Thoughts Punctuated.

teeny tale: something from a dream

2011-10-24T13:25:00.000-04:00

It’s the kind of beauty that men hope to stumble upon. It’s the kind that people talk about. The kind that only some see for themselves while others are left only to imagine. It’s the kind you’d revisit day after day, because it’s the kind of beauty you miss when it’s gone, he said. And she said, yes, it’s something grand isn't it? To think they didn’t even know the wonder they were missing, and then all of a sudden...they find this. And he looked at her, and her evergreen eyes, and swept her sable hair past the ridge of her collarbone. Yes, it’s something from a dream, he said.

Untarnished.

2011-07-24T11:44:00.004-04:00

I remember my father atop a splintered picnic bench. Tattered overalls, stained in sweat and dirt, and his skin, an apple red from the oppressive sun. I sat, splashing about in a play pool, wearing my favorite swimsuit – it was violet, the neckline trimmed with flowing ruffles.

“We nearly have two pennies to rub together, Helen,” he had said to my mother. My father was a laborer, picking up odd jobs here and there, yet there hadn’t been an odd job there for the picking in a while.

“It’ll be fine Charlie, we’ll get by,” my mother assured. But she, too, had become weary; her hopeful spirit, heavy in the thick air.

My mother was a baker, by hobby not trade. She was talented and resourceful; I’m not sure which came first: the cupboards were often better used for hiding spots than for storage, but somehow there was always the right amount of something for her to do her thing. It was what kept her smiling, moving forward. Even then, I could sense the purpose she felt with each knead of dough. Folks would pop by, knocking about on the back door, “Hey there, your mama got anymore of those tasty Helen’s helpings?” She’d sell them for what she could. People seemed to like them. And what she didn’t sell, we ate before they spoiled. My mother wasn’t a waster.

I watched my father that summer day, as he sat, staring, unresponsive to my playful quips. He’d break his fixation only to wipe the sweat from his brow – just before it’d reach his eyes – like a toy, wound at random, moving mechanically, slowly returning to its original pose. I remember thinking he looked broken. There was even a moment where it seemed he was about to cry; I had never seen a grown man cry. But then he stood, staring blankly on, before letting out a heavy sigh, kicking up the dirt drive as he exited. My mother quickly followed after. And I sat there for some time, cautiously so. I hadn’t even lifted my hands above the water’s surface, fearful to make a disturbance, each fingertip slowly turning pruney.

As the afternoon turned ripe, my mother came to retrieve me. I tagged along beside her, as she delivered packages of tarts and biscuits in the ease of the dusk breeze. To stay entertained, I gave myself a task, one that required my eyes to survey the ground. “Sadie, watch where you’re going sweetie, you’re sure to run into something if you don’t start paying attention,” my mother had warned. But I didn't, and by the time my mother had finished her task, I had finished mine.

The wind picked up that evening: a distant rain shower’s fair warning. Father moved slowly about the house, bringing the windows to a close. I had slipped quietly down the staircase, breaking away from my obedient, nightly routine. He looked up as the floor creaked, “Hey kiddo, you should be in bed.”

I walked straight up to my father’s sturdy base, outstretching my arm, like flora slowly reaching toward the sun. My clenched hand, holding two pennies, made its way to the inside of his tough palm. I remember rubbing them between my thumb and pointer finger after finding them that afternoon: my child’s mind, pure and literal, at work.

I could see in the perplexity of my father’s face, his mind pulling the pieces together. And then he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, the two pennies nearly drowning in the other. My mother had stood, motionless, trying to shield her presence within the frame of the doorway. I turned and exited, thinking nothing more than how happy by father must be to have his two pennies to rub together again, swinging my arms, proudly and carefree, returning to bed, a child, untarnished.

Update.

2011-04-20T20:23:00.001-04:00

I'm going to try something new: www.ziglets.tumblr.com

Tales, shorties and other thoughts that need punctuating will remain here.
Photos, inspriation and other visual creative will be posted to Tumblr.
It's cleaner and crisper, making it better suited for such.

Hope to see you there...

my really? rant

2011-04-20T12:39:00.000-04:00

This print of whitie tighties (or tighty whities)
is $460. I find that absurd.

My conclusion: typo. I'd say $4.60 is more like it.

Hmm, I wonder what a sketch of a tube sock would sell for...

getting ready.

2011-04-13T10:51:00.001-04:00

It's happening this Friday: Sam Beam and I have a date. And in preparation, I'm listening to the Iron & Wine Pandora channel. No, it's not all I & W, I don't want to get burnt out, over saturated, drowned in the molasses that is his voice; I'd rather take slow drips of it instead. The other plus of this approach is that I get a taste of other ear-pleasing sounds, like this tune, "Horse In The Sky," by Chris and Thomas...

Okay, I couldn't help it...I had to post at least one...haven't heard this one in a while; such a pleasant surprise.

Happy hump day folks!

It's Time.

2011-03-30T12:07:00.000-04:00

For a moment, my senses capture the freshly scented air that passes, and I wish I could bottle it up for a cloudy day. It's fresh, soft, like just-showered, gently perfumed skin. For a moment, spring is found. Maybe it has drifted from a neighbor’s home, someone else who's trying to urge spring on; they carry its scent in their textiles. And in these days where winter stubbornly hangs on, these little touches are more than delightful.

The temperature continues to make its cooler stance known, while the sunshine battles on, showing its face more often around these parts. The houses slice the sidewalk into strips of shade and rays; we walk slower in the warmth, hoping to build up a reserve to last the block, and then some. With each step, the extra weight felt from layers becomes burdensome.

I am more than ready to welcome bare skin. Freckles. To bathe myself in a sunny glow from head to toe. To sit upon the porch, windows swung open, and let the breeze rejuvenate all that's gone stale. I'm ready to breath in air that's once again full of life.

Tale: Trapped in a Moment

2011-03-16T20:46:00.013-04:00

In that bar with the back entrance, the one up the steps through the alley, we had our moment. I’d never had what I considered “a moment” before, but I’m quite sure what we had was just that.

Your eyes caught mine scanning the room. A jukebox played on random, and a game of pool filled the emptiness that hung in the air between changes. Until then, my eyes knew nothing more than how to meet and retreat...until they got caught in yours. I was easy prey, hooked with the first try. You drew me in slowly, inch by inch. I remember feeling my whole self tilt forward. Feet anchored,I broke, just before falling, head first, to the depths of the wells that were your pupils.

I stood alone; my palms began to sweat. It got stuffy. Didn’t it? On any other day I’d make my move and head to the bar, order a vodka and sit, my back facing you, hoping at some point in the night one of us would build up a false confidence, enough to get names. But you moved first, snaking through the crowd, and pulled out a crisp dollar to feed the machine. You paid extra to have your song play next. I knew it was yours because it broke the upbeat buzz, made others shift in their seats. You looked my way, eyes with a smile and a nod. “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…” And with that line, you had me there all night.

I found you intoxicating, something I didn’t know any man to be capable of. I needed to get closer, to breathe you in. With a lean to the left, fondling a toothpick with your tongue, you stood intimidatingly so. That’s when I made up a trip to the restroom, so I could pass you. And I made up the group of people that were all around us in that moment, because I wanted a reason to brush up against you. And I know you turned to watch me walk by, because I felt the slightest warmth from your mouth reach the back of my neck.

With a trace of your cologne on my shirt, I had a two-minute fantasy in front of the mirror. The wisps of my hair curled from the heat and the glass was fogged with the moisture from my breath; I left it marked with the outline of my lips. I found my confidence, but two minutes too late: you were already gone.

I believe in everything but feelings that are real, which is why I no longer see myself in my reflection anymore, I see her. When the day comes, I put on the same pair of jeans, pin my hair up the same way and even have the last of my perfume on reserve for that same night each year, the 16th of March. I arrive around the same time I did that night, looking like I never left our moment. And I walk up to the jukebox and I play our song and touch the same buttons you touched, because it makes me feel close to you again. Then I wait. With my back turned, hoping this night will be the night I learn your name.

Tale: No. 2

2011-03-15T22:37:00.003-04:00

His avenue of expression came in the form of graphite. But he had graduated from the ubiquitous No. 2 pencil to a more sophisticated version years ago; he was after all an artist, not a shop teacher or professional Scantron taker. It was the transition from action heroes to pieces of fruit and nude models that called for a more diverse palette: an array of carbon ranging from soft to hard, the former making it easier and quicker to shade.

Before the switch in drawing utensils, he had only known change to be disappointing, but this was different. His lines hit the pages smoother, hugging each curve, and the depth of color was richer; both he and the images he created were given an honest chance to come alive. The side of his right hand collected the bits that chipped away when he pressed the pencil with authority, hoping to get the blackest gray that gray could make. And the tip of his middle finger went permanently stained, as it took on the role of his favorite blending tool. The residue would travel on, from the paper, to his fingertip, to his slacks, and now and again to his temple when he’d pause, head down, searching his mind’s catalog for memories, visual snapshots to draw from. He found he liked this kind of change, although he doubted he’d ever experience it again: what more would he need? But with time, the crisp lines easily smudged. The glossy finish atop the sharp gray eventually dulled. And any finished product was left vulnerable: one quick swipe of an art gum eraser could rip the lines from the sheet, leaving the piece scared, damaged, and as a result, unfinished. This, he decided, was no way to leave his mark, if he was leaving one at all.

Having never doodled with anything more than a BIC pen, he paced the calligraphy section of the art shop. The florescent lights swung from above, and he found himself in an intimate interrogation of the shelves displayed selection: What makes you think you're more special than this here guy beside you? Best for “drawing and illustration” you say? Prove it. He didn’t bother to ask the longhaired, 40-something-year-old employee his suggestion; his far-off stare left him looking like nothing of an expert, and everything like the stoner he always had been, and still was. He checked out, leaving with a pen box that came with a variety of nibs, a bottle of black India ink, and one sheet of dense paper, all in a bag much too cumbersome for its slight contents.

When he got home, he turned off all the lights and sat at his desk until the sunlight streaming through the window turned the room, and everything in it, a peachy hue. He felt silly, but it only seemed just to break in his new supplies under similar lighting conditions as those who first began their works in ink. There was something almost primitive about it. Then again, it wasn’t like he had wiped up a batch of cow urine and mud or beetle guts, but it was more of a process than just putting pencil to paper. He liked learning new skills and he experimented with lines he could and couldn’t make from each nib, each becoming more dramatic as moonlight took hold of the room, turning its inner glow cool. And with the help of a few candles, he continued his virgin pursuit.

Just as the wick of his candles exhausted their full potential, he woke. His hand still wrapped around the pen like a stem of ivy: sturdy, but easily pulled apart with a gentle touch. He was slow to retrace his steps, looking at the puddle of hot wax, then the scattered supplies, and as he stared blankly before him, eyes burning, he recalled the image: tall pines draping over a mountain side, a creek running below, and a full moon in the night’s sky, a layer of thin streaks ran behind it. He lowered his gaze quickly to the page – excited to test his memory – but there was no proof: what may or may not have been had fallen victim to the depths of a black well of ink. It was an unfortunate happening, but nothing close to tragic, as he realized, with a grin, that he had indeed made his first mark.

thought starter.

2011-02-16T16:17:00.003-05:00

A quote from the International Design Awards 2011 Best of Show Winner's Piece:

"Inert objects -- and people -- lose their charm pretty quickly. It's hard to be inspired by something that never changes. So get moving. Never stand still. Gain momentum. Feel free to start small -- once you begin, it'll be ease to keep going."

Jessica Kuhn, online & associate editor of HOW Magazine poses the thought of whether these words take on any meaning "to you," the reader. I find that I, along with my friends, have reached that point in our lives where we feel we've either figured it out, are on the verge of doing so, or don't think we ever will. Me? Well, I think I fall someplace in the middle of the mix; however, I'd add that it's with a hard lean toward the latter.

Regardless, what I find to be the more pressing question is whether fear and/or the comfortable boundaries we set for ourselves keep us from reaching our full potential: a question I ask myself too often. Maybe that says something about me. The "what" may possible be within the second layer of that question, which pushes the need to take a deeper look inside to truly figure out what's most important: comfort or the satisfaction of personal success (and I'd argue development). Wouldn't we all like to have both?

I've been thinking lately that I'll have to start working even harder in my own personal journey of life to achieve such a perfect balance. I can always tell when things get too comfortable: I grow antsy. The one thing I will confirm is that I'm definitely not "inert." Let's consider Newton's First Law: An object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. Now apply this physics to your life. This "unbalanced force" doesn't mean you come to a complete stop, it just means you take on a different pace, a new direction. For me, the "unbalanced force" may be a new passion, hobby or interest; I thrust myself into them, exploring just enough so that I come out on the other side, once again, in balance (although I have been a bit wobbly at times).

A little shaking up does a body good; it keeps you from staying too idle, for too long. It isn't always easy to find the motivation on your own, which is why I don't. Instead I get a healthy dose of "forces" from those I surround myself with, who are more often than not the "mover and shaker" type (my kind of style). They're the ones who keep me inspired, which is just how I like to live.

What have you done differently lately? What's inspired you?

Just a little something to ponder in the spare minutes of your day.

~Jessie

filling the repository

2011-02-15T09:18:00.002-05:00

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
— E.E. Cummings

Love is...

via i can read

teeny tale: the heart.

2011-02-08T22:04:00.002-05:00

I remember the day he turned to me and asked how it was possible that the feeling of love could so easily be summed up with a heart, the heart, with a muscular organ that pumps blood, which was more than just another element in the equation of life. To him, blood wasn’t something he associated with feeling good, with feeling alive. No. Instead, it was that thing that was symbolic of pain, of being hurt. And he said that he guessed that part wasn’t completely misleading. Sometimes, he said, he thought he felt love (the good kind) in his stomach, sometimes in his head and on rare occasions even in his toes. Then he told me that to him, love was a total-body experience; it shouldn’t be confined to one organ. And he seemed so content with his conclusion that I didn’t want to tell him it was because of “that thing” that pumps through that “one organ” that he could feel that kind of love in all those kinds of places.

And, in case you missed it, here's the teeny tale from last February: conversation hearts.

olive, the littlest frenchie bulldog...ooo woo ooo

2011-02-01T19:11:00.006-05:00

As soon as I close the door behind me, I hear the little pads of her feet hit the hardwood, her tags jingling. She greets me, presenting a toy or bone, and she sits patiently, trembling until I set my bags down to give her her first afternoon rub. I ask if she wants to go out, and her playful nature drives her to deke from left to right; she's stalling, although she and I both know how badly she needs to go. She watches me, with my coat buttoned, hat on and gloves limp, gathered in the clutch of one hand, her harness and leash in the other. I turn away, in an attempt to show dominance, but also to shield the smile--she's such a funny creature. Team Olive: 1. Team Me: 0.

Once we finally hit the drive, she heads out toward the sidewalk and I can't help to wonder if she's walking me or if I'm walking her. And as we carry on, kicking up the freshly fallen snow, I have my answer: the near 30 pounds of pure muscle that she is, is pulling me right along; I love that she gives me energy when I have none. Somehow we're running, always she leading the way, and I try to keep a decent clip in my clunky rubber boots. It feels good to get the blood pumping, and I think it's best to keep her going, to keep her warm, while my fingers begin to numb. She's nibble, and as she's dodging branches, I'm being dragged behind chuckling at the fact that this pup is showing me up. She even looks back to make sure I'm keeping up, while I look down, hoping we don't hit an icy patch. And then a neighbor appears from around the corner, and our mindless romp comes to a complete. Halt. There are sounds she makes that I was unaware were even possible, and they come out when she spies another person, another dog, anything she wants to get a closer look at. But now that she has my endorphins pumping, I desperately try to drag her back, and eventually we scuttle off. She makes her mark with a piddle on this lawn and that corner and then bounds her barrel chest through the highest snow pile she can find, only to pull me with her to pick up her other mark; the cuffs of my pants fill with flakes.

I'm glad she gets me out when the temperatures fall below 35: my preferred lowest temp. I wouldn't want to miss this extra time with her. Just the two of us checking out the neighborhood; she's taught me to be more observant. Together, we smell what people are having for dinner and who's house that wonderful fire smell is coming from. She takes note of the dogs that have been out for a walk and probably wonders where they are now, while I note the large footprints that are followed by two smaller ones and wonder which house that father and child live in. When we return home, I wipe her paws and she bounds up the stairs. And then I sit, to write, to leave my mark, and she climbs in my lap to join. On this day, I couldn't think of anything better.

as much for me as it is for you.

2011-02-01T15:13:00.000-05:00

Sam Beam is Iron & Wine. Iron & Wine is Sam Beam. I've seen Mr. Beam perform before, but he was accompanied by a full band; it wasn't the sweet, melodic solo experience I had yearned for. He'll be swinging through my neck of the woods again to share songs from his new album, and rumor has it that it's a solo tour. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. In the meantime, I've been enjoying this NPR Tiny Desk Concert. In the chance that I'm met that night in April with more than Sam Beam, I'll be able to pop back here quickly after the show to calm my tattered nerves. (Bonus: this gem also ends with an old favorite, thanks NPR for this little treasure.)

Tale: A Girl Named Jennifer

2011-01-28T13:08:00.002-05:00

To most, Jennifer was just another breathing, semi-warm body that passed them on the street. She was quiet, and not because she was shy, although she was, but it was more due to a lack of inspiration – starting up a conversation about how she switched to Fresh Linen fabric softener from Island Breeze didn’t seem all that arousing. At one point, Jennifer realized she had gone 72 straight hours without a peep, not even a casual greeting to a stranger. She was alarmed by the realization and tried to start up a one-way conversation with Milo, her cat, but even he had lost interest in what she had to say over time; maybe she were better off a mute.

Jennifer, or Jenn as those on her dwindling list of friends called her, was 32, but far from having things figured out. Some might say she’s rare, and not rare as in unique, rare as in needing more time to “cook.” She was just wrapping up one hellish Saturday of pondering the value of her existence; she was caught in the toils of self-worth. The patrons sitting in the Second Cup coffee shop may have thought she were actually reading Gone With the Wind while sipping a flavored latte with extra foam, but no: 1.) she had already seen the movie, allowing her to flip the pages at random, sometimes even two at a time; and 2.) a flavored latte was too advanced and “extra foam” was not included in her vocabulary, rather a black coffee acted as her tabletop companion. Jenn scanned the pages of her dusty decoy, letting certain words surface like “courage,” “reputation,” and “my dear” – she’d never been anyone’s “dear.” It all lead to thoughts of what made her courageous, or if she ever had been, and what kind of reputation she was building up; however, she couldn't imagine she had one.

It was a one-day journey full of pit stops, stalls, and countless dead ends. There was one road in particular that she couldn’t hold herself back from plowing down, the one that begged the question of what made her any sort of “unique,” and at the end of the day, she was one thought short of an answer. Yes, she was an only child, which made her a specific kind of special, but the fact that she was the only offspring of Sylvia and Paul wasn’t anything she could list on a resume or use to pick up men. Jenn had some oddball personal possessions that were up for contention, like the one delicate, vintage tea cup she picked up at an estate sale – it was Czech and had a matching saucer with yellow and gold deco – but the fact that it had orphan twins scattered all over eBay didn’t give her points in the precious novelty category.

As for Jenn’s outward appearance, she was pale, but lacking a sufficient amount of freckles and beauty marks for one of her fairness, which crushed her chances of having a distinct grouping of marks in the shape of Jesus, or maybe the constellation Orion. She did have one beauty mark right above her lip, but that didn’t count: its originality was already spoken for. It did, however, feed an ongoing source of interaction for Jenn; it often initiated dialog, but never graduated past that particular topic, or that stage in a conversation. People would approach her, pointing out her “Cindy Crawford mark,” and she would smile and part her lips, readying them for a response, only to quickly surrender them into a smooth, vague grin – a parting gift for stopping by to visit. Why did it have to be the same as Cindy Crawford’s? Why couldn’t it just be hers? It’s not like such a mark could only belong to one person, or that Crawford had a special allotment of them that she gave out to a handful of lucky winners; you can’t go around handing out beauty marks to people like T-shirts or sticks of gum.

In terms of Jenn’s fashion sense, she had none, which meant she either copied what she saw from a magazine; the style-conscious, often togged out gal, Vicky, down the hall; or off mannequins in department stores. Jenn wasn’t a girl who turned heads for her looks, but more often because people thought there was something familiar about her – like the sweater from the H&M window. Jenn definitely didn’t want to call attention to herself, so not being an adventurous dresser left her feeling sufficiently content.

Jenn’s predictable apparel wasn’t the only thing that was working against her; she was shaken of an interesting life from birth; “Jennifer” was the No. 1 most popular name in 1980. Unfortunately, her parents hadn’t been daring enough to veer from the given by removing an “n”; she could have been “Jenifer,” and that deletion of a single letter could have been the ticket, the one that would gain her access to a more intriguing life. Jenn found herself turning every time someone yelled her name, until she began to realize 9.9 times out of 10 it was for another girl with the same 80s name who was often prettier. There was something different Jenn always noticed when her name reverberated through the open air, through the voice of the countless unknown callers to the countless unknown “others”: her name took on an alluring attribute. It was during that ah-ha moment that Jenn accepted a name doesn’t make a person, rather a person makes a name. Regardless, Jenn still held a grundge against her overly popular name, as it induced some unfortunate situations. Like every time she'd go into one of those corner shops on vacation, the ones with silkscreen shirts of palm trees and fake bikini bodies, bottles of sand, and little license plates with names on them, she'd give the carousel a spin to the “J” names, to find the same thing every time: an empty metal rack displaying a lo-res cardboard picture of what should be there with her name on it, and of course a SKU number. The constant disappointment drove Jenn to settle for keychains and the like baring the sole initial “J”; they were easier to find in stock, and she liked to think it made her more mysterious.

Jenn exhausted the gamut of qualifying uniqueness factors until she found herself sifting through “The Black Pit” – the moniker she gave her handbag – in search of drugs to calm her pulsating temple. She wouldn’t give up; she had no choice but to do the exact opposite. If she wanted unique, she had to snatch it from every unexpected person, place and thing; unique wasn’t going to happen on its own. Jenn had to make a decision: she’d either carry on through life in her almost-non-existent way or get charged enough to resuscitate her life – she’d say yes to new experiences, see the world through new eyes, put herself out there more – and rip herself bluntly from her cozy comfort zone.

This day of daunting introspection kicked her butt; Jenn never wanted to feel so beat down again. She pushed back in the velvet-upholstered, thrift-store-find of a chair she had sat in for the last eight hours, the worn-in springs and fabric capturing her sunken impression. Jenn had noticed the brightly painted mural of downtown, the vertical grains in the tabletop, the horizontal lines of her hands, everything except what was going on outside. With her double-breasted wool coat buttoned high and a knit cap upon her head, she gathered her things, and herself, and caught the first glimpse of the falling snow outside. Opening the door, a whoosh of winter air awoke her senses. Without consciously saying “yes,” she tilted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and stuck her tongue straight out. For a full 30 seconds, Jenn let as many of those icy masterpieces fall and dissolve. And then she carried on with a smile, knowing the snowflakes she just caught would never be captured by anyone else; it was the start to something new.

Tale: Seeing

2011-01-18T16:13:00.005-05:00

Do you see that? A man with a clipboard, gnawing at a pencil like a bit, who’s he? Why do clipboards give people weight in the world, power to look important checking off top-secret duties from the man above? You’re not going to ask. I’m not going to ask. He’s probably just checking off the last bathroom he emptied the trash from, refilled the foamy soap in, and wiped piss of the porcelain commode. I wonder if he has kids.

What about that guy? He's in his buttoned-up shirt, tucked in, pleated pants and herringbone socks. Is the pattern for show? Was it a conscience effort? Did he go that far to think about what the world would see when he crossed his legs like a dame? What about the junk the world can’t see? People will be thinking more about that, about why he crosses his legs like a broad; real men would find crossing their legs uncomfortable. He must not be real.

What about her? She’s working as a cashier at the grocery store. She checks everyone out, literally. Ringing up baby food, Slim-Fast, Wonder bread, your six-pack of Bud. She scans you, your stuff, and by the time you’re paying, she’s judged you. Don’t let her “Have a nice day” fool you. Who makes her a judge? She’s put-together; put-together people don’t work as cashiers. But the rock on her hand and her blown-out hair mark her as someone who’s well-off. And she is, but she works because it gives her something to complain about, like the old people who want their goods double bagged: paper then plastic. She’s sick of hearing how their milk ripped through the plastic once and fell all the way down the stairs, so she does it. Maybe she isn’t better off.

What about inanimate objects? Let’s say linoleum tiling. The kind you can pick up from Sam at the local hardware store, bring back and install in a day; it’s like peel and stick square clings for your floor. At the specialized stores someone named Diane rips you off, selling it as “contemporary” flooring, when all she’s really doing is upselling cheap. It’s the kind that runs wall-to-wall waxed and topped with shiny new cars at dealerships, littered with the aftermath of unsuccessful TP tears in the bathroom of the ladies room at Wal-Mart, and with sticky beer spots on the floors of frat-house kitchens. It’s usually feathered, tone on tone, while some of the others do their best to mimic their more-desired natural stone heroes. And during awkward conversations, or the ones you rather wish you weren’t apart of, you let your body stay present and let your mind drift away, finding shapes in the design. Maybe you see a naked woman, the face of a child, a character your subconscious just created; maybe it’s the devil in disguise. Then again, you may see nothing. It takes an extra layer of intrigue to make such discoveries.

And what if you don’t see anything? If that’s the case you see nothing in the ceiling tile paneling embossed with textures. At first that is, but throughout your life you may spend hundreds of hours staring at them. Maybe at the dentist office while your spit is getting sucked out of your mouth with a tube and the hygienist is asking you questions, knowing full well you can’t adequately respond; talk about getting the upper hand in a conversation. And all you have are those tiles to look at, and after those countless hours of affixing your gaze upward, your mind digs out memories of a science class that were tucked in the folds of your brain. There was pond water, paramecium, amoeba, and euglena. And then the smell of your lab partner’s ungodly taco-like body odor resurfaces and you start choking, gagging on spit, and water, and air.

And what do you see in love? Being able to agree to disagree? How sad is it that some have only known it as a slap in the face, followed by apologies, and a forced embrace. Others only get it when their partner’s voice is laced with booze. For me? I don’t know. Maybe it’s taking out the trash or organizing the bills. Or how you tell me my hair looks nice. For you? Maybe it’s when I pick food from you beard. Maybe it’s in a kiss on the cheek, followed by sexual propositions and screwing.

What have you painted your life with? Maybe you don’t paint at all. Maybe you choose to draw. Maybe you see in grayscale. Maybe my view is in ROYGBIV. Maybe it’s because the way I see the world is advanced. Because maybe we see only as much as we’ve let ourselves observe and experience. And maybe I’ve done more of that. But who’s to say? I’m sure there are things that you see that I don’t. Our picture of life may never be the same. Like the other day when we saw that old man walking through the cemetery with a single rose. I saw him as a grieving widower or maybe someone's loyal son, and then you told me he looked like a man who led two lives—the rose was for his deceased lover.

teeny tale: silent smile

2011-01-06T16:20:00.001-05:00

you know, i really miss the snot out of you. & then he heard a lightweight sigh from the other end. not knowing if it were a sigh of relief or if his choice of words hadn't been well received, he second guessed his quick release of feelings; girls generally didn't care for snot. & then right before he opened his mouth to offer an apology, she spoke: your timing couldn't have been more perfect; that's just what i needed to hear. really? he asked. absolutely, i've been stuffed up for weeks! and she could hear him smile in the silence right before he laughed.

teeny tale: warmth.

2011-01-05T14:41:00.002-05:00

Her pockets were filled with tissue lint, and a tube of sugar plum balm to pack her lips with a punch. The elements naturally painted her ivory cheeks with color, like the stain of two strawberries left on grandma’s linen tablecloth. Upon the misfit strands of hair straying from her knit cap, crystals clung, layer atop crunchy layer. Her tread slow, yet steady, made for sloppy impressions, and her narrow feet turned fat. Beyond the naked branches, between the crisscross of X and Y, she spotted a doe a deer a female deer. Its long limbs and slender stature highlighting a female presence, which made her feel safe. Yet the doe’s unbreakable stare and painful stillness provided the evidence: she was wild, and there would be no protecting where fear was found. A slight hang of the head marked her embarrassment, and without sudden movement, she carried on down the sloping spine of the trail. Her brief moment of incapacitation had been enough to send a chill throughout; the heat she built was so easily lost. Slowly hunching, she began huddling her own limbs, drawing them closer. Within her mittens her thumbs bowed and popped from their individual vessels to join the other four; just like how those who stand apart from others secretly wish to be included; even her thumbs had felt alone. Strength comes in numbers. And so, too, does warmth. The easy truth quickened her pace, turning it into an awkward jog. Beneath the icy surface that had covered her coat, a flood of excitement cascaded; just like the water racing beneath the ice of the creek below. She ran for the warmth that would keep her going, and for the warmth that would welcome her when she reached home.

teeny tale: needed.

2010-12-29T15:30:00.004-05:00

She pulled up slowly; the gravel popping beneath each turned tire. And there she saw it. He had found this spot some years ago, bare: what he took as a kind gesture from nature, a welcome invitation to settle among the towering knotty pines. It was a hardy build, constructed from eastern white pine, kiln dried, its dovetail corner notching a work of his own hands--a practice he was taught by his father who along with the skill, shared the tender story of its assumed origin, one of a farmer who sat, marveling at the wedge-shaped tails of some neighborly doves. It was a simple technique, and a simple means for a father and son to bond.

From the interlocking hand-cut joints of boxes, to dresser drawers, to the logs of his own home, the size of his projects grew with time, as he had with age. There was much he could do for himself, and that which he couldn't merely filled a thimble--something he neither owned nor would ever know existed. She still longed for the days before his hard-working hands, once smooth, turned calloused and cracked; it seemed both she and his leather gloves became a cozy luxury--something his simple life could do without. But for as much as he didn't need her, she was still in need of him. Yet she sat alone, staring down the narrow drive that led to him; the steady stream of smoke pouring from the flue being the closest to him she would get.

'tis the season.

2010-12-20T22:40:00.003-05:00

Another year, another holiday season. Give. Give. Give. But it isn't the presents under the tree that I look forward to most, unlike those of (many) years past. From the awe of bounding down the stairs to snatch the first glimpse of wrapped gifts from "Santa"--and the partially nibbled carrots and fully-eaten cookies--to the awe of the gift of others, Christmas has evolved, but only because I have, too.

I won't discount the pleasure I have in giving the "perfect gift," that gift you just know won't disappoint. But I will say, if all I had was the people who mean most to me, the crackle and smell of a wood-burning fire, mashed with a little "Ruddy the red-nosed reindeer, you'll go down in history..." rocking around a freshly-cut balsam, my grown self would agree that "Santa did come!"

In the rush to make sure that presents were bought and sent and packaged, I've found there are holiday favorites I'm missing, things that say "happy holidays" to me more than any glossy package. Like finding the least prickly tree that's not too big, not too small, and as close to perfectly symmetrical as possible (although you can always turn the "bad side" toward the wall). It's filling my home with the smell of peppermint, cinnamon...pure confection...and hovering over the first batch of chocolate chip cookies; waiting for the dough to cool just enough to hold it together to make it to your mouth without slowly bending in half, and short enough to keep the chips in ooey-gooey form.

With the hype of the holidays there should be more taken from them than just the giving of gifts. They should include spending time with family--the family you were born into and those who've become "family" along the way--and friends...old and new. It's about the people, the traditions, the memories. Christmas has always been a guarantee that I'll see those that have staked a claim to a piece of my heart...and that my stocking will have gum and lip gloss. It's the former that I value most, but even the traditional stocking stuffers work their way into tradition. Into a day I've enjoyed since birth, but only began to remember from age 5. And as the years have past, I've realized just how special the holidays are.

Being that I don't live close to family or even some of my closest friends, the holiday season of the past 10 years or so have brought the joy of knowing that I'll return to the familiar place I still call "home." A place I knew well for 17 years. And while I've stopped growing, the trees that I danced around and hung from as a youth have grown taller, marking the time past. Each return home I'm flooded with memories I've created around that exact time in all the years leading up to that point; it's the memories that will last much longer than any material gift given. My nostalgic nature had, at one point, even brought me to slip a piece of wrapping paper into my stocking to stay until December 25 of the next year: a physical object to trigger the intangible of the Christmas before.

This season (and for those that follow), make the extra effort to enjoy the moments the holidays offer, as they are the most honest and "perfect gifts" given. The laughs. The drinks with old friends. The board game with a sibling. Even the embrace from the black sheep of the family, because no matter how you cut it, it's a hug people, and we could all benefit from giving and receiving a few more of them...

Cheers to you and yours!

through the words of others...

2010-12-14T15:49:00.000-05:00

These words hang closely to the right of me each day at work, but they've gone unread for over a year. I let the words find a place in the minutes of my scattered day, and I'm sharing them here so they have the chance to find a place in yours:

To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded! ~ Emerson

teeny tale: Chinese finger trap.

2010-12-10T15:31:00.002-05:00

they were similar but different. and it was that which made them different that pulled them in opposing directions, while oddly pulling them closer like two fingers fallen victim to the woven bamboo of a Chinese finger trap: the greater the effort to pull away, the stronger the force grew that joined them. until they each fell tired. finding themselves stuck in the middle of nowhere between here and there. it was then that the force that bound them released. but rather than quickly retreat, they slowly crept apart, as to not. trigger. the reflex. that had trapped them in the first place.

teeny tale: whisked away

2010-11-17T15:59:00.005-05:00

stepping outdoors, exposed, onto the emptied slab of asphalt, the blistery breeze welcomed her back to life with a swift burst, and a shove of assurance that it was right to move forward. every fragile piece of her became nature’s raw ingredients, to mix and swirl, to create what it wished. her tamed tousles, were easy pray, pulled apart, played with, and set back in a merry mess atop her head. & she thought if only it were strong enough to pick her whole self up & whisk her away for playtime in a far distant land for a short while before returning her gently to the ground, back to reality, but with an overall head-in-the-clouds, gleeful sheen.

teeny tale: cosmic collision

2010-11-11T14:16:00.000-05:00

he turned, arms outstretched, presenting his cupped hands before her. what do you have inside there? she asked. a whole lot of everything. it's my world; i want to share it with you. & with eyes sparkling like the brightest stars, she grabbed half of his "world" and enclosed it in half of hers. & it was the best cosmic collision they'd ever experienced.

teeny tale: live it up

2010-11-05T13:13:00.001-04:00

she had been told many times to "live it up." but it wasn't until the day she dropped the moments that were had behind her, let the moments waiting to be had run free ahead & allowed the moment she was in to saturate the liquid life that ran inside her that she finally gave those words the meaning they deserved. & from that day on, her heart proclaimed its thanks for relieving the weight of the past and the pressure of the future; it was happiest pumping for the now.

happy halloween!

2010-10-29T18:05:00.000-04:00

teeny tale: beauty mark

2010-10-26T14:48:00.001-04:00

it was one of those autumn days found in dreams but often never had: the aroma of brown sugar swirling with adrift leaves, torsos jacketless, legs shielded lightly by pantyhose; it’s too warm for tights. she welcomed the day with an overly confident smile, hair bouncing, skirt floating, a twirl came on, & as her downward gaze began to travel up, a gasp. the opaque fabric clinging to her thighs revealed a speck. with a flick of her middle finger she aimed, determined to defeat. but the “speck” was not a speck at all, not fuzz, nor a smidge of dirt, rather a beauty mark—not a freckle; freckles are for faces. & she thought how silly she was for wanting to flick away her beauty. & as that thought began to dissipate with a shake of her head, something landed lightly upon her bare arm. instead of giving a sudden jerk—as she most certainly would have done at any other given time—she warded off the protective urge & slowly cranked her head right, then down. there atop her dewy skin, a ladybug sat. beginning to crawl she knew she ought to wish for something soon…but instead of waiting for the moment to pass, she enjoyed the seconds she had in it. besides, she already felt lucky knowing that not only could her beauty not be flicked off, it also could not grow wings and fly away.

Chickadee

2010-10-21T20:19:00.004-04:00

On this first crisp morn.

Her breathe sits, udisguised without warmth.

Her destination plotted with each crunch.
Left. Right.

The open air droops, heavy, lacking song.

Chicka dee dee dee dee dee.

Chicka dee dee dee dee.

Her songbird had taken flight, black-capped, into the fallen night.

And so she waits.

For the return of a steeper angle.

For her breathe to be taken by brilliance.

For his song to fill the emptiness hang

ing air.

in the

Passing Love Notes

2010-10-14T16:17:00.003-04:00

I once dared to touch her frosted locks,

Cascading around the rocks that were her shoulders.

A flow of copious curls.

Not knowing the work I’d undo,

All with a single stroke.

The untouchables remained so.

Tight.

Together.

She had set them just right.

The way she set my clothes out each night.

Clean.

Crisp.

Plain, but brand new.

Lunchbox notes read “I love you,”

And the second-hand jeans around her hips

The years worn on her shoes--

"Notes" undetected by a child’s eye.

A room full of plastic perfection.

Dolls with skirts hemmed with lace,

And long, threads of golden curls unbrushed.

Her reality allowed for the make-believe life I knew.

teeny tale: invisible

2010-10-13T10:53:00.001-04:00

wishing she were invisible so her thoughts would be, too. because everything she thought she wore on her face, & she was tired of having to explain herself for the things she never said.

close your eyes. make a wish. and...

2010-10-08T17:28:00.000-04:00

And you.

2010-10-08T12:39:00.001-04:00

There’s something about the corner of a wrap-around porch that makes you feel like you're sitting at the edge of the world.
And the way the willows shake their leafy hips in the breeze that makes you feel like dancing.
And the smell of a wood fire that warms you, even though its flame is out of sight.
And how a hand resting upon your lap rests upon your heart.

this is what my drive home produced...

2010-10-07T19:40:00.006-04:00

The springs of her bed creaked and groaned with every tired tousle, any reasonable readjustment, driving her to submit to the land mines beneath: she made each night's slumber as motionless as possible. This still, however, did not take care of the untamed springs that would poke and prod her like an unanswered toddler--poke, poke. Neither the metal coils nor a being so small possessed the ability to understand such an annoyance. Even so, the thought of removing herself from the hot-pocket cocoon her mere six and half hours of undesirable, rigamortis-like hibernation had created was a difficult one. But it was peculiarly defined moments such as this--along with the seasons when pointy-toed heels outshined round-toed pumps--that allowed her to be, for once, thankful for the authoritative gradient her toes took, allowing her to attack the uncovered air...One. Digit. At. A. Time.

teeny tale: all dressed up

2010-10-06T21:50:00.000-04:00

she likes it when her nails are painted a vibrant shade of crimson because it makes her feel all dressed up, even when that which falls between her digits isn't.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...

2010-10-03T12:48:00.012-04:00

What's on your bookshelf? Maybe you're a literary snob: your shelves boast with the likes of Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, Steinbeck, and White. Maybe the majority of your introduction to great American literature was had and left in the chalky dust of your AP English class over a decade ago. Either way, the works that find their way to call a place "home" upon your shelves have made it there for one reason or another. It's a classic. My girlfriend said I HAD to read this. I had to buy them for my college courses.

The bound pages one displays only allow yet another set of "covers" for others (i.e., those who have themselves thought consciously about their own visible collection) to judge you by. And it's just another conversation starter for those interested, while some would rather chose to comment on your collection of records--or lack there of--or the tabletop of trophy bourbon.

I'm by no means a literary snob, nor have I left my passion for literature on the high-pressure laminate work surface of years gone by. My collection is a combination of books I've read and acquired through my own means, books snatched up waiting patiently in queue, books borrowed, and those adopted from my partner's own collection. One from the latter that I've seen floating around, that I've even rearranged neatly within our Ikea cubed bookshelf, is the above: Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg. This ongoing contact lead me to choose "Howl," the movie, as my most recent movie drama.

Ginsberg's work was published by City Light Books in San Francisco in 1956. It's uninhibited use of obscenities brought it, along with the publishing house, much attention. To some, Ginsberg's choice of words were found offensive. For this, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the publishing house owner, was charged for distributing obscene material. The 50s were a time of cultural revolution; those who chose to write about it became known as the "Beat Generation." But as once said by Ginsberg himself, and once again in the movie through the lips of James Franco,"there is no Beat Generation, just a bunch of guys trying to get published."

The trial drew national attention and marked a pivotal point in literature: breaking down the boundaries of what could and could not be published in the United States. It allowed for an entire generation to come out in expressive word, even in sexual orientation. It broke ground in the use of acceptable language. It openly announced that the world is not an aesthetically pleasing place to us all; therefore, describing it just as one sees it, be it beautiful or damned, was deemed acceptable. Together this Beat Generation flipped the bird to euphemisms, and banned together toward a world of written word that allowed them to tell it like they saw it. Write it how they felt it. Put words to the sighs that left their mouths. The tears that dampened their cheeks. The howls that boomed from their bellies.

I've already picked up the book I had organizationally tangoed with. The run-ons, the incantations, repetition, even the obscenities sit with me well. And it's because of its existence and what it brought thereafter that is due thanks for such an open invitation.

Seek the movie out. Watch it. And fall in love with the power of words and the writers who masterfully organize them to say that which the rest cannot.

teeny tale: tatter

2010-09-28T16:35:00.001-04:00

the rain went pitter patter, as her heart began to tatter. & as polka dots adorned her plain tee, she tittered. & then littered the puddles with her fears; the pool beneath her swelled from the flow. & as she looked to the wealth of drops that had fallen below, she saw staring back that which frightened her most of all...

teeny tale: a single branch

2010-09-21T16:23:00.001-04:00

he said it’s funny how life works. how many paths it can take. & all the moments that lead up to those possible paths. there are just an infinite number of possibilities. like a tree, with each branch shooting off in its own direction. although, she said, a tree does have a limited amount of branches. but it still works, because the paths we’d actual take are in fact limited anyway. i mean, yes, the possibilities are themselves endless, but there's usally only a few paths we'd really take and those are the ones that are a bit more defined, just like the branches of a tree. well thanks, he said. & she added: besides, there’s only one “branch” i wanted to choose. & which one would that be? he asked. the one that pointed to you, she said. & when she came home later that day, upon their porch sat their potted star magnolia with all but one branch pointing toward her. she smiled--it was a drastic statement but one of love nonetheless.

teeny tale: "dear sleep:"

2010-09-14T13:12:00.004-04:00

dear sleep:

i know it’s been quite some time now since we last caught up. but i’m hoping you’ll come ‘round again. i miss you sleep. i realize i can be difficult at times with my night owl ways & my false perception of how my caffeine consumption doesn’t affect my sleepiness. but i promise…i pinkie promise if you come back, i’ll make it right between us. i’ll put the pen down at eight & stop the mind-editing by nine. i’ll even change the sheets so they have that mild mix of cotton breeze from the dryer & cedar from the chest -- the scent that helps me breathe in deeply & exhale slowly. & then i’ll slip that worn-out tee over my tousled bed-ready hair & pop on a pair of exhausted tube socks to cover my tootsies…just long enough to warm ‘em up until they’re set free by a quick kick. i’ll pull the blinds down & swivel them closed—pointing up. & then close the heavy drapes right before i close my heavy lids.

so what do you say sleep? can I see you soon? please don’t make me wait…i'll only grow restless, & then we’re sure to never see each other again. & that…that would just be no good. because we’re good together, you & me. & deep down, i think you need me just as much as i need you.

with love,
jessie lynn

teeny tale: closer look

2010-09-10T10:26:00.006-04:00

bloated backpacks blocked her view. & then through the window that idled right above her, rode a boy whose face was smooshed up against the glass of the school bus. he seemed to be inflicting this awkward position upon himself; no sign of a bully was present. so she decided to smoosh her face, too, upon the cool glass of her driver-side window. & she then realized the boy could care less about what he looked like or what his jammed up flesh was going through & more about being closer to the world. that's when she decided the boy would grow up pressing a pen to paper, just as his face pressed against the glass, so he could always have a closer look.

sunny b

2010-08-31T23:03:00.000-04:00

you're tweet.

teeny tale: brighter view

2010-08-30T18:42:00.004-04:00

she was a collector. besides the obvious saddlebags brimming with time & memories, she collected things: from coffee mugs & vintage tea cloths to gold chains & antique brooches. new to this incomplete list: large-framed sunglasses. a pair from the west. a pair for the east. both became final add-ons; polishing off outfits effortlessly, as their primary task was in fact to shield the sun's rays. both answered the demand upon them justly. that said, it was the orange heptagon-shaped frames that leaked a bit o'sunshine, even while she was trying to block it out. it gave her eyes a sparkle, as they graced each eye with their own gleaming ring o'sun. even on overcast days, the days one's face could go sans masking, she carried on her daily routine with sunshine upon her face. the sun of her eyes traveled to her lips & spread its rays there, too. & even on the dreariest of dank days, she & those who passed her enjoyed a bright view.

teeny tale: quick fix

2010-08-26T12:21:00.000-04:00

she woke up with a giddy gait. it was the kind of feeling that felt so good she felt guilty holding on to it. so she passed it on. in smiles. in greetings. in words. & in song. all of which continued to share love throughout the day. the songs, however, began single-man raves in offices and apartments near & far. & that alone she decided was more than enough giddy good for one day.

get your giddy on with the Going the Distance soundtrack (up for a limited time).

teeny tale: her story

2010-07-23T18:59:00.000-04:00

she read the works of others to find the words to write. and when she finally wrote, she wrote until night fell and morning rose. until nothing was left. leading her to another author. a list of new words. another birthed story--some premature, others induced. until one day she realized the words of her stories weren't sticking. they didn't feel at home, as they were words she had cut and pieced together. words detached from their orgins. each story: a waif. it was then she selected the belongings that were less likely to weigh her down. she moved. saw. did. and with each step she took and every corner she turned she gathered the words that made her life. she wrote them down. they were words that stuck, like a heavy meal to the ribs. she had built a home for which her words felt welcome. and those words lived together, telling a story all on their own.

the inner you.

2010-07-21T14:43:00.004-04:00

I’d like to crawl inside and feel the inner you.

I’d like to look through your eyes to see what your sight is set upon when you look forward, what gets caught in it when you look back.

I’d like to feel you ache when you’ve pushed yourself too far.

I’d like to wander in the beyond of your dark eyelids when you finally stop to rest.

I want to read your thoughts for a better translation of what pours from your mouth.

I want to taste your sour that’s my sweet and my bitter that’s your blunt.

I want to hear the words that make your ears stop to listen, finally.

No one will ever know you like the way I wish I knew you.

teeny tale: short time 'til tomorrow

2010-07-07T21:17:00.002-04:00

she knew there were 365 days in a year, & that each of those days had 24 hours—never more or less. & that sunlight or lack there of had nothing to do with it, as places in Alaska see the “midnight sun” for months. or maybe it does, but the decision to have 24 hours came before that which named the great peninsula “Alaska.” she never tried to fully understand it, figuring it all ticked down to some artificial explanation that would enrage her to know—know that if humans were born with more digits, there would have been more joints to count, which would have given her more minutes in the day. if only...

Sera Cahoone's "Only As The Day Is Long"

Say it right...

2010-06-27T02:04:00.019-04:00

Disclaimer: I'm not up for fighting with auto spacing or whatever wacked-out coding Blogger has that splits words, plays with paragraph spacing, and makes posting photos a b****, so sorry in advance for some of the broken bits.

If you're planning to ever visit Portland, OR, I have a valuable tip

for you: it'sOR-ə-gən, not OR-ə-gon. Say it wrong and you'll be quickly corrected--and it only takes one correction from a native, or one of the many transplants who've adopted it as

their own, to remember to pronounce it correctly forever.

When I say Portland you say what? Maine. Or? Oregon. Yes! Is it

a strange coincidence that these two cities share a name? Nope.Do

you dare ask which came first? Portland, ME, of course...don't

you remember anything from those lessons on Manifest Destiny?

Interestingly enough, Portland could have been named Boston. But a good toss of a coin settled that decision and Portland it

became--named after Francis Pettygrove of Portland, ME, who had

claim on the land. Read up on the history for yourself and you'll become familiar with the names of some of the streets you'll

encounter, when and i you make it to Portland: Couch (coo-ch),

Stark, Lovejoy,etc.

Getting Around

Portland is pretty easy to figure out, and pretty easy to get around--thanks to its amazing public transportation system and abundance of bike lanes, many of them generous in size. It's split up into quadrants by the Willamette River which divides the east and west, and Burnside Ave. divides north and south. Southwest is the downtown quadrant with the taller buildings of the skyline; northwest is also "downtown" but is more of the apartment buildings/lofts shops, etc. Northeast and southeast you find your neighborhoods and eclectically populated streets like Belmont and Hawthorne--my personal favorites.

A Few Recommendations

1.) Get a bike. Either rent one down by the waterfront or sign one out at the front desk if you're a guest of the Ace Hotel.

2.) Ride yourself over one of the many bridges lined with bike and walk lanes (I'd take the Hawthorne Bridge for this rec.) and make your way down Hawthorne until the bike lane ends...hang left...and take Salmon up until the 30s and then cut on over (right) to Hawthorne. What you seek: to get your fill at Bread and Ink Cafe, either at the Waffle Window for a quick bite or sitting down for a more casual pace.

3.) While on Hawthorne, leave the two wheels for your two feet and take a stroll to fully appreciate all that this strip has to offer. Pop in to some thrift shops, check out Powell's, and if you go a few more blocks down, you'll eventually hit the vintage motherload: House of Vintage. If you are anything like me, you are fascinated by the old, motivated by the hunt for that one-of-a-kind gem, and thus will find yourself wandering in and out of this store's many nooks for hours.

4.) Be adventurous: Wander off Hawthorne--with the possible motivation to grab a cup o' energy at Stumptown on Belmont--and take in the charm of the quaint neighborhoods that stem from these main streets.

5.) Drink beer. There are more breweries and brewpubs per capita here than any other city in the U.S. Now that's something to be proud of Portland. Which ones did I frequent? Rogue (was brewing a mean Shakespeare Oatmeal Stout--I'm a stout kind of girl); Deschutes (have a Sagebrush [if they have it on tap], a Black Butte Porter, an Obsidian Stout and don't look back); Bridgeport; Tugboat; and I sampled many others when given the opportunity while out and about. One favorite find was at La Merde: Session Black--A Full Sail brew out of Mt. Hood, OR. Best part, other than the taste being right up my alley: it was $2 and change. And after a great convo with the Brooklyn-native bartender, another was given on the house.

6.) Eat food. One place that was visited on more than one occasion was Jam, another Hawthorne treat. The vegan options and the inventive cocktails are a match made in heaven. It's a must. As for a great dinner joint, on the other side of the river (that being west), Adina. It's Peruvian, and it's phenomenal. They're creative with their dishes, but not over the top. All I have to say is order their Choros a la Chalaca (the mussels), you'll be pleasantly surprised. Lastly, if you want a little Swedish in you, check out Broder--another East-side find. OH, and I almost forgot, the place that was suggested when asking others what not to miss in Portland: Voodoo Doughnut. After two attempts met with lines out the door, I convinced myself that I couldn't be missing out on too much, it's a freaking doughnut for gosh sakes. The lines? Those were just full of people who were feeding the hype that had been passed on to them, just as it had to me. I wasn't falling for it. Then again...I did. Come the morning of my departure, I sheepishly asked the taxi driver if it would be possible to swing by Voodoo for one last attempt. Even he was skeptical...which made him agasp as we turned to corner to see NO LINE and exclaiming that he hadn't ever seen Voodoo without a line in 10 years. (Note: It was Sunday around 7:30 a.m. set your alarms.) I left with a yellow snow doughnut, he left with a box full.

(I know what you're thinking. And I don't care, it was gooooood.)

7.) Take time to smell the flowers. Yes, at the rose garden. Portland's other moniker is "The City of Roses." Better yet, mozie through the Japanese Gardens. Take advantage of the public transit and hit the blue or red line to the Washington Park stop, then enjoy a little hike on the Wild Wood Trail to the gardens.

8.) Catch a show. It's Portland for goodness sake, which means there's no shortage of great music. Sign yourself up for alerts from TicketsWest or do the research on the various venues like Crystal Ballroom, Roseland Theater and Doug Fir and stalk their listings for that perfectly timed, must-see show. I caught some music, but unfortunately it wasn't the kind of I've-been-dying-to-see-them kind of music experience I was hoping would align. Nonetheless, Doug Fir was the venue of my chosen Portland concert, and if not for anything else, the beer selection was great and the space was awesome. (Back history: Portland has a lumber history, hence Stumptown Coffee, the Doug Fir, etc.) I'd highly recommend checking the Fir out, even if you don't hit a show.

9.) Hit up some or at least one of the natural wonders of Oregon, be it Multnomah Falls or Haystack Rock on the coast in Cannon Beach. The former was chosen on the last round in Portland, so this time around, to the coast! It's a beautiful sight, and for this East Coast girl, enjoyed the opportunity to stare into the white crests of the Pacific. As for Cannon Beach, it's quaint but definitely couldn't hold my attention for more than a day or two; therefore, I suggest making it a day trip.

10.) Go. See. Do. Repeat. There's a lot to see. A lot to do. And a ton more to explore. Know you will not see everything and be okay with that. After two trips there, I'm still left with plenty to do upon Round #3 to the Northwest. For some great deals and tips, visit Travel Portland.

Cheers and safe travels.

Have you been? If so, what else would you suggest to others?

UPDATE: One very BIG point I did not make involves timing. Time your night out right, otherwise you may be caught off guard as I was. While sampling the night away at Deschutes, a ring of a bell and a quick yell of Gibberish hit the air and hit me cold. To which I, with slight sarcasm, ask the bartender "Did you really just say last call?" That he did. I went on to explain my disbelief is a result of living in a city where places don't close down until at least 1 or 2 a.m.--even our coffee shops. (Hit the bars and you're good 'til 4 a.m.) At that point the chick bartender replies "Well, I couldn't be here until 4 a.m., I wouldn't make it." Portland: You're weak.
Anyway, I suppose it's great for the staff, but unfortunate for select transplants, and visiting night owls like myself. My advice: divide up those breweries and conquer...early.
(Special note: Le Bistro Montage has some late/early hours for fellow night owls.)

renewed perspective.

2010-06-06T21:20:00.005-04:00

can you have a renewed perspective on a person, place or thing that, until now, has only bottled up a feeling from a day long ago? just like the captivating power of our sense of smell to whisk us back to what may have been one pure second of our lives, so many other triggers present themselves before us. each tantalizing our inner strength, our ability to let go of the past and renew them for the future. in the end you may find some, in particular, have the means to break you down, slowly, only to reveal they have a stronger hold on the you you were then--holding you back from the present-day you you could be today.

i have a lot of "bottles" that seem to clink around in the back waiting to be recycled. it's time to cash 'em in and turn them into something new. something concrete. something that lives in the now. not all memories are worthy of a life-long journey: they can carry us so far until the time comes when we must dispel them to make room for the new ones which shall unpack in their place.

test the person you are today. return to a memory you've carried close like a child clung to a mother's hip, or a scarf wrapped haphazardly up and around one's neck--what security has it brought you? how does it have the power to make you pause in a "world that spins madly on"? and is recalling and reliving it worth the price of missing an opportunity to fill the present seconds with what's more? some aren't. like everything else, not all memories are created equally. choose yours wisely: carry those which continue to help you define the person you are today and the person you'll be tomorrow, and release those that hold you back from becoming more than that.

a valuable lesson i once learned: in life, if you're not growing, you're shrinking; it would be a shame if you alone were the reason you've been stunted.

i'll be getting my chance to grow in a week. and i welcome it with open arms--i.e., open arms clutching an empty recycling bin, as i don't intend to throw away my memories, just renew them.

reduce, reuse, renew.

personal tagline.

2010-06-02T13:13:00.001-04:00

An AAF (American Advertising Federation) SmartBrief e-mail reached my inbox today and its subject line made it worthy of a click: "25 greatest ad taglines." After right-arrowing my way through the likes of "Just Do It," (Nike) "Time to Make the Donuts," (Dunkin Donuts) and "Think different" (Apple), I began to think about the concept of personal taglines. And when I say personal, I mean for you. For me.

Maybe you'd argue that taglines aren't meant for people. Maybe it's because people shouldn't be sold. They are. Maybe it's because people are far more complex than a single business. Some aren't. I challenge your defiance.

I've never thought about what my own tagline would be; I've never tried to brand myself -- with words or a tattoo. I have, however, entertained the idea of stringing together an autobiography, one composed much like Hemingway's six-word story: For sale: baby shoes, never worn. Where did I end up?: After seven-grain bread, still left empty. Yes, that's the story of my life. I'm literally always hungry, but the seven-grain bread is just an analogy. It's the idea that even with all that I've consumed (again, not in the food sense), even with a keen awareness of the most dense aspects of my life, I'm still left wanting more. And the search for something to fill my "appetite" continues on. I don't see this ever changing; therefore, this six-word story fits the bill. But as a tagline? No.

Taglines. They can make or break you. Done right, they can be the cheapest form of advertising, and the best. Think about it. The taglines I mentioned earlier, did you need me to spoon feed which companies they belonged to? Probably not. Taglines can promise (and sell) you something before you know the "how" or "why?" They can offer you the benefits of using a company or product (tip: odd numbers work best, particularly three) -- or grab you by noting the risks if you don't. And some link a product with an abstract need, company address or logo.

Create your tagline. Make it clear. Don't try to get too clever. Reveal your personality, appropriately. Provide the answer to "why?" Sell it (you). Be it.

My personal tagline:
Because words deserve a creative future.

And a motto that came out of this self-inflicted exercise:
Punctuating words in an unpunctuated life.

What about you? Got Tagline?

what does your back end say about you?

2010-05-07T18:02:00.010-04:00

When I was 16, my commute to high school was no more than five minutes. I noticed things like “Mean People Suck” bumper stickers and rows of Grateful Dead Bears dancing along rear windows. In college, from home to school was a four and a half hour drive. I primarily looked for college stickers, wondering where fellow born-in-the-80s college students were attending. Are they on their way home? Home for the holidays? Or heading back to school? My commute to my first job: my two feet. I recognized new pieces of garbage along the curb, who shovels their walkways and who doesn’t, and when flowers were beginning to spring from the ground. Now, my commute puts me in the car 20 minutes in the a.m. and 20 or more minutes in the p.m. That’s 40 plus minutes of music, NPR news...and staring at the backsides of cars. What I’ve realized – other than I should invest in an iPod adapter for my radio versus having CDs knocking around ever nook of my car – is that you can tell a decent amount about someone from checking out their rear (pun intended).

It’s not the make of a car, the year, the shiny paint job or the rust forming around the wheel wells, but what people physical choose to display. For example, a vanity plate can tip you off to a person's name, nickname, favorite sports team, lifelong hobby, profession or ill attempt at humor. And how about those white stick-figure decals? The other day I saw one of a woman and two dogs, not much ambiguity there: she’s single and lives with her dogs – that’s one way to get the word out that you’re available. Then there’s the car with the “Mom,” “Dad,” and three “kids” with each child’s top sport represented with the appropriate icon next to them: a soccer ball, baseball or football, etc. And yes, pets included. (It was a large vehicle; I could get why.)

Moving on to bumper stickers – they’re out of control. You can find a sticky statement for just about everything: religious positions, political stances, movie quotes, bands, and the list goes on. What else? How about the dangly items straying from rearview mirrors: a garter (she’s either married or still hoarding possessions from high school); popsicle-stick crosses and hand-strung florescent colored beads (he has children); a Yankee Candle Jar air freshener (she likes things to smell pretty); ear pieces (they value safety); parking tags (he’s a student, then again, he could be a professor, hmm). Just the other day I saw a guy driving a car, no stickers or decals graced his vehicle, but what I did see was a mini boxing glove hanging from his rearview mirror and a silver-plated frame of palm trees surrounding his license plate. My immediate thought: he enjoys boxing and visiting the tanning booth – even in the summer.

In the narcissistic society we’ve evolved to, it’s hard to think that someone would decorate their mode of transportation without any thought as to what it would tell the world about them. That thought alone, paired with what I’ve seen on my daily commute is frightening. But as my Dad says: “To each there own and provolone.” (A statement created clearly for the rhyme rather than reason.) As for me, I like to take the "less is more" stance. The only thing my car "says" about me: ADK.

ro ro ro-bo-bots need love too.

2010-05-06T22:50:00.001-04:00

and more here.

a well kept secret.

2010-04-27T23:09:00.005-04:00

Horse Feathers.

I can count on one hand the shows I've seen that have truly touched my inner being. That have made me shutter. That have brought an actual tear to my eye. Tonight, upon my ring finger, Horse Feathers was added to that only-by-invitation, VIP list. What's more, I was one of only a small gathering of no more than 50 souls--if that. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely prefer to have that intimate of a show. It's just that I can't get over how well kept of a secret they are; if you thought iron-on hem tape was something, that using hair lotion to tame your wild tresses would change your world, or that using a coffee filter to sift out broken cork from that not-so-cleanly-popped bottle of vino was the idea that would crack the earth you stand upon, you were sadly mistaken.

Maybe I'm a bit musically infatuated. But if part of you can't be touched by music in a way that leaves you practically without words, well, I am sorry for you. Luckily for me, I can. And I was. Tonight. By a band called Horse Feathers. They are precise. They take their music seriously. Personally. What they do is bestow a gift upon others. A true beaut of a gift, found in the collaboration of these four lovely souls. I thank them. For their visit to Buffalo. For their supremely, awe-inspiring lyrics and music. For sharing the sound they make with me. With you. With us.

And a special thanks to the person, website or conversation that introduced me to this band, as they/it shared a well kept secret with me. Sometimes secrets are meant to be shared...

Listen to Horse Feathers' cover of Gillian Welch's Orphan Girl (thanks to www.soundonthesound.com).

Check out Horse Feathers' MySpace page.

indoor outdoors.

2010-04-10T20:22:00.000-04:00

photo course: monochrome, finding "another lens"

2010-04-03T14:42:00.000-04:00

photog course: blur

2010-03-29T21:12:00.000-04:00

teeny tale: north, south, east and west

2010-03-26T16:19:00.007-04:00

she walked outside, noticing it was the time of year for new beginnings; color was returning to the ground. damp leaves, left covered by winter’s snowfall, crisped in the spring sunshine & took to life—snapping this way, then that way, lead by quick bouts of confident breeze. if the leaves could change direction so easily, why couldn’t she? but it was easy to realize why: with no mind of their own to second guess, and no sense of reason to weigh out the pros & cons, they just go where the wind directs them. i suppose i’ll have to lose my mind before i can go wherever the wind may take me, she thought. & then she noticed a leaf that had been blown upon a near by pond. it rode along, smoothly, but still in a direction not of its own. she decided then, that she liked having her mind, & even more so, she liked that it could take her in any direction that she chose.

playmobil.

2010-03-19T08:57:00.000-04:00

spotted beauty.

2010-03-13T16:12:00.001-05:00

take with water.

2010-03-13T16:07:00.001-05:00

I'm sure you could take these down with sun as well; however, it's raining here and these tunes seem to be a favorable complement to the damp exterior. Enjoy.

teeny tale: buttercream

2010-03-09T17:16:00.003-05:00

she dressed in only shades close to that of buttercream, because she wanted others to think she was sweet & her accessories to display like thoughtfully placed sprinkles. it worked for a while, until she realized that the sweet stuff is what people test their appetites on first & when it's all gone the part that's beneath has to hold its own: it has to be just as appetizing as its sugary coating. a cupcake without its frosting is just naked cake & that doesn't do much for most. & so she decided she must be more than just some spongy avenue for others to take frosting from.

winter jacks.

2010-03-07T20:23:00.000-05:00

see you next time?

2010-03-05T19:54:00.008-05:00

First it was Fleet Foxes, now it's Joe Pug. Another workweek down, another missed opportunity had. It doesn't happen often, but every now and then being the copywriter at my job requires that I stick around when large proposals come swinging through the door last minute. I accept the responsibility and welcome the opportunity to show my worth. Even the 8 a.m. to 1 a.m. workday I can handle. There's usually giddy laughter, Chinese food and coffee runs--all of the above I can do. At the same time, these proposals no doubt, tend to come around when a band I'm interested to see perform comes around, too.

This week: Justin Towns Earle with Joe Pug. The former I'm not so crazy about, but the latter has been on my queue. Missing the chance to see him live, means missing the chance to really get to know him. There's nothing like filtering into a dark bar, a glass of whatever's on tap in your glass, and a cozy footing next to that guy you don't know and some chic he knows; you never get to know names, just recognize faces. And then the band takes the stage--it's no larger than the full-size bed you'll crash in later that night. The music starts, feet start tapping, hips start swaying. Those who know the words, sing; those who know some, mumble; while the one's with virgin ears stare--dry-eyed and buzzed they've reached a slice of personal euphoria. All of them, the dedicated follower, the almost fan and the new kid on the block, they've all gotten to know him, her, them, whomever is performing: they now know something the rest of us don't.

That's what I missed. But I've got others coming to town that will get me there in due time. For now, a glass of wine and computer-caged tunes will get me close, but hardly touching what could have been.

teeny tale: flannel friend

2010-03-05T15:02:00.001-05:00

she looked to see a slightly weathered face, sprinkled with stubble, sitting to her left. & then noticed he, too, decided upon awakening this morning that it would be a checkered flannel that would cover his back for the day. The only difference was that his was black and red, while hers was gray and red—boyfriend cut.

“My mind is filled with silvery stars. Honey kisses, clouds of fluff…”

& she began to wonder what tunes, if any, were bouncing off those six windows & plastic frame, to be absorbed by the tattered upholstery he sat on, the ball cap set high atop his crown & layers stacked under those black & red checkers. maybe beyond that dented panel he, too, was wearing red chuck tailors. although she thought not likely. & it was then that she wondered whether the two, sitting contained in their individual metal confines—with clearly more than two doors & air separating them—had anything in common other than what they each pulled from a hanger or off the floor this morning. she was sure he carried more inside that car than just a heavy head, but the details she would never know. just as he would never know about the sleeping bag in her back seat, the owl necklace hung around her neck or the story behind the circles that hung beneath her eyes. but they had more than one thing in common on that day, at that very moment, which is more than some have…ever. & as she turned right & he rolled forward, she realized she did learn one thing about him: he was a man that dressed for comfort & who confirmed that checkered flannel will never go out of style.

sweet disposition.

2010-03-04T20:36:00.000-05:00

here's to moments. moments of all kind. those had. those to be had. those longed for. those we wish we could forget. and for the simple ones. like when you think it's friday when it's really thursday.

The Temper Trap - Sweet Disposition (Music Video) from Moop Jaw on Vimeo.

cheers.
j

60 cents a piece.

2010-02-24T22:06:00.003-05:00

teeny tale: it's shades of gray

2010-02-22T15:52:00.009-05:00

she decorated her house in only black & white because it was easier to view her world that way. but as she began to understand life & all its complexities she decided to choose one room at a time to paint a shade of gray. because she realized her black & white world was far too simple of an answer for such a complex question.

Addition: For me, one of the two things I value most in life is first, good friendship, and second, the ability to be inspired and to inspire others (does that count as three?). I'm lucky enough to have found that in a friendship that has stood the test of time (since grade 2). This relationship continues to blossom over the years, one that sits snuggly in a corner of my heart, but that is never, ever forgotten.

Most recently, this friend, Wendy, started a blog of her own: GiveLoveCreateHappiness. From healthy recipes, to sweet stories of "little sister" and "big brother," and reminders and tips on how to enjoy the little things in life, I've found reading her blog to put my mind at ease and help me appreciate all that life has to offer. She's been an avid follower of my own blog and a big advocate of my "teeny tales," which continues to thrill me. It's because of her kind words and support that I find myself continuing to post the few things that I do, so thanks Wend ;)

It was after an East to West Coast phone call, in which we found ourselves talking about paint colors, that I wrote this teeny tale. I told Wendy that it was our talk that inspired putting these words together. So, being one of creative thought herself, and building off of our many talks over the years of how great it would be to work together, Wendy proposed we do just that. Every now and then, when and if the moment strikes us, we'll pull from each other's passion for life, love, happiness, and creative--and some times running--thoughts and punctuate something...together. As such, this joint collaboration may have no set name, no set schedule, no set rules, but rather be a spontaneous creation, brought on by friendship and inspiration.

View a sample of this "spontaneity" with it's shades of gray: Part 2.

test shots.

2010-02-20T17:01:00.000-05:00

sigh no more

2010-02-19T16:02:00.002-05:00

This album by Mumford and Sons is rocking my Friday afternoon, maybe it will do the same to yours, too. I'm on spin #2, and it's sticking like that pink stuff in the plastic egg.

Catch it on Spinner.com for free before another new release bumps its spot.

Cheers!

Mumford & Sons

Image found here.

teeny tale: keep what you need, shake what you don't

2010-02-19T09:53:00.002-05:00

she stepped into her cranky pants this morning; it had been a while since she last wore them. & as she stood in front of the mirror she could see why: it wasn't a flattering look for her. but they were the only pants she could find & since she wasn't comfortable with the idea of facing the world naked, she shook off the cranky & kept the pants & figured that was a good enough compromise.

no album. no what?

2010-02-18T23:01:00.001-05:00

I can share because I already have my tickets: Sleigh Bells. Buffalo. April 9. Mohawk Place.

I have a feeling this is going to be another Tilly in the Wall kind of experience, and I'm thrilled.

The issue: I'm diggin' their music, but can't have it for my very own. Why? They have no full-length record on the market yet. Not nice.

Ring Ring

Infinity Guitars (Click for the YouTube Vid)

teeny tale: conversation hearts.

2010-02-12T17:51:00.004-05:00

Photo by Lauren Dukoff

& if I don’t get you a card? he asked. i’d thank you for not wasting the paper or someone else’s words on me. & if i don’t buy you flowers? i’d thank you for saving me the future sadness i'd have watching the beauty of their blooms wither. & if we don’t go to dinner? i’ve already planned to not be hungry that day, so no problem, she said. i’ve always figured it was a day to let the shy, the non-feelings-sharing types off the hook. they get off easy: with so many others wearing their hearts on their sleeves that day, no attention can be drawn to theirs. i'm not sure if it's silly or smart but it must be uncomfortable bottling up what you want to say and waiting for that one day to pop. how can you make feelings a secret? she asked. & it’s a horrible secret to keep: your feelings. especially when it’s the kind of thing that would do more good than harm to share. do you think i keep the way i feel about you a secret? he asked. you do seem a little bottled up at times. but i'm impatient, so i've begun to build my own conclusions. well, have you figured out that I like it when i bump you? you know an accident’s a truth gate. that’s one thing i actually have figured out, she said. and i can tell there's a feelin' in your bottle. & there is, he said. you've found my bottle, you've found my heart. so here's what's in my bottled little part: when you’re beside me i want to wrap you up in parenthesis, and bracket your heart inside. & when i see you i pause like a comma and my mind trails off with ellipses...yeah. when i’m alone, thinking of you makes me scream into the nothingness with exclamation points. no question mark hangs to the right of my heart. i’m as flustered as a run-on sentence: my hands they shake, my head it spins. and before you say anything, because to top it off, hearing your voice jolts me like a comma splice—he took her hand in his and squeezed it three times—period, he said. and all she could think is that his feelings were punctuated better than any card or conversation heart she could have ever received.

teeny tale: twinkle, twinkle

2010-01-06T17:21:00.001-05:00

i had a dream you were a star, he said. i can’t stop thinking about how bright you were: brighter than any star my eye could spy. no you didn’t, really? she asked. who was i? a singer? an actress? tell me, tell me. no silly, not that kind of star, the kind in the sky, he said. well, that’s a little odd isn’t it, you, dreaming of me, as a giant exploding ball of plasma? lovely. where’s your imagination? he asked. did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you, as a star, could represent a form of connectedness between the many miles that separate us? you know, kind of like the idea that we can both look at the same moon while standing in different places. well yes, & i do just love that thought, she said. well, if you were a star, i could see you every night. & if you were a falling star, you could fall down right beside me. & if we were both stars she said, we could shoot across the sky & meet each other, too. hmm, now i see. & to think i’ve always been wishing on a star when in fact i should be wishing to be one. & before he hung up, he said, but you already are a star, my star, & you always have been. how else do you think I found you?

some songs i didn't know i couldn't live without...until this weekend.

2010-01-04T21:15:00.006-05:00

I hadn't been to Record Theatre since college. Sadly, it's one of the only authentic music stores left in my neck of the woods; New World Record shutdown last year. The place has been going since 1976; it's outdated signage hints at it's early inception. But the thing that I'm kicking myself in the ba-hind about is this: Record Theatre is pretty much a straight shot down the road from where I've been living for the past five years. (Seriously, is this what the Internet has done to me? Yikes.) In my defense, I completely forgot about its existence and truly assumed that it was no longer in business, as it was in pretty rough shape when I took my first visit over 10 years ago. But this short sad story has a happy ending: we finally reconnected this weekend.

Walking through the doors of the worn yellow-sided building I instantly recalled fond memories of my trip to Amoeba Records in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco. There were handwritten signs, staff picks, used and new CDs and vinyls, and a flea-marketesque stash of random books, prints and plastic figurines. After a good hour wondering the same aisles over and over and over again, I finally settled on my purchases: Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" CD (I know, I'm late to the game), The Cars' "O-Candy" (vinyl), and "Everything All The Time" by Band of Horses (vinyl). First up was the Cars' album. I listened to both sides and, despite the fact that my record player is running a hair too fast (she's going in sometime this week for a tune up), I can't even offer a cherry picking of songs: You have to listen to the whole album--it's too good to play favorites. I'm sure after I get a few more rounds in I'll have my favorites, but for now, I suggest--if you haven't--give it a full listen. On top of it all, the "O-Candy" album cover is arguably one of the best album covers of all times, note the image below, and while you're at it, take a listen.

Then Wilco. They're a band I've been meaning to take some time with. I suppose one could say they're a New Year's resolution. And I'm quite happy with the way they've started my 2010. In the Rolling Stones review of the "50 Best Albums of the Decade" their Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album was No. 3. And I can see why. It's my new driving-in-the-car album, and my oh my how fancy I feel with this CD. I. Bought. In. A. Record store. WHAT?! Not that I don't buy my albums, but I've been doing so online and it feels really strange--a good strange--to have a disc that I didn't burn. One that is actually labeled. One that has a case. And one that notes all the songs and even includes lyrics. I like this buying-CDs-in-a-music-store concept. It's been a long time...

(500) Days of Summer

2009-12-29T20:35:00.001-05:00

Rent it. Watch it. Listen to it. (Then don't forget to return it. Blockbuster changed their grace period for a late return. Bitches.)

A sampling of the soundtrack. I'm diggin it. Cheers!

You HAVE to love this next song. And check out those sweet pics of Hall & Oates.

I've always loved this song...

teeny tale: i see me

2009-12-29T11:33:00.005-05:00

why are you putting up pieces of paper over your mirror? she asked. because i want to see myself better, she said. well that seems a little ironic, doesn’t it? & over the next few days she rediscovered her love for words. & a piece of paper came down. she wrote “words” on it. in the weeks that followed she found making flowers from fabric scraps brought together scattered pieces inside of her. two pieces of paper came down for that. “creating.” “giving.” then there was the joy she felt from the simple things, like a warm pair of socks, a cup of hot cocoa, seeing snow fall, a hug. each piece that came down, was given a word, signifying its worth. & as the pieces were taken down, one-by-one, she saw a little more of herself. months went by and the friend didn’t understand why there were still strips of paper on the mirror. i still don’t get what you’re doing with this, she said. & i don’t expect you to. besides it doesn’t have to do with you, it’s about me. well, it’s about me when i come over and can’t see myself in your mirror, she said. let’s just say that that mirror in particular isn’t for you to see yourself in, it’s there to help me see myself in. i want to make sure that i know the person staring back at me in the morning; i want the parts i can’t see to match the parts i can. & eventually, when the final piece came down she wrote the word “me” on it because it was the piece she had been trying to find all along. & she put all of her pieces in a box so that if she ever lost herself again, she could easily recall the parts that had helped lead her back before.

Back to the Basics

2009-12-21T22:16:00.007-05:00

The smell of peppermint hanging in the air, small talk with Mom, splattered cookie batter and the jingle jangle of Old Saint Nick humming in the background -- these are "the basics," and they are the things we need to get back to during this holiday season.

This past month has been spent discussing gifts for A, B and C: "What are you getting her?" "How much did you spend on him?" The ordering online, receiving of packages in the mail, the lists made to check, the quick bursts of shopping errands, and the random phone calls to talk over gift ideas -- reconfirming or dispelling what one thinks is that perfect item for that certain someone -- are the things that have come to consume these dark days of December. I, however, was lucky enough to evade all of that for a few short days, and right before the heat of the holiday week, with an event that brought it "back to the basics."

A wedding. An exchange of vows -- both traditional and original. Dim lighting. A close-knit group of friends, family, strangers. Tears. Smiles. Laughter. Excitement. Honor. Promise. The marriage took place in Grand Pacific Junction, Olmstead Falls, Ohio. It's a historic town with commercial storefronts dating back to the '20s; the place, David Stearns, the second settler in 1816, described as having "four general stores, two drug stores, one tailor shop, one broom factory, one felloe (wagon wheel) shop, and one lumber yard." And I don't believe too much has changed. The beautiful history of the area, along with the decor of lights for the holiday season, and the group of people gathered for this special occasion made for a night that one can easily imagine Norman Rockwell would have loved to get his hands--or brushes--on.

A candle-lit service ending with the chiming of bells, settles in quiet rejoices. Coats make their way to bare arms and ladies clasp the crooks of gentlemen's arms. A small, huddled mass of cheery guests, and bride and groom--tulle in tow--lead each other in heels and dress shoes through a dusting of snow, down the sidewalk, over the train tracks into the warmth of a cozy restaurant, whose "Comfort food with a twist" description suites it handsomely. Good conversation, great food, wonderful drink, congenial company, loving words and the purest of gestures round the day and evening out. Departing with the exchange of loving wishes and tender hugs, I realize, I have been brought back to "the basics."

I'm returning "home" shortly for the holidays; however, I have yet to wrap a single gift. Instead, I've been making some gifts, with the help of some fabric and buttons, needle, thread and my own two hands. I'll eventual wrap the gifts I bought, but it's the gifts I'm choosing to make that I'm most eager to give. They won't be wrapped. Instead they will adorn the glossy packages -- the ones wrapped to conceal their identity and evoke surprise. Call them decoration, call them a token of my appreciation to the recipient, or see them as a reminder of the simple acts that aren't always so simple as they appear. An act from the heart involves giving some part of yourself to another, which isn't always the easiest thing to initiate or even follow through with, but they are the ones that feel the best to give, and receive. They're the ones that mean the most and the ones that hold us together, as individuals, and together, as friends and family, which are the greatest gifts we have to share this holiday season.

Not Your Everyday Christmas Carol

2009-12-21T17:05:00.000-05:00

A few unconventional Christmas tunes to move your holiday days along...and hopefully in the right direction. ;)

These songs and more can be found on NPR's Holiday Music Mix '09.

And a holiday bonus:

so fresh and so clean, clean.

2009-12-16T23:05:00.004-05:00

teeny tale: press play

2009-12-01T18:02:00.003-05:00

oh, there it is, she said. there's what? i knew i had left it behind this morning, and right next to the coffee maker of course. but i don't see anything beside the coffee maker, what did you forget? he asked. it's not that i forgot anything, it's just that the thing beside the coffee maker, was left, flipped from "on" to "warm," when i walked outside this morning. i'm not following, he said. i'll give you a hint she said, it's the thing that i look forward to picking back up the most when i get home. your coffee mug? he asked. hmm, well, although that's a good guess, that's not it, she said. then what is it? you really want to know? she asked. he nodded. and she said, it is the life i live beside you. that's what's left beside the coffee maker in the morning, and that's what i look forward to picking back up the most when i return. and you are the thing that i adore most, he said. and it was then that he made a mental note to never get rid of their coffee maker...

who said you shouldn't play with your food?

2009-11-26T15:55:00.000-05:00

I found it necessary to document the fantastic food fro my strawberries were rockin'.

(A fro could not be fully appreciated unless my strawberries had faces...so....)

'cause music is all i got.

2009-11-24T19:25:00.000-05:00

work, sleep, work, play, work. it's been busy. i pick my book up on a good, silent night...only for a few chapters. but music. music is what i've got every day. it happens no matter how busy i am. it provides the respites i look forward to during this insane time of the year. there will be fun ahead, time to play, but for now, it's just been my eyes, my pen, my computer, and my music. (hence the multiple posts on music and nothing else.)

some tunes for your turkey holiday travels. cheers!

Sunday Morning, Wednesday Night - Spoon

coffee complements.

2009-11-21T12:32:00.001-05:00

#64.1 - Beirut - Nantes - Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

Kings of Convenience - I’d rather dance with you
Uploaded by NextBuzz. - Explore more music videos.

wild one.

2009-11-19T18:36:00.007-05:00

These shots were taken while traveling in London. As you can see, this theater wasn't showing the 1961-Audrey-Hepburn version.

This past week, as mentioned in my previous post, I've been hit with one of the many "bugs" going around during this pre-holiday season. It's been tolerable, but annoying: I hate being sick, yet at the same time welcome being forced to rest, as I'm always on the go. With that said, I did some movie watching--this part of being sick I like. It gets better. Not too long ago it was discovered that, although the cable I have is the king of basic, an HD box gets you access to "On Demand" stations. What does this mean? Umm, it pretty much means I don't need to leave my abode to rent movies, I can just surf through a bunch of "Movies On Demand" channels and find something that fits my fancy. Brilliant! I went for the classics and Breakfast at Tiffany's is the little 115 minute gem I found. The past year or two I've been revisiting the classics, book and movies alike. So this was a fitting choice.

Depending on what era you found yourself in those oh-so-terrific high school drama days, you may very well be tempted to begin singing "And I said what about 'Breakfast at Tiffany's?' She said 'I think I remember the film, and as I recall, I think, we both kinda liked it. And I said 'Well, that's the one thing we've got." Don't be too ashamed if you do, but call yourself lucky if you don't. Regardless of the one-hit-wonder tune you may have playing inside your head, don't mix it with the splendor of this movie. It was pleasantly not so sweet and fluffy as I had thought it would be. To put it bluntly, Audrey "Holly Golightly," being one of her many names, is a sweet bitch. Yes. That's what I said, a "sweet bitch." There are moments when Hepburn's character does an engaging and amiable act, one that almost seems above her, only to then quickly tarnish said shining act while showcasing another side of herself, one that seems more fitting to the character that is her character: it's an incredibly unattractive side, despite her wide eyes, pink lips and petiteness. Of course after just saying that, I'll add that I found her character relatable. "Holly," has become something, someone who she thinks she knows, the person she thinks she wants to be, but with a little help from a friend, finally understands the person she really is: I'm a firm believer in that the people you surround yourself with, help create the person you become and bring the parts of you that are truly you to the surface.
If you haven't seen it, make a point to. And don't wait for a sicky day; however, a rainy day would work nicely ;)

I found the following song on...errrr...stereogum...maybe? I was looking at NYMag's 40 Songs That Define The Brooklyn Sound yesterday, so I can only assume that I found this song, most likely, by looking up one of the songs listed in this article. Regardless, it's a fun list, one worth taking a gander at. And this song would be the song I'd pair up today with the Breakfast at Tiffany's of yesterday.
Update: The song was from here: Indie Rocks! A Benefit Album For Malaria No More.

Warning: After watching the movie, you may be inclined to add "baby" after everyone's name.

tylenol mixed with a mix.

2009-11-17T19:28:00.001-05:00

regardless of my not-so-well state, i ventured out to see metric begin their U.S. tour right here in my fine city, the city of b-lo. a london-based band, the band of skulls, began the night with some old school rock sounds. a classic trio: a bassist (who's a chic, which i love), a guitarist, and a drummer. as we entered the town ballroom i could hear "i know what i am," a song that i feel is completely jam worthy, barreling down the corridor.

Band of Skulls - I Know What I Am

Band of Skulls | MySpace Video≈

then emily haines and her boys took to the stage and rocked out some of my fav metric tunes...

METRIC: Poster Of A Girl
by early21

and just a favorite...

what i learned at the show: tylenol with a rum and diet gives a surprising buzz (this combo was not created for said effect, it's just the facts), the band of skulls' guitarist has want-to-be-kurt-cobain hair, and emily haines is crazy and is down with flaunting back cleavage--probably because she has none to offer in the front (again, just the facts folks, besides who doesn't know these things about her?).

from one good time to another...cheers!

teeny tale: excuse me excuses

2009-11-14T12:08:00.002-05:00

excuse me she said. oh, sorry, i didn't realize i was in your way. um. yes, you are. but you could easily just walk around me, he said. or are you just making me an excuse for why you can't move forward. well i'd have to squeeze my way around you, it's not that easy, she said. and i can't get over you. and asking to go under you is just silly. so i'm asking to move past you, and as nicely as i can. why are you making this difficult? well if you move past me that means you'll be behind me, too. and?, she asked. well, i'm hesitating because i didn't know i'd have to make that decision today, and so quickly, he said. please? she asked. and as he took a step back and to the side she looked down. she had won, but it didn't feel the way she had expected: it felt funny stepping forward. he looked just as nice from behind as he had from the front. now back to back, they headed in opposite directions. with no more excuses left in the way.

music coma...

2009-11-12T19:36:00.001-05:00

i'm hearing songs. they sound familiar. i ask myself where did you hear this before? i come up with no answer. was it spinner, vimeo, npr, pitchfork? blllaaaaaah. does it really matter? no.

Pearl and the Beard

Listen to "Oh Death."
(I really don't remember if it's the stereotype of British speaking folks or whether they really did use the word "bloody" while I was in London that makes me what to add a "bloody" in between "Oh" and "Death.")

Apparently these subway riders aren't amused by the live entertainment. For the record, I would have been...and I would have clapped at the end, too.

Listen to "Mostly A Friend" by Lesser Gonzalez Alvarez

orphaned thoughts...finally punctuated.

2009-11-11T13:53:00.009-05:00

On November 23, 2008 I wrote my first blog post here.

An excerpt from that post:

Thoughts Punctuated will be my digital version of the little floral notepad with elastic closure I stow away in my shoulder bag until something unexpected and new brings me to pull it out and jot or draw something down. A documentation of a memory I hope to never forget. A new word that hasn't yet made it to my internal vocab. list. Or words to a song, that song, the song that keeps flashing itself at me without revealing who and what it really is. But with the lyrics scribbled haphazardly upon those little nude pages, I know a Google search of the lyrics will connect us...finally.

It’s neat to go back and read about what thoughts I had on this whole “blogging concept” and review what in fact has filled these electronic pages. And I’m pleasantly gratified knowing the ideas I had for this little experiment have fleshed out. With that said, I turn back to that floral notepad, still floating among the chaos that exists within my handbag. It’s soiled with coffee stains, worn on the edges and now contains some loose pieces of paper within it’s pages: folded yellow lined paper with a grocery list written on one side (Gum, Rice Cakes, Toothpaste, Mouthwash, Puffins, High Tech Floss, Kashi Trail Mix bars—had I recently gone to the dentist?) and “The National” (band name) written on the other side; ticket stubs (from the Zoo, City and Colour concert at Chop Suey, and a play at Shakespeare’s Globe); a business card for Hotel Chelsea in NYC; and a smaller, folded, lined white paper scrap with NYC restaurants and directions on it. What I’m realizing is that I’ve written things down, things to remember, things to look up and explore; however, I haven’t revisited the pages since said scribbles were created. If they go unread, what’s the point? This post's purpose is to make that point for these orphan thoughts. Maybe I’ll adopt them, maybe you will, either way, they’ll be given more of a life than they currently have sitting on the pages of my “Plate 5, ‘Poppy’” notepad.

Here we go…

To do: Bread and Ink — It's a café in Portland, OR that I didn’t get a chance to go to but apparently should go when I return—I’ll have that opportunity to do so this coming June!
“Funny how things sometimes take so long to click together, and how something like that sign can hang unnoticed right next to your head for so many years; yet you have to be beat across the knob with it before it starts to dawn just how much it was noticed, whether you knew it or not.” A passage from Ken Kessey’s “Sometimes a Great Notion” – A book I began but found difficult to get into. Maybe I wasn’t in the right state of mind. Maybe I should revisit those pages, too.
Point State Park – Pittsburgh 2010 bike trail: Pitt. To D. C. – WHAT? A Google search revealed this: Bicycle over the rivers and through the sites along the Heritage Trail. I remember this now and thank myself for writing it down: it's something I def. want to do. (Love when this happens.)
“Nell” Yering Station Chardonnay 2006 – Apparently I enjoyed that one.
A Post-It note with “Don DeLillo PS3554.E4425 F36” – One of the DeLillo books I’ve taken out from the library, but which one? Possibly “The Body Artist”? (I did a Google search and found that it was "Falling Man," and also that I know NOTHING about call numbers: I found multiple libraries that held the same call number for this book; I had always assumed they (the call numbers) were somehow unique to each library. Oy. It’s just something I always took for face value, never questioned why, and as a result never cared to learn more about. Now I do. And did. And so can you.
Charrette: The intense effort to complete an academic architectural problem within a specified time (or the intense effort to finish a design project). – One of the many vocab. words scrawled across the pages.
Movie: Clockwatchers (1997) – I have no idea where this rec. came from, but I have it and suppose I should find out if the rec. I was given is in fact good.
William Blake. Paradise Lost. Water Colors. John Milton. Avant-garde Poet. Blake’s concept of the marriage of heaven and hell: "Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human existence. From these contraries spring what the religious call Good & Evil. Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing from Energy. Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell." – I had visited the Tang, Skidmore College’s art gallery in March 2009, where they had the works of Blake and Milton on display. This was part of Blake’s “Proverb of Hell.” I found it insightful. I wrote it down.
Les Bookinistes, Left Bank (cauliflower soup) – A restaurant and dish recommendation from the owner of a French Restaurant in Saratoga Springs, NY to me and my partner when we mentioned our plans for traveling abroad. (We never went there. Next time.)
“Plane of three rows. Blankets. Pillows. Earphones. Flight attendants dressed in apple red complete with a cherry top hat, which sat at a playful angle. Languages of the world crossed and meshed in the semi-stale air. Cool air rushing in from above. The people are more put together: they dress well, are nicely groomed, they are handsome (men and women)…and they read.” – The quick notes I took to remember flying to London.
“Believe in Make-believe.” “Eyelash Wishes Do Come True.” “Keep Your Eyes Open. Catch the Good Parts.” “Sprinkle Your Life with Happiness.” (Include an image of ice cream with sprinkles.) “Letters Make Words. Words Create Meaning.” – Ideas for my letterpress workshop that went unused; however, I'd like to do something with them still.
The Sartorialist, Scott Schuman – A photographer who captures street fashion in New York, Paris and Milan. A friend rec. this blog.

So there you have it, a sampling of my scribbles. It was an enjoyable little exercise, one I'll have to remember to repeat at a later date. I say, if nothing else, adopt the wine orphan: it involves little thought; requires nothing that resembles commitment, as one night (one hour at that) will take care of it; and you each will gain comfort – a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest and head for you, and a new home inside your belly for it.

what do you miss most?

2009-11-08T23:07:00.000-05:00

is it the seasonal fruit, the freedom to cruise the steets on two wheels, the alfresco meals, or the trading in of bare legs for cover? the time has come again for that seasonal shift most of us endure. from summer to fall and fall to winter, there are things i miss, but at the same time, what's given up is replaced by something gained.
i welcome layers. i prefer boots. i enjoy being cozy warm on bone-chilling days. i can do without fresh strawberries. i can make picnics inside and i can cruise the streets on my own two feet--or with my two cc skis and pair of poles when called for. but the one thing, the lone pleasure that the warm weather offers, the something that i let go of hesitantly and wish to hold on to, is something so basic, so simple, but so contentful: hanging my laundry on the clothesline to dry. one rope. multiple wooden pins. i like my clothes dried with a kiss of sun. i like the smell of the outdoors mingled within their threads. i enjoy enjoying the little things.
what is it for you?

for your sunday morning.

2009-11-08T01:59:00.001-05:00

get your dance party on. get your sat. night on.

2009-11-07T18:49:00.002-05:00

give a kick.

2009-11-06T15:33:00.001-05:00

listen. release. find fun. it's friday for cryin' out loud!

post-it playlist 11/09

2009-11-05T20:50:00.001-05:00

11380

2009-11-03T09:27:00.006-05:00

"This evening, I sat by an open window and read till the light was gone 
and the book was no more than a part of the darkness.


 I could easily have switched on a lamp, 
but I wanted to ride this day down into night, 


to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page 
with the pale gray ghost of my hand."



Ted Kooser

teeny tale: contagious

2009-10-30T15:58:00.001-04:00

i think i’ve caught what you have, she said. really, i didn’t know i had something. what do i have? he asked. how am i suppose to know, you had it first. oh, he said. you mean the shakes & those stomach pains i told you about? yeah, i’m not sure what that is. the funny thing is, is that i thought i caught it from you. why is that? she asked. well, because i only started feeling this way after i met you. that’s strange. because i only starting feeling sick after meeting you, too, she said. hmm. so we’re sick from each other? i guess. well i’m okay with that, she said. as long as it’s not the flu. no. i don’t think that’s it, he said. good. whatever it is, at least we both have it, right? this way we don't have to avoid each other. no, he said. i like being beside you. good, she said. me, too. & the longer they sat side-by-side the better they began to feel.

playtime.

2009-10-29T19:34:00.000-04:00

i'm a roadie.

2009-10-28T21:29:00.004-04:00

yeah, so i've been waiting for this freaking movie, The Road...waiting...waiting for quite some time now. i get excited, only to find that the release date has yet again been pushed back. what gives? and now it's set to open on thanksgiving day? seriously? the tryptophan will have me comatose on Nov. 25. i suppose it could be a great day-after-thanksgiving activity, but with everyone off for the holiday, the theaters will be packed and i'm not a fan of packed theaters. i suppose i waited this long though, what's another few weeks after the release date? i'd prefer to have some elbow space than to be one of the first to see it; however, I may end up buckling...

watch the trailer and get hooked.*
*you should only watch the following trailer if you've already read the book. if you haven't read the book...oy. do yourself a favor and pick 'er up. k? why read the book before even watching the trailer? because the book allows you to exercise your imagination; the trailer could take that all away from you. and that would just be criminal. plus, i personally enjoy creating my own characters in my mind: mentally shaping their facial features, dressing them, creating an original voice and gait, etc. the worst thing for me is seeing a movie, then reading the book and only being able to picture the faces of the actors and actresses that played said characters. ugh. it can ruin an otherwise gratifying experience. if you choose to watch it, regardless of what i've mentioned, don't say i didn't warn you...

an absurdly beautiful tiny desk concert upon my very own tiny desk.

2009-10-27T14:43:00.003-04:00

I think this is by far the most people I've ever seen packed into the NPR Music office. It's an absurdly beautiful little show they put on. Singer Jade Castrinos just freaking made me giggle out loud, yes, at work of all places. But who cares, everyone could use a little more giggle in their day if you ask me. Take a listen. Spread the giggle. Enjoy.

Smacked in between the songs "Janglin" and "40 Day Daydream" (shouldn't there be a hyphen between "40" and "Day"?--whatever) is the ooie gooey song "Home." It's like the creamy filling found between two perfectly baked (soft, yet slightly crunchy) chocolate chip cookies: I want to eat it right up. There's no repeat button, but I'm going back in for another nibble.

Update: So I've had "Home" stuck in my head for the past day and a half, and surprisingly I haven't grown sick of it yet. Anyway, I wanted to know more about these guys and found an interesting write-up that sheds some light on the bands name. For the record, Edward Sharpe is NOT a name of a band member. Find out who's name it is here.

Side note: I find the chat about the "0" on Ebert's chest adorable.

Final addition: In the album version of "Home" the talking part at the end goes like this:

(Talking)
Him: Jade
Her: Alexander
Him: Do you remember that day you fell outta my window?
Her: I sure do, you came jumping out after me.
Him: Well, you fell on the concrete, nearly broke your ass, you were bleeding all over the place and I rushed you out to the hospital, you remember that?
Her: Yes I do.
Him: Well there's something I never told you about that night.
Her: What didn't you tell me?
Him: While you were sitting in the backseat smoking a cigarette you thought was gonna be your last, I was falling deep, deeply in love with you, and I never told you til just now.

And of course now I'm left wanting to know if this is true...but I'm not going to try to find out if it is; I'd rather just sit and listen to this set again. (I'm seriously going to kill these songs, but I don't care, because I know when I let them go later this week, I'll pick them back up in a few months and enjoy 'em all over again.)

the warmup.

2009-10-22T17:09:00.000-04:00

Declaration of Dependence

(Spinner.com has been streaming this beauty for the past week. The link I'm providing will most likely be out of commission in a few days, maybe as soon as tomorrow. Regardless, I had to share.)

Dear K of C:

Your D of D did the trick: You warmed me up. If it weren’t for you, my new name would be Mrs. Cold. I was just about to reach my breaking point; I even threatened to throw a Riot on an Empty Street the other day. And the idea was starting to sound good, being the little Renegade that I am. Right before I heard your new album I was a Second to Numb. The vulgar thoughts had begun to pile up, I was ready to fight; however, your tunes found me and asked for forgiveness. I wasn’t going to give in-- I’m more of the Peacetime Resistance type--I mean, did you really have to wait so long? It's usually easier for me to stay mad. But there’s something about the lack of percussion that really must have eased me up. Nicely done. I’ve taken on a new mantra: be your own Freedom and Its Owner. It feels good. I’m not sure what carried me to this point. I suppose the voyage isn’t as important as the fact that I’m finally here, besides My Ship Isn’t Pretty. There’s a part of me that feels the need to thank you. Your words put down a path for me to follow, like Scars on Land leading me in the right direction. Now I’m not so sure I’d go as far as to say your words Rule My World, but they do rock my world, that I’ll agree to. Will you walk ahead with me? I think we could be something great. You have to admit, you see a little of Me in You, don’t you? I’ll leave my Boat Behind and we can finish this journey out on foot. I’m not sure where I’m headed. I sort of believe in the Power of Not Knowing. Knowing too much can be dangerous. So what do you say? It’ll be fun. I promise. And I’ll even let you when in the game of your choice along the way, but maybe only by a point: 24-25. Deal? You let me know.

XO,
J