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Work in Progress - Tongues "I assume, if I haven't heard from you, that things are okay." -me, to H------, ca. 1998 You know my sarcasm and wry asides are for hiding the raw edge of something I desperately want to share but also don't want uncovered. Overreaching typically indicates anxiety. If you don't hear from me, things are probably okay. Things are okay. I said words and that was all:  promised this year I would learn to be more me than I already am, and do it unaugmentedly if possible. There was no plan. Basically I started a bunch of shit and it's all taking off - all of it . Terrifyingly. If you aren't seeing me where you're used to seeing me, I'm busy making my own hell and reveling in it. Much like starting a family, there's no best time or place, and all the planning in the world won't make it easier - you just jump in the deep end. There will be surprises, disasters, and glory; at least one more tattoo. I am my...

Patrice used to take a personal interest in my looks. "You need concilla ," she told me in her South Cackalacky accent.  I made her repeat the word a few times and finally spell it: C-O-N-C-E-A-L-E-R.  She had a point - my dark eyecircles are legendary.  Patrice was a beautiful woman, masterful with fashion, trying to help me out with the obvious.  Over time, though, I found an awkward trend to her advice.  One day she was adamant - adamant - that I should try parting my hair on the side. "Just do it one time. You'll love it," she insisted.  She'd done her hair with a severe side-part . Obviously it would be good for me, too, because she liked me. Understanding her motivation is exactly the kind of thought that plagues me for years, but I think I've finally sorted it:  Patrice felt an elation when she found herself beautiful with side-parted hair.  I think she was trying to recapture that elated feeling by replicating the action on me. ...

There's some incredibly vocal bird - maybe a warbler or canary - nesting in the azalea outside my window.  He's going to help me succeed in my plan to wake up near sunrise every day. The Order of Emergent Magick recommends practicing intent:  choose one thing you don't currently do, and perform that action every day for 30 days.  It can be something as simple as changing the place where you put your shoes every night. You can choose something you feel is more impactive, like meditating for 20 minutes.  Be very specific about the repetition.  And then after 30 days, intentionally don't do the thing for 30 days. Learning how intent feels will lap over into other things  you do every day.  This morning I've sent a proposal for an editing gig, filled in some more squares on my project spreadsheet, and cleaned cobwebs.  You can buy cleaning equipment - a telescoping duster, for example - employ them and they actually work.  I am the master ...

Michelle posted a tale of 4 cats which tells of the time she was a bad cat-mom. I get this; I've been a bad cat-mom. I've been a bad mom. I'm currently a bad bike-mom to a Bianchi who deserves better. I just went through a round of re-forgiving myself for various ill-conceived decisions I made when I thought I was smart. I've reached a point in my life where all my miscalculations are auto-functioning and I no longer have to monitor them with my guilt; but the guilt doesn't go away, no. However, I can stop following that guilt around with actions meant to mollify it, and I can use the available space I didn't have when I needed to monitor my miscalculations. I can actually do things now that I wanted to do - should have been doing, if we want to use the s-word - back when I was trying to clean up my own messes. It's not as awesome as it sounds; it's awkward. I have space and no instructions on what to do with it, - I should have learned the st...

chrysalised I am melting reforming what was as it swims my vision the hardening of wings is sharp elbows inside this envelope Curling tongue where once I had teeth will my voice now spiral, not gnash? it's solitary work, metamorphosis just like the skin that no longer fit I'll cast aside this shell and fly 5000 miles to my death in the sun Further Reading: How Does a Caterpillar Turn into a Butterfly? - from Scientific American.  You always wanted to know, right? Photos of metamophosis without a cocoon Michael Cook managed to capture photos of a Tussah silkmoth larva that failed to spin a cocoon. Why Millions of Painted Lady Butterflies are Migrating Through California - from WBUR.  I witnessed this migration myself in 2001 and represented it in a painting I no longer have. Despite complaints from people who like their cars to be pristine, it was one of the most magical things I've experienced. 

Well, this is awkard.  I was mentally prepped to be excited about living here at Tiny Cottage for two years, and then it happened.  Rolled right by.  Last week.   Here's the win, though:  it didn't register.  That's how comfortable I am in life right now. Remember that first time you forgot it was payday because you weren't desperately hanging on until it arrived? No, seriously, I've done that.  Not quite there at the moment, but I remember.  That's how I feel right now. Very Adulty.  In a way, I did celebrate.  I cooked a lot of things, including a stellar rhubarb-pear pie with smoked almonds, and my signature dish: Shepherd's Bhai.  This is the traditional shepherd's pie with an Indopak twist to it - the meat is seasoned with Shan's spice pack, and the potatoes are mashed with butter, garlic/ginger paste, turmeric and yogurt.  I layer mint, cilantro, and this time tomatoes between the queema and the potato t...

I've been living where I am for 2 years on February 1.  The timing was very intentional:  Joshua Bell was playing the Kennedy Center on February 11th.  I was still married until February 27th and I didn't want to go see my favorite violinist with a guy who was on his way out the door. I didn't want to have to come home and put on my game-face after such a wonderful evening. So I moved. The first year was like a jon boat at sea; sometimes the waters were calm, but in all cases the sides of the boat are unnervingly low and it's difficult to find faith in that flat bottom. I mean, even the Titanic sank, right?  After the one year mark I felt more confident, like getting out of the boat and hiking up into the trees. The idea has been, I think, to enter the jungle alone.  Sometimes I feel like I'm back in the boat, sailing for the New World with no shore on the horizon. For as long as I've lived in Tiny Cottage, the oven hasn't functioned properly.  I ne...

Here's the secret to my productivity:  almost every blog post starts as an email to someone who is kind enough to tolerate my wordvomit.  I love you guys. Sometimes my emails spill over from one Venn circle to the next, and I wind up filtering ideas through friends who don't know each other. The following wisdom was spawned thus: "...I wrote it because I felt like I shouldn't, and so I stuck with it until it honestly felt constructive. " - Jim McCormick I feel like I should tattoo this on my thigh, though I probably will opt for a raven instead. You know that nagging from between your ears; I know you do.  That moment of hesitation when you aren't really sure if you're on track, whether your thought is being translated clearly from subconscious to masterpiece.  You aren't sure if you're gonna piss somebody off. Forget about that last one. Completely disregard it.  Repeat after me:  someone else's piss is not your problem . Whe...

Art is all about emotion - people crave emotional rides. I have more feelings than I need, but bottling them for sale challenges me.  I have to translate the emotions first, and then package them in some identifiable format, which is the part that's hardest for me to understand. I understand soup. Soup is an art form. Quality comes at base from the raw ingredients. The recipe documents the chef's labor-intensive process of finding balance between individual flavors and textures (yes, there is work in soup.) Like any other art, the ultimate reward is finding something that's good for the artist and also for the audience. Those lucky few in the chef's inner circle get to taste the soup and get excited: OMG. This is the best soup ever. You could sell this.  My taste is pretty eclectic; I try to create more of what I love so I can love more of it. If I find someone who loves what I do enough to pay for it, that shared love is more reward than money. Having m...

Today is the anniversary of my (to-date) only legal marriage. I feel like I should give an official statement. I'm not angry. I'm not sorry. I made my peace before proceeding with divorce. There was some awkwardness, mostly outside the marriage, while I tried to maintain calm in the household during the steps leading to the divorce. It was important to me that there not be a messy blow-up, and there wasn't; apparently that was important to my former husband, too, if predictably so. We arrived at the court successfully in a state of calm. The judge seemed confused, possibly relieved. I'm sure the rest of his day didn't go so smoothly. My counterpart shed a few tears when I gave back the wedding rings; I wanted to dissociate myself from them and leave him to decide their fate. That was my only bit of meanness, because I knew deciding what to do would be harder for him than for me. My first year of divorce was a sea-storm. The surges and doldrums were to b...

I watch all the foreign detective shows on Netflix (foreign here means with subtitles and not filmed in the U.S.) Since I was old enough to stay up and watch The NBC Mystery Movie I've been enthralled by the idea of resolution - questions answered, circle completed. I learned from TV detectives that it's a thing to make observations and calculate. My young brain was so happy. Columbo, Quincy M.E., and MacMillan and Wife were my childhood role models. I make assumptions that the host culture's authentic nature is reflected in the narrative of my foreign detective shows. Right now I'm watching The Method , which is set in Moscow. I compare it to my Russian archetype which is mostly built from Stalinist-era l iterature and Ukrainian lifeguards - agreed that this is not a very stable archetype, but the TV show is fitting well enough within it. Long ago I sought to identify White People culture in America. My friends who are not white people often use the pronoun ...

The sky this morning is pale ocean blue - dull and thick with the water that lingers on the edge of a coastal storm. I'm 3.5 hours inland but the residuals of hurricanes are far-reaching. I made coffee last night, because I'm gross and like it room temperature and also like to grab it when I first wake up at dawn's early crack so I can coffee nap. Yes, this really works . Hurricane Florence is pummeling the Carolinas; Abby the Cockatiel and I watched CBS coverage for a few hours yesterday. Most of the interviewed voices reiterated that they felt lucky and ready to get back to work; I heard someone say the one thing they would like donated is cleaning supplies. My heart gets happy to hear a pragmatic person speaking to the world. I started watching a TV show called The First , starring Sean Penn (Abby didn't seem interested.) It's set in New Orleans, a city that will always hold a piece of my heart and soul. The city itself is a cliché for something that cann...

The same day I planted irises in the yard outside my Tiny Cottage, I pulled up a bunch of weeds that usually grow so tall I can't see my car behind them .  I also broadcast a collection of seeds - broadleaf and holy basils, poppies, tomatoes, zinnias - around the stump next to the driveway.  And then I forgot all about the project. Farming is hard work, not just from the perspective of the farmer but also from the perspective of the seed.  Everything's an enemy:  the sun, the rain, the bugs, the birds, the other plants.  As a new sprout you are in constant danger of being eaten, strangled, or baked.  As the weeds grew back in around the stump, I noticed a zinnia standing a little taller than everybody else.  It seemed to be the only product of my sowing to survive, all cute and limey-green. And then some days later, the thing happened that makes me happiest:  Another human came along and, with no idea that I was responsibl...

I'm in a funny place these days, mentally. Physically, maybe, since Annandale is fascinating. But mentally I'm in  uncharted territory. I have lived a lot of lives - I count ten. I've surpassed Cat Status.  Having been divorced and living in my Tiny Cottage for just over a year now, I am feeling something new: comfortable in my own skin. Comfortable with the ramifications of whatever comes out of my mouth, because I am certain that when the  words came out I meant them. Comfortable with completely changing tack if the origin of my words no longer suits the situation. I can learn. There is nobody else but me, and I am still afloat. I am unrepentant. I didn't do this by myself. I have the support of people who believe in me when they have no reason to believe, other than they see me from outside of me.  They see my efforts and failures, and they never question whether I am going to get back up. Sometimes I wasn't sure I'd get back up, but people whose persp...