where angelenos fear to tread

The danger of an adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort. ~Paulo Coelho

a mysterious underground tunnel in the lax airport. despite the desolation and the creeping feeling that we were doing something we shouldn't, we left terminal 5 in search of coffee. we risked so many things--exposure to noxious gases, the risk of being trapped by a cantankerous steel cage, the possibility of never finding our way back.

despite our fears, we arrived safely on the other side, in terminal 6. we were rewarded for our bravery with a tall cup of joe and a bonus bag of jelly beans. we took our time getting back. mixing bitter beans with sweet, noticing another taste buzzing on our tongues; a sense of possibility. what other tunnels would there be? what tunnels had we passed out of fear? what other rewards were waiting for us on the other side of an adventure? we boarded the plane looking forward to finding out. with great risks come great discoveries and with each great discovery we draw closer to finding our truth.

joystick to the world

nothing brings you together for the holidays quite like virtual reality. I spent this christmas with my family drinking a mishmash of alcoholic beverages and staying up until the wee hours of the morning playing wii. I watched my parents play each other at tennis, the carpet their court. along with my siblings, I transformed the living room into a bowling alley and then a stage. my boyfriend played lead, while I played bass for the stones. I watched my brother and sister head out into the wild to shoot at tin cans and alien space ships--all while sitting next to the warmth of the fire place. we spent hours swinging at invisible things and jamming on fake plastic guitars until we laughed ourselves to sleep, sometimes well past 4 in the morning (the parentals included).















I am now back home with a stiff shoulder and a newfound appreciation for video games. it doesn't matter if you are wrapping gifts or singing carols, all that matters at christmas is that you are spreading joy with the ones you love. I beat that level and then some.

merry and bright

a toews family tradition continues.

merry everything!

dissecting your dinner

after a five-year stint as a vegetarian, I found myself dissecting my dinner this holiday season. atop my plate, a cute little bird was bending over in front of me. I was sad, and curious. Hungry, and a bit disgusted too. I soldiered on, determined to experience a new thing, in this case, a cornish game hen. the truth is, I preferred the potatoes and the warm buttered rolls. the stuffing stayed in its bowl as it always has when it was passed to me--soggy baked bread crumbs have never tempted my pallet. but after it was all done, the dishes washed, desert set out; I was glad to have shared in this experiment with my family. I looked around the table at all the smiling faces that resembled my own and I ate my mother's cherry and pistachio pudding pie with a very merry heart.

ho ho ho down

oh come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, to deck the halls with bows of holly, there are chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and in the lane, snow is glistening, the stars are brightly shining, it is the night of rudolph the red-nose reindeer, frosty the snowman, jolly old saint nicholas, the little lord jesus, good king wenceslas and santa baby, oh holy night walking in a winter wonderland, all I want for christmas is my two front teeth, I mean, you.

fudge and his fully functioning follicles

this is fudge.
fudge thinks he is too hairy.
fudge thinks he should get laser surgery.
fudge thinks his abundance of body hair is the reason he's single.

fudge is single for the same reason as everyone else, he hasn't met the right person yet.

I told fudge that the right woman will love fudge and all his fully functioning follicles.

I also told fudge that the right woman isn't looking for a hairless man, but rather a man comfortable with himself. there is really nothing sexier than self-acceptance. and besides, people like all types. hairy, bald, thin, fat, tall, short, cross-eyed, chip-toothed, big-nosed, beady-eyed. there are all kinds to love all kinds. in the meantime, we've got to love ourselves so when someone else does come along, we can show them how to love all of the facets of our beautifully idiosyncratic selves. we can only be loved as much as we love ourselves.

what's up now dr. phil?

this universal bulb

apple dumpling gangs up on me
I am choking on the sticky sick sad of grandma's peach cobbler
I am turning on the mat of trailer park shag
I am tossing out reminders of microwaved meatloaf

I am missing the movie
the smiling monkey and the frowning man sing and dance without me

inside cinder blocked

outside this arena of corrugated metal someone is shouting my story
I will hear it when I die

a song that teaches feet to dance

it/I/my story will increase the wattage of this universal bulb
darkness cannot hide from my light
I know because I have tried

unfinished fiction, part 2

He woke up. The ceiling had a gentle bubble forming next to a naked bulb. It looked like a milky tit hoping for a mouth. How had he never noticed the needs of the ceiling above his head? A smell tiptoed its way to his nose, welcoming the new day with the essence of old sweat, bad dreams and lonely handshakes with the stranger between his legs. To start by washing the sheets.

He rose from his ten-year nap, stumbling on his tangled beard, and began to strip the bed. The upper left corner of the fitted sheet resisted, and let out a tiny whimper as he tore a small hole in it. Perhaps he would buy new sheets today? The old ones hadn't started out yellow. He took the wrinkled old sheets, like a pile of dead skin stripped from the tired body of his bed and threw them in the garbage on his way to the bathroom. Turning on the light he noticed that of the three bulbs in the fixture only one had not given up on shining, though it looked to be contemplating the point.

He walked to the kitchen, noticing for the first time the extent of its neglect. A crusted microwave and a rusting tea kettle watched him open and close empty cupboards. He found scissors he didn't remember placing in a drawer where one would look for scissors. The drawer where one would also go looking for double A batteries and old rubber bands removed from newspapers never read. He found bulbs he didn't remember buying next to a mop that was still in its package. He stood there in the pantry thinking of the boy that had intended to keep his floors clean.

He returned to the bathroom with his scissors and his bulbs and lit the space to reveal a man he had remembered a boy. As he cut, he watched the dead fibers of days neglected fall from his face. He found a razor where one would look for a razor, next to the escaped hairs curling and clinging to the soggy bar of soap. He steadied his shaking hand and scraped at the face he did not yet understand. He was astonished at the strength of his jaw, the confidence of its lines. It was as if his jaw had remembered his integrity while the rest of him forgot. He was suddenly struck with the question, "What colors are my eyes?" Not what color, but what colors? Not green, but aquamarine and gold with tiny flecks of burnt orange and a blue-gray line drawing a circle all around this unique firework that was lighting the sky of this face. His face. A face not disappointing in its beauty.

to be continued...

unfinished fiction

To start by stopping, that is what he had decided to do. First he would need to stop working for the airline. Then he figured it would probably be best if he stopped spending all his money on $20 drinks and one-sided lap love. After all that, he knew he would need to stop beating off to Internet porn pop-ups as well, maybe even find a girl who wanted him back. And then, finally, he would stop imagining a better life and start living one. Up until this point, he had been under the impression that he was not only incapable of living a better life, but unworthy of one, as if all the happy people had some special skill he lacked. And now, as his sleepy eyes blinked open, all around him he saw signs of things he would need to stop doing. His ragged nubs where fingernails should be, reminded him to stop eating his nails for breakfast. His large and brightly painted ceramic ashtray, intended for an army of smokers, reminded him to stop smoking. The shit taste in his mouth reminded him to stop forgetting to brush his teeth before bed.

He was used to being wrong so it didn't really upset him when he realized that this error on his part had cost him almost a decade of his life. As a child he had been happy, even hopeful, but somewhere along "the way" he had given up completely. Perhaps it had been the job; jobs so often can do this to the hopeful. He had started working for the airline, lured by the promise of travel vouchers. A job that paid not only in steady paychecks, but in new horizons and free adventures. He had imagined very little about the fluorescent lighting or the angry passengers. He certainly hadn't imagined the thinly veiled "promotion" to Lost Baggage Control Specialist, nor had he been able to imagine the utter loss of hope that would come with such a daily dose of hatred and undeserved blame. He had, however, on multiple occasions, imagined meeting some lovely and lonely traveler also waiting on standby. Making conversation as a welcome diversion from the anticipation and anxiety of connections possibly missed, or made. "I like your backpack." He might have said to the big-brown-eyed traveler. "Thanks, it used to be my grandmother's," she might have replied; a strand of hair ignored in the making of a haphazard ponytail sticking to her lips, moving with her mouth as she spoke. The trip and the travelers forever changed by the exchange.

He had imagined all the possibilities to the point that imagining was all he could do anymore. He imagined himself into the corner where the red glow of an EXIT sign did not reach. He had backed himself into the darkness of sleepwalking wide-awake. Wake up, that is what he had decided to do. Every word from an angry traveler became an alarm buzzing in his head. WAKE UP! Every flickering fluorescent bulb, the shifting numbers of an alarm clock. WAKE UP! Every changing traffic light, every smiling stranger, every speeding train, every crying baby, every waking moment of his sleeping life was alarming. WAKE UP! To start by stopping, that is what he decided he had to do...

to be continued...

rose is a rose is a rose is a rose

roses want to grow
so why do we resist it so
why is a step oft seen with a fall
how do the roses grow so tall

a stranger is no stranger than you

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
~William Butler Yeats

I love this photo. I took it in austin waiting under a bridge for a great mass of beady-eyed bats to emerge for their nightly feasting. a hundred or so people were there with me, waiting to observe this nightly ritual. dragonflies the size of small planes dare-deviled around our heads. children chased after them laughing.

I love when strangers gather in close spaces, sharing in the intimacy of a moment. all of these people, stopping on the bridge, bringing with them their separated days to share in this coming of night. I imagine conversations being held, new things being taught and learned, recipes being shared, jokes being told, phone numbers being exchanged. this photo leaves out all the divisions, all the differences. on this bridge, strangers exchange strangeness for connection and they walk away as friends.

thank boo!

thank you everyone for coming to our home and sticking your bare hands into the slimy bellies of your pumpkins. thank you for using cheap plastic tools to create your own festive faces.

and the award for the best pumpkin goes to...everyone.

Happy Halloween!

who are you supposed to be?

it is 11am and I am watching a woman get out of her car. her impressively smooth behind is hanging out of an impressively small wonder woman costume. it is the bright white of late morning light and the pale of her usually hidden skin is luminous. as I am drinking my coffee, I am wanting to understand this urge. is she hoping that we have all forgotten it is halloween and for a moment believe to be witnessing a real live wonder woman order a latte? has she waited 10 long months and 31 endless days for this opportunity to show the world exactly how firm her ass cheeks are? was it this very costume that motivated her countless steps on the stair climber. did she do squats every night while brushing her teeth, imagining this very moment where she is standing at the front of a very long line? maybe, she is a real life heroine thinking “finally!” and using this socially sanctioned day to dress the part? or, perhaps she is nothing like wonder woman and is simply relishing in the 24 hours where she can wear star bedecked briefs and red go-go boots and not be mistaken for a special occasions stripper? maybe her grandmother made her this costume and then on her death bed asked this woman to realize her grandmother's own unrealized dream of dressing like a sexy superhero on halloween. maybe this woman just wants to have super powers, real or imagined, for one day. maybe she wants to feel wonderful, even if tomorrow, she goes back to being herself.

originally, the pagans dressed up as ghouls and gobblins in an attempt to protect themselves from evil spirits on all hallow's even. now people just dress up to pretend they're not themselves. even candy bars pretend to be smaller and m&m’s get to dress in different shades of candy coating.

I think this year I am going to dress up as a dressed down version of myself. sweat pants, an old t-shirt. no make-up, messy hair. I am going to answer the door with my big bowl of candy and I am going to see witches and mummy's and french maids and clowns. skeletons will come out of closets to solicit for sweets. pirates will leave their ships in search of sugary treasures. and if anyone asks, "who are you supposed to be?" I will reply, "I'm trying my best, as scary as it sometimes is, to be a really good version of myself."

do your part

in the name of helping a friend realize her dream, I found myself doing pushups in the mud on a sunday. I spent the day in the desert while the sun dutifully fulfilled its fiery obligation. I wore camo underneath a pink tutu. I performed my best pas de chat in combat boots. I did my part to be a part of something special--a filmmaker's vision. keep your eyes open for the brilliant ms. maggie cohn's upcoming short film, Perry's Fairies. if you're lucky you might get a glimpse of me and le T interpretive dancing--always a treat.

freeway flossing

mul·ti·task·ing
n. "the concurrent or interleaved execution of two or more jobs by a single CPU"

I saw a women flossing her teeth and steering with her elbows today on the freeway. she was probably going about 70. her car was like a big blue crayon in the hands of an invisible 5-year-old trying their hardest to stay in the lines and managing some of the time. I passed her completely dumbfounded by this brazen act. she was endangering not only her own life but the lives of countless others around her. was it a bit of apple skin? or a fiber of pulled pork? what was it that she couldn't wait to get out? what fragment of her lunch had driven her to this? really, she couldn't have taken 5 minutes to pull off the freeway to complete this urgent task? I found myself wondering, at what point do we stop and say, I have taken multitasking too far? the word "multitasking" itself was created in 1966 to describe what a computer does. we are not computers, nor should we strive to be. computers cannot replace us. maybe computers can knit sweaters faster, but they can't hug us and make us feel safe. multitasking has become a tag line that describes a valuable human being. but to me, it doesn't matter so much how many things you can do at once as much as what it is you're doing.

the beatles were wrong

the beatles were wrong
happiness isn't a warm gun
happiness is waking up next to you
if only your hair could always look like morning
da vinci's ghost must sculpt it while we sleep

don't forget to...

texas and its mess of chicken joints
catholic funerals and their deluded priests
fighting cocks and dying dogs

we took an unplanned trip last week.
the unexpected death of a woman in the middle of her life.
her death reminding the rest of us to live.
we forget too easily.

we decided to drive.
flying doesn't take long enough.

bat caves and dragon flies
dr. pepper and 40 kinds of jerky
angry cows and curious goats

for those few days,
we made of the road our home.
ears reading audio books,
eyes taking in all the sky.
everything was a bit brighter, a bit heavier and a bit lighter too.

"don't forget to..." we made long lists in our heads
as we drove down wide lanes past soft hills dotted with languid crosses and lethargic windmills.
don't forget to write. don't forget to smell the roses. don't forget to write about smelling the roses. don't forget to write someone to tell them how beautiful the roses smell. don't forget to do all the things we all forget to do.
live each day like it's your last and wake each morning like it's your first.
or something like that.

big dreams and toy pianos

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain. ~Frank Herbert


october 1st, I haven't written in a while, and though I have my list of excuses, all the letters rearranged spell the same word, laziness. I've been busy, yes, though not too busy to watch several 80's movies, some good, some bad, and some terrible. I've been entertaining guests, yes, but there are always moments to sneak away and write. I haven't known what to write about, though that is never an excuse. open your eyes, hell, close your eyes, and you'll see a multitude of subjects worthy of writerly examination. the truth is, I have been wasting the last while hiding out in a lion's den of doubt. I have been frolicking in the endless field of fear.

I am a musician, have been since childhood when all I had to bang on was a $50 toy piano. for me, oxygen is made up of melody. I have made of my life a musical. and while I long to share my song with someone other than my mom, I am afraid. afraid that it is stupid or unimaginative or unoriginal, or perhaps I'm afraid it is amazing and then I will be overwhelmed by all the expectation that follows...

I am afraid of doing the one thing that makes me unafraid.

I love to sing more than anything else I have endeavored to do. so why do I find endless routes away from this undeniable destination? no matter why, only matter what. what I do with this awareness. how I overcome this fear. as shakespeare said,

Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.

I will attempt and where the fear has gone there will be nothing. only I will remain, singing.

today I wrote a new song on the piano. perhaps I will play it for you...

fulfilling the holes

It had long since come
to my attention that people of accomplishment
rarely sat back and let things happen to them.
They went out and happened to things.
~Leonardo da Vinci

I want to happen to things. I want to lay down each night completely amazed at exactly how many things I happened to. I am not talking of the diving off of cliffs or the jumping out of planes. I would rather punch myself in the mouth than race down an icy slope with a board strapped to my frozen feet. I do not want to outrun a raging bull or outsmart a hungry alligator. I do, however, want to fill each day with an accomplishment. a something, rather than the nothing response to the "what did you do today?" question. today I washed the dishes and took out the garbage and then watched the ken burns "baseball" documentary. is that enough? should I have also learned latin and published a novel and sewn a dress and baked a cake with homemade frosting? what is enough? what filling will fulfill the holes I feel in my life?

is life about spackling?

as far as I can tell, life is not about thinking too much and doing too little. thinking will only get you so far, what you do with the thought is where life takes shape. I'm trying to think less about how to sculpt and trying instead to just chip away at the block in front of me, trusting myself and learning as I go.

leonardo was a genius, not only because of his intense curiosity but because of what he made of that curiosity. he turned the thought of curiosity into the act of invention.

"cogito, ergo sum--I think, therefore I am." "to err is human..." to just think and never do anything because you're afraid of erring is just plain stupid. I'm trying real hard not to be stupid.

time to change your metaphorical diapers

He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves. ~Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera



God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it's me. ~Author Unknown


the days are getting shorter. the sun has started to relent on the hot heads of our summer days. sweaters know they will soon come off shelves and summer dresses ready themselves for the wrinkles of unworn piles. as the chipmunks and the trees prepare for change, we resist it. why when everything around us opens to the shift, do we falter so? change is good, right?

perhaps it is the fear of labor pains that prolongs our rebirth. bones hurt as they grow us closer in reach of the things we grasp. what's a little pain? what's a lot of pain? part of the process, no? big bawling babies are less afraid to grow. grow up. wake up. smell the roses--new blossoms have replaced the decay of yesterday's flowers. let go of the things you'll only miss long enough to propel yourself forward. shed the dead that is piling up inside you.

John Henry Newman said "Growth is the only evidence of life." so why not prove to yourself exactly how much you can live. now is always a good time to start again.

passing out in a blaze of glory

my life is on hold. I blame the heat for everything. the desire to do nothing but sleep. the inability to sleep. the irritability that brings. fights about nothing. sweat defying gravity as it pools on the vertical surfaces of my body. weather.com claims the heat index will reach 105-112 degrees today and has issued an “excessive heat warning,” which basically means find a cool spot or die. we have had power outages three days in a row, making that difficult. we have had to take desperate measures to escape the heat of our hotbox house. crashing pool parties at apartment complexes we don’t live at, or know anyone who does. sitting in suburban cafes all day long watching soundless sports clips on a flat screen TV while eating ice cream. taking trips to the mall on labor day weekend, trying not to stumble over the bodies of children doing what everybody wishes they could be doing—laying motionless under the vent of an air conditioner in the middle of a walkway. utter chaos. mervyn’s looked like ross the day before Christmas if everything was 80% off and the customers were only given 5 minutes in the store to stock up on shit they didn’t need and no one else wanted. (see pictures).















the world has lost its collective marbles. everyone is on edge. glitches abound. electronics and waiters alike are not working properly. last night we walked the street marveling at the darkness. businesses and street lights taking the night off. hot bodies amassing in cool places, raising the temperature. mexican food melting my margaritas. there is an unspoken sense of adventure amidst all this struggling. how much can we take? what can we make of a night with no electricity? what new place could we discover in this aimless wondering away from the heat? if nothing else, this heat is a simple reminder of how lovely a cool breeze is. until the cool breeze returns, we’ll be sleeping naked with ice packs under our feet, seriously.

backing up my heart drive

"The unexamined life is not worth living." --Socrates

today my computer crashed and I wasn't wearing my seat belt. irreplaceable writing and photos lost to the black hole of technology. it has made me think a great deal about the archiving of life. after the mac genius delivered the traumatic news, I literally felt something inside of me fizzle and fade. pieces of me were parts of that hard drive. after recovering from the loss, I comforted myself with future plans on how to avoid such devastation. I pictured dedicating a whole room to the storage of hard copies of everything that has now gone digital. I imagined a rain-forest slain in the name of printing out everything I have ever written.

and then, I starting thinking of it in a different way, as in, what did I really lose?

do I need to have pictures reminding me of times my brain has decided to forget? do the stories my hard drive destroyed perhaps need retelling? how much are we held back by memorabilia of past loves and past lives? how much do we really benefit from reading our 7th grade journals? maybe we cling to these things as progress reports, proof of the evolution taking place in our own life. or perhaps, we keep them as valuable proof of a life lived. I often look at photos of my life and marvel at how exciting it seems frozen on a screen. the wonder of experiences worn down by time is often renewed by a photo album. how much of who we are is defined by how many relics our museums hold? does framing our better moments and hanging them on our walls give us a clearer impression of the artists we have become?

Benjamin Disraeli said, "The best way to become acquainted with a subject is to write a book about it." just make sure you back up your manuscript, or you might forget who you were.

tall grass grows

tall grass grows
round the remembrance of your face
its meaning
is hidden by
the undulating green
summer suns
frozen by snow
the sleep of bears, yawning blossoms
the ache of bones, both growing and forgotten
what questions did your eyebrows raise?
what histories could be traced by the slope of your nose?
strange to miss the things we no longer need
strange to want for things we’ve always carried deep
all we ever need, is a shovel

yodic wisdom

I grew up in a small town. I'm not talking no starbucks small town. I'm talking one flashing stoplight small town. I'm talking two gas stations, one grocery store, a few bars and a lot of gossip small town. I could ride my bike from one end of main street to the other quicker than you could find my town on a map. sublette, kansas. I grew up watching the waves of grain they sing about. I grew up making more toys out of water and dirt than you could find in a super wal-mart.

I grew up. I left the small town.


I feel galaxies and light years away from that place. I left that town, but the town still lives in me. I still see fields in my dreams. always fields, miles of them and nothing else but maybe a tree struggling against the relentless wind and the endless sky. so many clouds. clouds making faces at the ground. me, bruised and smiling picking at scabs.

I missed out on many things in that town. mostly things I could do without, but some things I am still trying to understand. a television-free trailer and no movie theaters for miles. I never saw star wars. I never saw a lot of things people still talk about. I feel foreign in the midst of most pop-culture remembrances. it happens all the time. people bringing up he-man or simon and simon. I don't know the facts of life as told by blair. so many times, I have been clueless as to what a wookiee looks like, that is, until today. I now know that a wookiee looks like a really hairy basketball player and makes funny sounds not unlike a drooling baby with banana stuck in its throat. at the insistence and persistence of my boyfriend, I have joined the rest of the world in wanting a yoda backpack. at the video store last night where we supplied ourselves for the long overdue marathon, the clerk nearly fainted when I told him I had never seen the films before, a reaction I have grown accustomed to. but no more, I have heard the wisdom of yoda and there is no turning back now. I have seen luke and darth do their lightsaber dance. I now know that the only thing keeping anyone from pulling their sunken spaceship out of the muck is the belief that they can't.

luke left tatooine and its two suns. I left kansas. may the force be with us.

strike a poser

ask me what I do and I'll most likely flinch. then I'll proceed to stutter. a question I used to answer enthusiastically has become the daily equivalent to plucking my toes--surprisingly painful. I am a writer, yes, though I've never been published, let alone paid (unless you count the $75 I made my first year in junior college for an essay I wrote which won me second place.) what do I do? so many things. I wash my clothes when they stink, I read books but only look at the pictures in magazines, I sing in fake voices while I shower, I dance like various jungle animals late at night when I should be sleeping, I sleep in, I drink iced black coffee to keep me regular, I eat food when I'm hungry and even when I'm not, I pick at things that aren't smooth.

so many things.

but I'm sure the question is more about what I do for money. aahhh, well, um, I (quiet mumble) model... eyes down, I am shamed. my boyfriend tells me every time not to be embarrassed about it, but I am. my livelihood is based off of my measurements and my smile (or pout). I don't get paid for my ideas but rather my ability to "sell it". but what exactly is "it"? every audition I go to, I realize how little of "it" I have to sell. "it" is not a look but rather an attitude and a belief that there is absolutely nothing degrading about making love to the camera. yet every time I feel dirty, used, and anxious to see if he'll ever call.

today I had a music video audition for the new j-lo hit we're all dying to hear. you wouldn't see this kind of freaky in a five dollar circus. an 80-year-old woman with throat cancer wearing a see-thru teddy and fishnets. a homeless man with a head shot. a pimp named "fancy" that wasn't acting. a big-breasted woman in a tiny red dress proclaiming "I'm australian, of course I'll show you my titties!" a pock-faced korean guy in a fluorescent orange tae kwon do uniform telling a girl she looked pretty in her photos but not in real life. a rosy-cheeked santa claus. a hunchback wearing high-tops. and me, eyebrows raised, trying to decide why I was here.

oh yeah, for the money.

oh the price I pay to make a little cash. don't get me wrong, I know it's a choice I've made and continue to make. I can always go back to taking orders and slinging drinks. but with this new gig, I have more time than ever to do all the things I do that don't pay my bills. and for that, I am grateful. just don't ask me what I do.

comet dust

last night I left the bright lights of the big city and headed north up the 2. my fellow stargazer and I settled in under the pinhole sky. armed with two chairs and some peanut butter and jelly, we sat, quietly, looking up at the dancing sea of stars. we watched them twinkle and fall. some were like flaming arrows arching through the sky. some, a mere whisper of failing light. others were like lasers cutting brilliant rainbows out of the dark fabric of the night. one by one, like shimmering stones from the river, I collected shooting stars. 29 in all. Zeus rained gold on Danaë and Perseus was born. the Comet Swift-Tuttle passed by the sun and the Perseids meteor shower was born. for thousands of years wishes have been made on the dust of this comet. eventually, this comet will hit the earth or the moon. in the meantime, once a year, you can watch its journey and enjoy its fireworks.