took me under her wing, and though I know she just wanted my money (little of which I had any to give), in the end I understood her needs, and I think she understood mine. So I let them take the money. I don't know why. Because I was a white girl in a black neighborhood? Because I was too tired to argue? More likely because I knew she knew I understood the hustle, and there was an agreement there. I know that in her neighborhood I would never be ignored. Chanel hugged me, and talked to me, and shared her desires about the next day. She argueed with men behind walls of thick plexi-glass so that I could get my way. Maybe these things are the mark of a good crakchead, or maybe they are the mark of a person with needs who understands them in others. My night with the crackhead reminded me that people are capable of caring about eachother, and that their self-serving behavior is not meant to go against that care. Stephen Adley Guirgis wrote a play about it. And no one could tell it better than that.

There is a strange man asleep on my couch. Where did this man come from? To whom does he belong? Why does he not have a blanket? Isn't he uncomfortable like that? These are questions I ask myself uppon finally seeing him though he has been here all this time....

So are there other things, seemingly obvious, that have been there all this time? Is the answer to my question about why people always ask to not be alone so clear and present that the question is null? Is the answer a sleeping man on the couch? That is a ridiculous way to frame it. But these questions themselves are somewhat ridiculous. Especially for a "blog". Oh, we are so heady. Such an intellectual people. Wow. Give us an award.

But my phone today, called an exboyfriend, while sitting in my bag, bouncing against my leg as I walked to work. Uppon noticing this, I promptly hung up the phone, and thought about the coincidence of my phone randomly choosing that number out of all numbers. Such a slight chance. Being someone that believes in dreams, and supersitions, I thought, maybe, does that mean something? And then I went to work, and thought about all of the things that happened that could be more than coincidence in that night. And why something so appropriate can seem so foreign. And why something so unfinnished can be too big to finnish. And why girls are the biggest dickheads at bars who never feel a need to tip you. And oh, I'm sorry, I forgot about your inherent entitlement to get whatever you want. Here. Have it. But no. It's not the time to talk about the job...

Just, it's just, there are so many questions.

When will we be happy? When will we be truely happy? What does this take? Are we capable of overcoming ourselves to make it happen? How many people actually feel happy to be alive? Well, how many people actually think about it? How many people aren't affraid to admit it? It's very uncool, you know, to admit you care about being alive, unless of course you have some issue attatched to it. "I care about life, only because, you know, the dolfins are dieing, man".

This is too long. This is too long already. Like everything else and all my questions that are all trying to be framed in the ideology of the landsape of a native american reservation somewhere in Montana. You probaby don't know what this means. You probably haven't even read this far. If we could go to Montana I would show you what I mean. If you have ever been on a horse you might know what I mean. Though, at this point, I couldn't ride one long enough to justify this blog.

I just want to know: When will we be happy? When will we know we are happy? and when will we stop asking for more happiness? when will we appreciate the happiness we have? Can we do that now?

I will go to sleep, but I will never put myself to bed...

How one Idea is 1000

He cut all his exgirlfriends out of his photos.

I question the rationale of there only being 24 hours in a day. I look at my exboyfriends. They look the same, though some fatter. I look at my bowl of soup. It looks so big for just being soup. I swear off reading articles about people I respect for reasons that will not make sense to anyone to explain. I feel good about this. I ask the timeless question: how much sleeping can I do before I have to wake up? The timeless answer: too little. I question why I like this religious music so much if I am not a religious man. I think perhaps I should stop reffering to myself as a man. I consider pen names: so many family names that should be used, & so many instances one wants to disguise themself. I study the trails of ash on my plywood desk. They have ground themselves in there forever as some sort of worm work reminder of what I've done. I wonder about what would have happened if my mother had presured me to continue playing the violin instead of letting me stop because I was too lazy to practice. Perhaps I could have been a better person, or perhaps I would still be wearing stirrup pants & writing songs about recycling. Not that there is anything wrong with recycling. Despite myself I keep remembering a dream--well, many dreams--but one dream in particular. I wish I knew more and could determine wether or not it meant anything. This makes me wonder wether things would be less complicated if I did not posess a body that was made to carry children. This body brings hormonal complication. I return again to an idea that my grandfather is not going to live forever, and though it is being highlighted by these current events on the opposite coast, I am not capable of fully believing it is real. Because what can one do from over here. What can one do to accept that idea. This one, so far, cannot.

I had some great conclusion here, which I have lost. Better to leave it that way. Leave it lost. Do you ever stand on the highest part of the roof and think of flying? What could we do if we could fly? ....Things would be so different. Let's got to Savannah in the fall. Go to Denver, and then Savannah. That one accidental beach. We will find it again, even if we only find something yards away.

Little peices of road feed me, so I am always full. And I am always hungary. And I have never been so stationary. Let us move....Always let us move....

Dear Things We Can Review

At 7 in the morning, after coming home from work and writing a letter to my very beautiful sister, something has been sitting with me. I met a person tonight whom I felt very affected by long after they had gone. Such a short ammount of time of them being there, and so little information exchanged, and yet their energy was somehow powerful, and refreshing, and lingered.

I believe that there are tiny angels everywhere. And we can never guess when they will come into our view, and how that one moment they were there will somehow be the right moment. It is a very powerful thing. After a week of discovery and rejoicing, this odd little encounter felt so appropriate as an end.

There isn't much more to say, except, I am glad that what has happened so far has happened. And that there was that person to remind me of light. Things are not as bad as they seem. We just have to remember there are tiny angels everywhere. And the things that keep us feeling trapped are not so dificult to alter. Sometimes all it takes is an unexpected shift of perspective. And remembering yourself. And hearing the most beautiful music you've ever heard. And accepting that you don't need to apologize for the things that you love. And I love so many things.

I am completely speechless.

SUFFOLK COUNTY
SOCIETY FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS
PRESS RELEASE
July 16, 2007

Suffolk County SPCA CONTACT: ROY GROSS
Your Local SPCA Serving Suffolk County 631-382-SPCA
363 Route 111 (7722)
Smithtown, NY11787

The Suffolk County SPCA is offering a $5,000.00 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for tying a dog to a tree in Brentwood, NY, and setting fire to it.

The dog, a male pit bull, was found on Thursday July 12th with second and third degree burns over 60% of his body; severe third degree burns of his face and ears; degloving wounds of his upper palate including the loss of canine and incisor teeth. The dog also had puncture wounds of his neck and emergency veterinarians treating him detected an odor of gasoline on his hair.

Emergency Veterinarians have named the dog "Maximus," according to Chief Roy Gross of the Suffolk County SPCA. "Even after what he's been through, Maximus still tried to wag his tail when he saw people enter his isolation area," said Chief Gross. Maximus hadn't lost his bond with humans. Emergency care personnel said that Maximus was trying to eat on his own and wanted to play with other dogs when he saw them.

Anyone with information is asked to call the Suffolk County SPCA at 631-382-SPCA. All calls will be kept confidential.

The Suffolk County SPCA is not affiliated with, a subdivision of, or funded by any other local, state or national humane organization.

Suffolk County SPCA
363 Route 111
Smithtown, New York 11787
631-382-SPCA (voice)
631-382-4042 (fax)
THE RESCUE COMMUNITY MOURNS THE DEATH OF THIS INNOCENT, HELPLESS DOG..OUR HEARTS ARE W/ THE GOOD PEOPLE, WHO LOVE ANIMALS ON L.I.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

...The dog passed away Monday night. The SPCA is offering a $ 5,000 reward for any information leading up to the arrest of person(s) involved with the crime.

I don't know what to say. It angers me so greatly to know that these kinds of things happen. I am without words. This is sick.

Humans are supposed to be more evolved than other species. This is what they do with it?

Dear Gimme the Loot OR Issues of Consumption

First, I just have to say that sometimes certain things always remind you of someone, no matter how removed from you they might presently be. I can't say the afforementioned phrase without immediately being reminded of one specific person and so many stories that come with them. Odd that...

I love clothes. I love cheap clothes I love free clothes. I am like a crow with shiny things, and I am like a Gypsy with piles of free things (oh wait, I am a Gypsy...). So when I was carrying armloads of clothes through the subway, I didn't feel bad, and I felt happy. Looking at my loot at home I felt so compelled to write something I made five versions of a blog about it before settling on an unfunny one like this. Because who cares about free stuff as much as me? I almost pee myself. But that's why I'm a scavenger...

And I wasn't lieing about being a Gypsy. One of the best things about my heritage,,,turns out I come from Gypsys.

And turns out I'm sleepy. Turns out, instrumental music is the best.

The Only Living Boy in New York.

Sometimes having a really vivid fantasy is almost as good as actually doing it. Like tonight, I was riding home from work--in real life I was in the back of a cab and it was four in the morning and I hadn't made much money. But I immagined it was not so late, and I was riding my bicycle over the bridge and through the streets, and everything was panoramic and sparkling, and "The Only Living Boy in New York" was playing from the mystery soundtrack somewhere. And I immagined this so hard, that by the time I walked out if the cab down the street, I was so happy that my journey had been as full as it was. It was like I had really done it. Just goes to show, our immaginations are not only good for purple people eaters and make-believe girlfriends.

So the trick is that I seem to be coming home from work every night / morning, and getting frusterated about something before I go to bed. It would stand to reason that this is because it's the only time I get to sit alone and think--which is fine--but the end result is that I have been furvently writing about it on the internet. As if that will solve something. And I know that really, no one wants to read someone's angry blog, no matter who they are. And that's assuming anyone reads this in the first place. But the point is, I shouldn't be so bothered all the time. Or, if I am to be bothered, I should at least mix it up a little bit. With some not-so-bothered things.

So,,,tonight I was on a bike. And I was riding in a montage, and my breaks didn't squeak, and I never wobbled at the stop signs, and nothing was moving as fast and slow as me. And Simon and Garfunkel were young and singing again, and it was only for me. And eventhough I was in a taxi cab, and I am not a boy, I was the only living boy in new york, just then, for as long as I could think it. Sometimes magic is so close,,,

It's Always Something: What is Happening to Us?

People just burn out, don't they? It is looking like people get to a certain age when they take most of their dreams and interesting charecteristics and put them in a little box so they can pull them out 15 years later, show them to their kid, & say "See I was pretty cool once myself!". That's a lot of what it's looking like. Granted, I am getting older, and this nesting behavior is becoming more and more common & natural ammong my peers. But it seems to me that people get to their mid 20's, and decide they've gone far enough, and just settle down. They may not know they've decided that, but inadvertantly that's what they've done.

*Disclaimer* I do have some very good actually married & soon to be friends that are NOT like that (SB & KL, KG & N... I'm looking at you), so this is not an all inclusive idea. Just a general one.

Anyway, people seem to just get tired of trying to work towards whatever "passion" they once had, and of being mobile and active and strange and fun and of dreaming, and just give it over for wearing polar fleece and watching movies at home in all their spare time, and accepting mannagerial positions at jobs they never wanted to keep for more than 6 months.

And I don't want to judge that. I think it just kind of scares me. If people want to loose their edge before they're 30 and stop expanding their life experiences beyond the scope of stories to blip about on your myspace page and cute funny secrets that only you and your partner have, then it has to be for good reason. But I don't understand it. People used to want so much more for themselves, and now all of a sudden all they want is...this?

Perhaps one day when I find myself in a long term relationship which I believe might be life long, then I'll get what everyone is doing. But I still know that for myself I have always had things that I have to do, which move beyond mortgaging a dumpy house and pushing out babies in the prime of my life. Those things cannot be compromised by fear. To me it seems that all this settling down is exactly that--settling--and that after two to five years of "trying to make it" people get scared and burn out. Like somehow they thought that becoming sucessful at what they wanted to do would be instantaneous, once a few people saw just how good they were. Or that the fear of not actually being capable of success just overwhelmed them and they decided to cling to the nearest solid source, and not move.

Ultimately, people's personal happiness is what's most important. And if people's ideas of happiness shifts over time like this, so be it. Then it's the right thing.

But what is disheartening to me is to think back to when we were all teenagers, and people in college, and remember how dedicated people were. How driven people were to do and create and stretch themselves. And how talented they were. Those people were not like our parents & they didn't ever want to become our parents. So now if those people, one by one, give up all those things for a domestic partnership and a job they don't really love, what does it mean? Does it mean our dreams were stupid? Does it mean we were all foolish? Furthermore, does it mean that in trying to still do something with my life, I am the foolish one?

And it's those ideas that scare me. Not the polar fleece and constant tv.

Dear Questions

Connundrums:

Is it wrong to let someone do something you know they'll immediately regret without at least talking to them about it?

Is it wrong to watch porn once you're not a 14 year old boy?

How come there is such a dissconnect between people needing others so badly, and never being able to "let anyone in"?

Why is it acceptable for one sex to do some things the other can't? Are we actually that unsolvably different?

If we don't need the appendix, why are we still born with it?

If everything can be labeled as a disease or disorder, why is it still considered "normal" to not be "troubled"?

Can we ever go back to just writing eachother letters through the mail?

If people with no real talent, passion, or education can still be considered artists, does that demean it for everyone else? How can it be fought?

Does putting the label "organic" or "natural" on something actually make it more nutritious? (I would say no, but people seem to buy it anyway).

Why does taking baby steps towards something feel like not moving at all? Are we moving?

Could someone please explain to me why anyone would wear Teeva sandals in the city if they are not going Urban Hiking? (comfort doesn't count).

Is there any way to make non-opressive white people feel as proud of their histories as everyone else? Can they be proud?

How do you know a high priced call girl when you see one? I saw a young not-so-bad-looking girl last night in my bar with the poor man's Kevin Spacey, and I mean POOR--and I'm not judging entirely based on looks, because this man was sitting close to me and he was about as active as a slug after three days of salt, and this girl was laughing at all of his really bad "so a rope walks into a bar" jokes like she hadn't heard them when she was seven. I'm pretty sure she was a call girl. Or I am underestimating the things that can connect and attract people to one another, in which case this question is really rude.

Why does it feel good to stay awake until 7 in the morning, but it feels so bad to wake up at 3?

How come almost always people feel less attracted to someone if they're being pursued by them? Is interest automatically converted into desparation and clinginess?

Why are the funniest jokes the ones you tell to yourself?

Can funny looking dogs actually be taken seriously?

If you don't have any clocks does that mean time doesn't exist?

Why does Zach Braff do Wendy's commercials? Is it a joke? Does he just not care about anything?

Do people like things because they actually like them, or because it makes them a certain way by liking them?

Can I be the man without being THE MAN?

If scent really is the strongest sence tied to memory, is sound second? Because the slightest thing...

Do your idols do shameful things? Should you have idols if you're not a 14 year old boy, also watching porn?

Full circle.


I've got to plug the clock in so I can wake up. I've got to find a way to fit more of myself into my days. And less work. Less TV. More finding the answers to the connundrums and everything else, more dancing, more working (my own), more reading, more just taking whatever I have and stretch stretch stretching it as far as it will go...

I'm Pissed

The human race in general dissapoints, disgusts, and infuriates me when it comes to "adopting" or "purchasing" dogs. Or any animal. But we're talking about dogs.

One major reason the ACC has to euthanize as many animals as it does everyday is because there are two unbelievable things taking place:
First, insolent human beings who have the right to think (or not think) and act for themselves take on puppies like they buy skinny jeans, or a James Blunt CD, or a Razor (remember when that was the new coolest phone?). It's a lifetime commitment made on an adernaline fueled whim because "omg it'll be soooo fun to take it everywhere" and "pitbull puppies are just soooo cute" and "taking your dog into bars is a really great conversation piece". Then they realize what they've actually done a few months down the line, or when that puppy becomes a full sized dog they've thoughtlessly crammed into their apartment, or, you know, it didn't evolve into the bad ass killing machine they'd hoped...and they give up. Wouldn't it be awesome if parents just gave up babies every time they became toddlers? I think that would feel awesome. It would feel awesome to know that someone who was supposed to love you unconditionally realized they didn't plan adequately for you and refuses to compromise their own comfort, and has decided to send you to a cement cage where you'll be gassed in 5 days if no one thinks you're "good enough". I think that if humans had to come face to face with being gassed they might use the brains they were born with and really asess what it means to own a dog. Any breed of dog.
The second thing is that the other side of insolent human beings, the ones who think they're ready to "extend their family" or "open their hearts" to a new dog, want, and seek out, just that: new dogs. Undammaged goods. Whatever that means. Dogs in shelters like the ACC are being killed because people aren't taking them. And people aren't taking them because they're going to pet stores and "backyard breeders" and legitimate breeders who charge you 1500 dollars for a dog. Because people want purbred dogs (because they look better? Because they make YOU look better?). Because people don't feel the need to educate themselves about breeds and think that dropping 2g's for a new weimareiner puppy is a safer choice than paying 50 bucks for a pit bull that's about to have his last meal. (you all got upset when you watched "Dancer in the Dark", come on). When I was working with dogs I had to be supportive to our clients about the unfortunate means they went through to get their expensive pets because it was my job. And now that I don't have that job, and I live in a city that is so infested with animals who have nowhere to go and the morons that ignore them, I really don't have to be polite about it anymore. You just bought a Yorkie for 500 bucks from some apartment breeder on craigslist? Awesome. Let me show you all the dogs that died today because people like you take animals in selfishly. Little living accesories who's primary function is to make you look good. Oh, you didn't know that guy was a breeder & believed he was giving it up due to an unknown allergy? Well, I didn't know a tomato was a fruit at one point, but I had a hunch, did a little research, and found the truth. It is a fruit!

As I am now actually embarking into the process of adopting my own dog, I have found I need to check myself at several points. I feel very firmly that the right thing to do is find my companion from a place that needs help. Not in a "Posh Pets Rescue" where he's never going anywhere. Not from another human who's abusing & neglecting the animals they breed. And that I don't need to be so picky about the sex and breed of what it is, but only specific about qualities that will ensure it is a smart life choice for both the dog, and myself. I know I say that shi tzu's aren't my thing, and poodles are a little ridiculous, but ultimately I would take either of those dogs if the match was right.

I know that I sound like one of those ranty crazy craigslist people that use a million exclamation points every time they say something no one wants to hear. But I guess that's ok. I haven't been able to sleep for the past couple of hours because this issue makes me so (...passionate my father would say?). Every time I have to explain to someone why adopting an animal from a high kill shelter is the best thing to do I feel like I'm explaining the reasons why heroin is the wrong thing to do. It's pretty self explanatory. Should require no explanation.

And I know that once I finally have my own dog my entire perspective on things will shift somewhat. But I anticipate that. And that anticipation weights the fact that I am going to try my best to do the right thing, in the right way, at the right time. I just wish more people would too.

Build Ups are Hard to Break Down

I had a conversation recently with a friend about how vein and egocentric it is to ever post a blog and think anyone gives a S, and though I am in agreeance, I write one anyway. Seems I don't care. Or don't believe anyone else reads the damn thing, which is more the truth but still looks like not caring in the end. Anyway, this is not the point.

The point is that I have waited so many years of my life to get a dog. And when I say "so many" I mean a lot of years. Anyone who knows me knows the vast number of times my friends and ex-boyfriends have had to pull me back from the ledge of adopting some wonderful thing because I felt I couldn't wait any longer. This has been several hundred times. I have tried to convince myself of a lot of things. (and thank you, p.s. to those of you that won the argument each time). Eventually I got to the point where I knew it would happen when it was right, and I was ok with waiting. Well, now I'm done waiting.

After finally getting to a stable enough place in my life where I know beyond any certainty that I am capable of raising a dog, I took the leap and applied for one. One I have been watching for the past month. One I felt that cheesy and indescribable connection with. And so far? I hear nothing. These have been some of the longest 72 hours of my life. And I know if it doesn't work out, it's not meant to, But the question still remains. How do you break down the build up of something that's been coming for so long? How do you remove stock from the thing you placed so much in to begin with? Though it was wrong of me to put so many eggs in one basket with this particular dog, I inadvertently did it anyway, and now here I am faced with the reality of what I will do if they never let me meet him.

So time is going nowhere. And I'm trying not to bubble over. And it's a big deal to no one but me who is trying to find new animals to distract myself; new dogs I know I could love just as much. Though I could never, ever, love a dog as a replacement for another. There can be no sloppy seconds in the animal kingdom for me. And with that gross statement, I return to my original point; that build ups are hard to break down. And I leave it at that for now.

I'll be the Idiot on the Bike

Guys always say that girls on bike are automatically more cute and appealing. For a lot of guys I know it's one of the bigger immediate turn ons out there. Well, America, you haven't seen me on my bike.

Last week I bought my first bike since Little Pink Bike (RIP). Those of you who knew Little Pink Bike know that it was actually a children's bike I bought at the Salvation Army in Troy (again, RIP) and rode passionately around campus. Most often at night, listening to inspiring music on my discman, most often once everyone was asleep. Little Pink Bike was sent to the college graveyard one summer (thanks, Bill) and I never thought of replacing it.

Well, last Friday thanks to Sena's prompting and fancy footwork I took a big kid step forward, and bought a grown up bicycle. It looks good. It feels good. It IS good. The day I bought it I also rode it to work. That meant I went through Bushwick, Williamsburg, and over the bridge into the East Village. Really not that far, all told.

But for me, surrounded by friends who have become avid bike people in both Seattle and New York, that ride marked the first time I have ridden a bicycle in any city, ever. And though I had to push it part way over the hill on the bridge, I successfully rode it all the way home without stopping in the morning after the bar closed.

It was a huge deal for me. Bikes in cities terrify me. Vehicles terrify me. I can't say as though I feel comfortable enough ridding through the crowded streets of Brooklyn by myself yet, but at least I know it's possible. It's exciting to know that maybe I can grow into someone who is capable of traveling on two hot wheels.

As of yet, I can barely ride the thing. This is where my original point comes back in. There is nothing attractive about me on a bike. My eyes are wild with caution and delicate fear, my face is red and sweaty (red cabbage head), I put the breaks on all the time (& they squeak REALLY loudly), and I wobble all over the place when I slow down. It's like a baby deer that doesn't know how to walk yet. Fawns are majestic and beautiful, but wobbly knock-kneed baby deer are just funny.

Therefore, it is embarrassing to ride around in areas populated by hip people on bikes. Because I manage to make girls on bikes an anti-fetish.

Regardless of this, I am sucking up my pride (and unwavering fear of getting smashed by a car) and riding into work again today. Hopefully this time I won't have to stop. Even if I do, and even if anyone laughs at me, it is rewarding to know I am doing something that is not only fun, but also efficient, healthy, and eco-friendly. And getting over my fear of something that has poked at me for the past seven years.

So there. I officially ride a bicycle.

Smoking is Bad For You

I think I'm going to throw up. Right now I don't feel like I'm kidding, though in ten minutes I hope it feels like a joke. This has nothing to do with smoking.

I have read more articles lately on the negative effects of smoking than ever before. People really want you to stop. They tell you you look old and ugly prematurely, get diseased, and then die. Well shit, we should build a colony somewhere where cigarettes just don't exist and then we'll all live to be old and tight skinned and pretty. That sounded bitter. Here's my suggestion: just don't start smoking. And before you think about that choice too much also decide never to read your old letters or look at old pictures or find your past on the internet or in the boxes you packed when you were younger. Even if "when you were younger" means six months ago. Because it's like opening a door to one of the big photo studios in the morning, where, for the rest fo the day the music floods the hallway and pokes at you, sitting in that chair doing nothing, reminding you of the consequences of all your own descisions, and that "my humps" never was and never will be a legitimate song.

The Long and the Short of It

Is I can't talk about it now.

A friend and I were having a conversation - at work - about meeting people. I turned to her, with a great deal of sincerity, to try and understand why I was not meeting people, or a certain kind of people, or adventure people, or any people. Was it me, I asked. And she turned to me, with a great deal of sincerity, and asked "could it be that you are working seven days a week?" I looked at her, confused. "Oh, that's right, it's because you're working seven days a week." And then she smiled at me and patted me on the back, or head, or something, and we continued talking about the adventure people, or any kind of people she had met that gave her fodder for interesting conversation.

And that pretty much sums it up for me. I'm not complaining, just reflecting on the fact that aside from nominally being able to reflect on the events and psychological goings on in my life & take in the changes, my interactions are fairly limited to the stylists and photo assistants that ask me to get them hangers and packing tape, and the drunk yahoos I enable who think I'm a lesbian because I have a tattoo and like to drink whiskey.

Somewhere in the cycle of working, eating, sleeping, and occasionally watching something my roommate has Tvoed, there are a lot of things I would like to cram in. Like, I graduated from college. That's a lot to think about. Like, I'm trying to get a dog. That's a lot to do. Like, I want to finish this apartment. That's even more of a lot to do. Like, there are relationships that need mending and tending because they are important. That's a lot of inspiring and complicated playlists to make. Like, oh you know, everything else, that just to mention creates such an overwhelming and far reaching feeling of excitement & confusion & fear & all those things people feel when there are a lot of big things to have feelings about, that I would rather not sit down and think about them all at one time. Let alone write tham on the internet so that there is some sort of referential checklist I can go back to and feel like tackling these giant goals is like cleaning your room.

One. Step. At. A. Time. This is just big kid life, isn't it? Baz Lurhman was trying to prepare us all for this in his inspiring speech about wearing sunscreen, wasn't he? Damn it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go drink some beers on a roof, and shortly, go to work.

Dear Secret Man # 1

Please stop making things. Not at ten in the morning or two or eight do I ever want to see what you've done again. Please stop reminding me of the things I haven't done, don't have, and want to find. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Mama

Today: A Man Actually Attempts to Bring Snakes On A Plane

...in his carry on. People officially will do anything. And I can't even categorize the "anything", like: "anything you put in a movie" or "anything to get attention" or "anything to be different". People will just do anything period. Like that Sangina kid's hair, and naming your kid Rayon, and going out clubbing without underpants when you know your drunk ass is going to flash everyone in West Hollywood, and alerting the paparazzi of where you'll be so they can find you, and putting actual snakes in your actual carry on and ATUALLY believing you might board a plane. UNbelievable.

In other news...

My pillows and amazing blankets and surprises from my mom came in the mail! All of which I schlepped onto the subway at 1 in the morning after work like a true middle aged hobo. But still! They came!
I think I found the dog I want to adopt. He's amazing. I would post a picture of him here, but I'm afraid that by the time I am able to apply to adopt him, he will have been adopted. The organization has a very quick adoption rate and I won't be ready for at least the next week. Fingers are crossed. That little man is like a dream.



Fast Forward____To Tonight. Er, This Morning. I Mean, I Just Got Home From Work and It's 5:30. It's not Snakes On a Plane Guy Day Anymore. But here are some arbitrary things...

This dog, this soul-mate-dream-boat of a dog, will wait for me. He has to, right? I can't get to nowhere New Jersey for at least a week to meet him, but of God exists and knocking on wood counts, he'll be un-adopted until I get there. His name is Serge, by the way.

I realized as I was in the kitchen with a giant knife that I will always always cut apart the plastic rings from six packs. No sea turtles are going to get strangled on my watch.

Who is Murphy, from Murphy's Law fame? Either that guy had the shittiest life ever, or he bestowed shittiness onto all those who surrounded him. I do know that Murphys Law is always pretty much true, and as I examined tonight while at my hanging-on-by-a-thread job that it has always been the case that in jobs, when I screw up, the only person around who really sees it, is my boss. And no matter how many times I say "I've never done that before" it never sounds like the truth. Murphy, we've got beef.

A drunk man tonight in a festive Hawaiian shirt sat with me for a long time at the bar. And though he didn't tip me well, and spoke pretty undiscernable english by the end of the night, he said something that I wished could have been commemorated on some kind of mug or giant button. He pulled me close to him, and grabbed my arm very firmly, and said "You are the prettiest bartender in all the land". Now, let me clarify. I was not so blown away by the
"prettiest" part, because I know that's a blatant lie, or hollow attempt at flattery (if anyone can look simultaneously like a 12 year old boy, a cabbage-headed lesbian, and a drag queen, it's me) but it was the "in the land" part that catapulted me onto a higher plane of good-feelingness. "IN the land"? Seriously? It's amazing, it's like there are still princesses in pointy caps running around, and jousts at the end of the night on fancy steeds, and rolling moores that midgets and hobbits live in. Yes! I am the most something In-All-The-Land. What a majestic categorization. Hey, kind of large drunk guy, I think you just evolved the whole compliment system tonight. So thank you. (or I am too easily impressed which may or may not be the case considering the crowd at my bar).

I got home tonight and there were a couple of presumably drunk boys throwing debunked paper airplanes off of the roof. They threw one at me and shouted "come make paper airplanes with us!" And I thought, "You know what drunk boys? I think I will."

My roomates are amazing. I got home and one of them showered me with beer. The other one was sprawled out like an X on our still communal bed. They were both half naked (the heat, not the anything else). And they both like happiness, and sharing music, and hugging, and watching our out-of-control tv< and making movies, and having adventures. Though this space might still look somewhat like a crack den, at least the people in it are the kind of awesome gentlemen you can call at 4 in the morning to bail you out of jail in New Mexico, and you know they'll fly out and do it, with a slew of jokes, a case of beer, and some pictures of puppies. They're the kind of guys who, acumuatively, kind of make other boys you want to date look like lardos with 1,000s of dollars in Blockbuster fines. I don't know, maybe not that, but they're something else, that's for sure.

Hillary Duff is inspirational.

My mom is coming on Wednesday. Five days until the launch of the happiest hug of the past six months. She is the biggest little wonder that ever lived.

Now, onto paper airlanes, and pretending my friday night still has a hour or two left in it.

A Conversation.

Stop looking at your phone. Stop looking at the time on your phone. What are you waiting for? Nothing. You're not waiting for anything. You're waiting for not nothing. Something. You might be waiting for something. You might be waiting for something, but it could be a secret or maybe you're not certain you're waiting for something, so either way you couldn't say exactly. You're also very aware of the fact that anticipation often ends up being one of the more exciting parts of journeys, and that being the case, you really should revel in it now. Yet you can't forget the want for the something to happen, or present itself, or make itself available so that you can get on with things. Though you still see yourself three months from now sitting on a train alone reviewing the subject and thinking "THIS is what I was waiting for?" But maybe you are too skeptical. Or maybe you are a realist. Or maybe you don't believe in humans. Or you don't believe in kharma. Or you don't believe in god. Or you believe in too many things and you are embarassed about it so you pretend to believe in nothing. You could keep a log of how much time you spend waiting for something to happen, and of how much time you spend enjoying that thing when it does happen. That might be productive. Or scary. Does anyone really enjoy something for as long as they spend waiting for it to happen? Stop biting your hangnails. Stop biting your nails. Stop biting. If you conducted a study of how long people wait for the enjoyment of the act versus how long they enjoy the act itself, the results might be depressing, and therefore should be left untouched. You waited to get a big new bass amp for a year and a half, very intesnsely for several months. Once you got it you were overjoyed, for a few weeks, then you put it in your room, and now it's in storage on the west coast. Maybe that is because you're ungreateful. Or maybe it's because your band broke up. Or maybe because you moved and can't ship it. Maybe the time you spent enjoying it has actually surpassed how long you waited and you just don't know because you're too preoccupied with the worry that things might be bad. You should stop thinking about it. You should enjoy your night off. And stop using the word "enjoy" so "frequently".

You should stop looking at the phone. The foreign man said there is a lighthouse somewhere in the middle of the sea. Swim, swim, swim.

Two Things for People That Want Three

Hair: Here's what I find odd. Everyone always talks about how, as you get older, you begin to lose your hair. Presumably from all parts of your body (this is true right? I think I zoned out during this part of biology class, big surprise). But what no one really addresses, which seems to be happening across the board is that, from your teenage years to presumably your 40's, you accquire hair. Everywhere. It's like your body is trying to build a nice winter coat incase you ever decide to go live with the polar bears. It's not just something that happens when you're in middle school (and for some of us much later) and boys and girls get grown up hair. It seems that as we get older, girls' bikini lines drop further down their thighs, and boys' beards slip further down their necks (and backs, but I can't go there, sorry hairy dudes). What is this mostrosity? Why does it happen? Girls say "Well, you know, the more you wax, the more grows back" and boys say "Yeah, I have a beard down to my nipples because my hair grows funny". But I don't think that's true. I think something is happening here. And while I understand that we are living in a culture that is obsessed with selective hairlessness (internet porn community, I'm looking at you) I can't find the will to rage against it. Yes, hairiness is alright and all, but the unexplainable she-staches and male shoulder hair have got to be explained somehow. Hormones, ok. Sure. But hormones, riddle me this: why can't you just stretch yourselves out over a lifetime, instead of trying to cram everything in to a couple of decades? Women who once had to wear surf shorts to the beach will one day be patchy and bald, and that will be confusing for them. No one wants to take a bald lady on a classy date. So let's start talking about this. I mean, let's put this issue out there on the table; get the dialogue going. Am I alone on this or not? And surely, if I am, now I just sound like a pervert.

Memory Beer: Don't buy memory beer. I tried to today. In my defense I have only slept about five hours in the past two days, and been working consistently, so perhaps my judgement is skewed. But instead of taking a nap this evening (those "naps" only turn into sleepless nights later) I walked myself down to my corner market to buy a snack and an evening drink. I thought it would be such a nice thing to sit at home alone for a while and drink a cold beer and browse my ever-slowing stolen internet. Good idea, right. So as I am scanning the cases of beer in the bodega where I also buy tea and cigarettes and razors and talk with my friend the counter guy who for some reason lives in Bay Ridge, my indecisiveness kicks in, and like always, I can't choose. So, just like someone comes across an old vinyl they bought when they were 14, or a t-shirt with a No Fear phrase on it, I found at the bottom of a case, a six pack of Elephant Beer. Elephant beer! How amazing! There you are! The sight of that stoic elephant with his giant ears parading proudly across the green bottle immediately made me think of my step-father, and how he used to smoke his tobacco from pipes, and listen to old Italian Polka records, and talk to the seagulls, and pet the dogs while trying to teach me about the mold that grows on french cheeses. He drank this beer. It is familiar and comforting just by association. It's like drinking Frank Sinatra's favorite drink because you know he was a classy man. My step-father most certainly is. So I picked up the beer and a lonely can of soup and came home. I'm not gonna lie, I was excited to drink it. As I get older I find myself revelling in doing the things that my parents enjoyed, and finally understanding why. But the moral of buying Memory beer, and why you shouldn't do it (if you're me I guess), is that once I was home I victoriously pulled a bottle from the cardboard satchel, excited to read the label that this great man must have read so many times, only to discover that I had just bought a bunch of malt liquor. What? Malt. Liquor. Sure, it's "imported from Copenhagen", but what are the Danish doing making malt liquor in the first place? Aren't they above that? I mean it's malt liquor for chrissake--the stuff you drink when you're too young or drunk to care. Stoic elephant or no, it's not even real beer. And I don't know if there is some kind of legitimate elephant beer out there that I just didn't find, but I will tell you that this cannot be the beer that my step-father drank. The man who fights with swords and plays the accordion. Classy people don't buy malt liquor. That's like saying that tap dancers also masturbate to the Wall Street Journal. It just doesn't happen. So while I might be drinking this "beer" anyway, and wondering why, I still don't reccomend that anyone haplessly walk through a bodega and snatch up the first drink that sparks their happy memories. Because obviously you wind up with something that is grain and water, and too boozy to be sold in bars.

So I have started to build an intricate web of lies, which will hopefully lead to making money and doing a thing I might be good at. But the lies make me nervous and sweaty. There's a rooftop party somewhere close by and I want to see it, there's a window and I want to open it, there's a hand and I want to shake it--or talk to it and see how much I want to shake it. There's a lot of sleep I want to have without sleeping.

Dear Thank You For The Little Things That Could Be Big

Everything has changed.

You know what could make spring better? This. This that I just discovered.

The windows will be open, the boots will be on.

When it was revealed I ran around the house that is being built jumping and laughing and thinking of what I could do next.

Hey Friday, tell me what to do next. This is like a pile of dogs on my doorstep. This is like getting an unbroken foot again. This is like finding a music box you could sleep inside of. This is like a dozen beaches with aggets my great grandmother would want for the jars on her window sill.

Hey Friday, thank you. Hello spring.

I Thought Of College Part One

I'm not saying I came up with every thing that's been done, but that one thing, I'm pretty sure I did that first.

Tonight it rained and rained and there was lightening, and I thought it was beautiful and I wasn't scared because I knew I had so many things to anchor me down, and I wondered if anyone ever gets struck in the city--you only hear about that in places with large open fields, which is anywhere but here, little in-between places with storm cellars and buck fifty gas pumps and women named Cherlene and one black person for thirty miles. I thought the storm was nice. And I didn't complain when I was walking home beneath it. A nice storm in April...

If you can ever realize that you're in something great while you're in it, even if it's only or five minutes, I suggest you take it in for all it's worth, because too many things are complained about and then missed after the fact. Too many people complain about college while they're there, but the secret is, you'll never be able to be so reckless again. Unless you're a millionaire, in which case, please, by all means, complain about everything. You can pay people to listen. We think college lasts for about a half a second, but I'm starting to think that it's our entire lives that happen in half a second...

I slept for almost 14 hours today. I woke up on my day off and thought I had wasted the entire thing, and then I remembered all the years I spent never sleeping much at all, and realized maybe my body was getting its payback. I owe it a lot of hours.

Some place nice to go would be Illinois or Nebraska or Montana. Something nice to do would be watch my friends play music or go ride a horse so hard like it was about to die. Something nice to see would be my room, and my apartment in completetion. Something nice to have would be some money to see my friends, and my sister and my future dog. Something nice to touch would be my future dog, and a pair of bare arms, and cold sheets, and the water in a swimming pool or a lake with a dock. Some nice things to taste would be a warm mouth, and a hot burrito, and a cool glass of wine, and an endless pillow, and a movie moment, and cheap food from a rest stop on the way to something scenic. Something nice to feel would be achievement and completion and acceptance and anticiaption and promise and possiblity and bravery and valdation and high-fives and high elevation and adrenaline and chance and summer breaks and lucky breaks and the sea and hugs from family. Something nice to know you're making it.

Goodnight little world.
Goodnight little memories.
Goodnight little happenings.
Goodnight little dreams.
Goodnight little everythings.

The Drunk Button

One of two things is happening. Either I am only writing blogs when I am drunk, or the only time I have access to the internet is late at night, and I only remember this when I'm drinking. Probably both. So I have gotten in the habit of rereading the things I have written and laughing at my ever embarassing and unique ways of coming up with things to say at three o'clock in the morning. Drinking when I should be sleeping...

After tonight I can say with a fair ammount of certainty that the gay community makes the rest of us straight people look like a group of boring shitheads. Ok, we're not shitheads. We're just boring by comparison. It takes a generous ammount anymore to actually make my jaw drop from an inability to understand, but tonight my mouth was on the table. Despite the fact that I have to wake up at 6:45 in the morning, I found myself sipping large portions of Not So Familiar Gay Boy's Baccardi and coke just because I was so aghast about what was actually taking place. I mean wow. I might as well go home, do a jigsaw puzzle, eat a gingersnap, and re-catalogue my rolodex. Just cash it in. And then marry some ponchy computer teacher named Eugene and learn how to bake casseroles and only have sex, in the missionary position, on hollidays like President's Day. Because after tonight I don't think I can compete.

I would like to hold hands on a date, and pay my bills, and find a nice dress for graduation, and see my friend's final projects, and eat at bbqs, and make my room a room, and buy a ticket to New Orleans to see the Sister, and find good pieces of free furniture, and check out some Olsen action tomorrow when the second Little Bits Olsen comes in to work. But you know, these things are just things.

In Recent News, It's Bath Time

Polls today showed that I have not, in fact, cleaned my body in approximately the last seven days. Maybe more. We're not sure. So in about four minutes I am going to have to remedy that. Because I am starting to get a dirt tan, which, while being a funny topic of conversation, also makes my friends and coworkers sit further away from me.

I think that it may be inarguable that spring is by far and away a much better season than winter. I remember the first day that it was unbelievably sunny I just walked down the street, smiling at babies and dogs and strangers and groups of boys playing ball in the park and lovers buying eachother shoes and gellatto, and even at myself. I had no reason to be smiling other than things felt nice, but wow did things feel nice. I want to hold hands, and go hiking, and feed homeless people sandwiches, and actually wear shorts without two pairs of leggings (thusly exposing the world to my bizarre pale legs, so you know that says something), and give my seat up to women with suitcases, and high five male models, and laugh at myself when I trip, and engage in conversations about the importance of "being in love with the world". So something magical might be happening. And that thing might be spring. Thanks spring. Until you came I had no idea how much winter actually blew.

On a general world loving, spring infected note, I would just like to say: It feels good to appreciate, and it feels good to be appreciated. If you like the person you are spending time with, it is nice to share that information. It's good to tell people when they're funny and nice and pretty and doofy and strange and loved and clever and awesome. People should tell people. And eventhough I have heard the argument that just spending time with someone should imply you enjoy their company, I don't agree. I think that means you're affraid to be honest and therefore vulnerable. But let's be real kids, we're not getting any younger, time's not slowing down, and we aren't gaining anything by keeping ourselves so much to ourselves. So tell your friends you love them, and your girl(boy)friends you think they're awesome, and your mom thanks for pushing you out of the womb. And though I sound like a hippie, you all know I'm right. Or maybe you don't. But then, maybe you still think it's cool to stand around with your arms crossed, judging everything. How about this, I'll start thigns off: Bath, I like you, and I appreciate you for making me clean and more likeable by my peers. Thank you for all your hard work, and frequent efforts in giving me warm water. I enjoy you every time we hang out.

Bath time 2k 7.

In Different News

I should learn how to spell that word. I'm fairly sure that normally I would know.

I was mad about something. It seems lately I have a tendancy to be mad. I think what I wanted to say was:
It figures.
Very little floats.
I notice everything though I am so good at being the stupid one you might miss it.
My feelings are hurt easily, and though this reminds me that I am a baby, it also reminds me that I have the gift of feeling things, which I would not exchange for anything.
Lake Michigan is big, and wen can be like Lake Michigan if we wake up early enough.
I am not an alcoholic I just love things. And one of those things is whiskey. In all capacities.
I remember the last time we were really together,the four of us, in a foreign city, playing so hard we dropped to our knees, and I had never dropped to my knees before, and even then I didn't know it would be the last real time. How could we have known.
I should not feel so bad about the things which I know are inevitable. And many bad things are inevitable.
Remember every goodbye letter made in time away. Remember every hello.
I have jugs of water but I am dreaming of pastures of horses and O sound like the foreign man.

Someone hear me. I would like to go back to the badlands. And the real sea. I have not forgotten the things I cannot say. Though I am still just a girl trying to find a way to say them. Don't make me any more afraid of you than I already am, though I hardly am at all. Ahhhh, it's all so complicated, but less so when we're sleeping.

Recovering the Internet at Four in the Morning

Lucky me, wouldn't it happen to be that the only hour I get internet here might be a time when I should not touch it at all.

I'm slowly figuring out how to put the peices of my personal identification back together after having my wallet stolen twice in three weeks. AND NOTE: To you whom have them: there will be more to you later, but you should be ashamed of yourselves. One, because you know I didn't want to stay, and two because I only had one fucking dollar in it, and I hope you made good use of it. Good luck with my receipts and ticket stubs. You moron. I never understood what people said about not trusting New York City, really, until these things happened. Now unfortunately I guard my things in trains and bars like I have something left to take (which I don't), and I am glad I have friends who like to have fun at home (because I can't go out now), and a roomate who will pay for my train tickets to work each day. Shame on you. Both of you. But this is for another time, I digress.

I bought a journal. Once again I decided it was time to try the thing I was so obsessed with in my younger years, and went looking for a book today. Do you know how hard it is to find some plain book to put things in? I stood in the book store for maybe a half an hour, something that felt like forever, as I perused through the Batman, Hello Kitty, fake-moleskine "journals", meant to keep your utmost secrets and treasures. Well, i don't want a place to write my treasures, I just kind of want a place to write my shit, you know what I mean? Eventually I decided on some book with squiggels and a label that said "journal" emphatically on the outside, mostly for the reason that it only cost five bucks, but will make me look like a real asshole if I ever use it in public. Eh, everyone looks like assholes when they write in public though, right? So yeah, I bought a Gournal. Me and my Gournal. Good times ahead. Or maybe, at least, not so many confusing times. You know, now that I have my Gournal.

I read an article today about how to reduce to signs of aging and to live a longer life. One of their tips was "find small things that make you happy, and integrate them into your daily routine". "Great!," I thought, and I wrote it down. Like it was something new. Then I realized, I do this all the time, because I look at pictures of dogs on the internet nearly all the time, and feel like the most happiest girl on the planet. I immagine that once I have my own dog I will still do this. Because I can't seem to get over them, or wanting to save 30 of them to be my very own. So, according to this article in the lady magazine, I am going to live at least 20 years longer than everyone else I know. Joyous occasion.

So now that I'm admiting that I might be somewhat drunk, I have to ask the inevitable question: why does moving to New York to be closer to the things that you want to do mean that first you have to be as far away from them as possible?

At least it's spring. At least I'm here. Even if I have no proof that I exist and the government takes most of the money I earn. At least I am here. Ammong my idols ad my aimless peers.

Rumors of Famous People and What I Hate, part One.

What if you found out your idols were assholes?
What if you found out today?
What if you found out your idols were stupid and not worth the time?
What if that made everything feel hollow?

Because today I finally met a famous person, and another famous person, and they both were respectively cold, and though I never forgot the concept "I am the hired help", I also never forgot the concept that nice people can be nice no matter what, no matter who they are talking to, and though still I knew that 80 people spoke for them I felt that there was no need for their bodyguard to follow me though the door and scowl at me like I was stealing something vital when all I was doing was delivering a package to a man named Brad, because man, I don't want to harm your girl Alecia Keys, believe me, she's all yours to lord over, I am just trying to get paid my minimum wage. But believe me, one day you"'l be guarding me while I piss and I'll tell you I don't need it because I can fend for myself, and I hope then you can let other people piss around me, because it's only right, and you'll remember the way you looked at me when I was just a sallow studio worker, and maybe you'll feel a little bit bad. Maybe you'll call Ms. K and she'll feel bad too, because now I'm a famous person too, like her, eventhough I am white trash, and she"ll say "I knew she always had potential", and I'll be all "girl you know I did" and then maybe we'll throw some confetti around.

But I will never be a dick to people like us. Eventhough I have to smile and courtsey to people who are rude all day long. I would like to think that people who have nice things don't take those things for granted. I hope not to be so foolish.

I know the sun is always setting on a summer camp or a high dive somewhere.

I would like to find a drum circle or a space without judgement.

Mama K.