and the world spins madly on

This story doesn't need words and still says so much. In a way it's been my story. Always a delicate dance, a push and pull...when one pushes, the other pulls, when one is trying so hard to grasp onto something, the other dances away, slips just out of reach, between each others fingers.

You'll need to watch this more than once. It's that kind of beauty.

why veggie? I'll tell you why

I was asked today, why vegetarian? The answer, though easy, doesn't translate well for some reason. I figured, maybe it's time I tried to explain myself.

It's not political, it doesn't project on anyone else. It's a very personal thing. Always has been. It is real simple: I love animals. I love them to my core. I see the sweetness of animal on the plate, remember how it feels to look into its big eyes, and think how it might have been killed. When I am in the grocery store and I pass the butcher shop, I cringe at how the blood is pooled on the corners of the cow packages, or how the ribs of little lambs and cows are on display in showcases. It's gruesome to me. And we as humans select the best one, like jewelry in a shop, blood now dried on its carcass. I am sad for those animals. I love passing them in cars, seeing them happily graze...so free and unaware. Those are the lucky ones. The unlucky, the ten billion animals (just in the U.S.) slaughtered for human consumption, those usually come from factory farms where there are no beautiful meadows or pastures, just tiny constricted spaces so small that the pigs and cows are cramped in the same position day and night. They suffer branding and mutilation, live in their filth, which then of course farmers pump them with oh-so-healthy-for-us-antibiotics to keep them from getting sick. Chicken's beaks are burned off using a hot knife because they peck at each other due the tight-quarters and frazzled conditions, and poor hens' feet grow distorted and tangled around the wire. There are many who now push toward hormone free, cage-free etc. and the reason is obvious (kudos). I could go on and get much more graphic, but I'll keep it a family show.

My point is, all this has affected me. It doesn't in any way, affect the way I view others eating meat. As part of my job I need to cook meat for the kiddos (or at least toss chicken nuggets in the oven). I touch it, I'm around it, in fact almost everyone I know eats it. Nothing about anyone choosing or not choosing to eat meat is a problem to me. Again, it's a very personal thing. I just simply can't do it. I see the animal. I see the animal's experience, his or her life. I wouldn't eat an animal any more than I would eat whomever is reading this right now :) Like I said. Simple. And to honor animals, I had to include my favorite of all. This was my sweet cat Romeo. He was the love of my life. Anyone who knows me can attest to that. We were quite a pair, the two of us.

what we seem

People surprise us. No one is ever really what they seem, or rather if I may, how we presume they seem, how we project or hope they may respond, how they may simply be in life. One can never make assumptions about anyone because in truth, no one really ever knows the other. Not truly. I don't mean this to be morose, only ventilating a healthy dose of fresh realism I've gathered. Point blank: The will of another is their own. We can’t know what lies in another person’s soul, how they were brought to be, what makes them tick. We can’t know what the actions and reactions of others will be and how it will affect our lives in just one moment or with just one word or the accumulation thereof. We as humans are so fragile really, all wanting to connect, yet leaving so much of that in the fate of others. It seems unfair sometimes. I believe in goodness, in the good in people. It is a strange and oddly sobering reminder when the all-too common unpleasantness in people greets me, when the wounds and individual stories of people shuts me and mine out, quietly closes the door on my toes and yearning heart, as I laugh a tear and realize I never knew them at all. When I whisper, I assumed this one was different. But I remember, people surprise me. Every time. And hope soars, loftier than any assumption or pain. It blooms into beautiful experiences from my eyes and I have learned much in this ride. And people do surprise. True they can burn more scalding than the sun, and ironically though they tempt with temporary warmth and shine, and though some feathers may fall from my wings, I am no Icarus. Warn me not. For I know, almost around every corner there is another who can soothe, heal, inspire. Today I was reminded of that beautiful, unexpected, surprise.

bathtime magic

Auntie Jess, Auntie Jess. I could hear that all night. And I did. And I'm not complaining. I walk through the doors and they claw at me, reaching only to my hips with their cute little fingertips on their even cuter little eager tipy-toes. I pick them up with a big swoop and body slam them (gently) on the couch. Yes, I am that Auntie. We play. Always. We dump out all the toys from the bins (oh I eemembah you, she says to her chewed up Barbie having a very bad hair day), we take out allll the crayons and markers and color for minutes at a time, put glittery stickers everywhere, watch movies, and have cake and yogurt (on the floor); but it is bathtime that I really love. It is bathtime that is pure magic.

There's something transformative about the water. Clearly. Bubbles make way to Santa's beard and ho, ho, ho's give way to excited smiles and silly laughter. Mermaid lagoons live underwater and rubber ducks come to life quacking incessantly. Ships explode making a different noise each time-pekoosh! boosh! pawww!-splashing every dry spot in the room. Friends that may not have been amigos before, say Dora, Nemo and Horsie--get along famously now and may even need each other for something. Even the household facecloth has a character, job, use. Bathtime is magic. It makes me smile. It sparkles with childhood innocence and imagination. It brings back my innocence. My sweet nieces...

In their own world.

The sweet innocence of little girls.

The simple things. Look Auntie Jess.

I love you girlies.

the screen and me

Here goes.

I'm making a concerted effort these days to write, even if/when I feel as though I have nothing particular to say. Whether or not this post sees the light of day, I know not. I'm just giving it the old heave-ho, metaphorical pen-to-paper and seeing what comes.

So. Here we are, alone again. Come here often? That was bad. I'll try that again.

Here we are. Alone. It is eerily quiet indoors today, yet outside each car that passes by below seems to be purposefully trying to get my attention, distract me somehow. They whizz, They swoosh, they honk, they slam their doors. However, perhaps my focus is not dead on. In truth, I should make a confession. You intimidate me. Yes you. You and all your gleaming white shining back at me, so perfect and difficult to approach, daunting at times. But oh, when we're in sync with each other, when you somehow seem to whisper back, you allow me to go somewhere that I can only go with you. No one could understand what we have, the worlds we make, the fun we have.

Turns out I'm much more tired than I thought and this may have proven to be an exercise in futility. Insomnia does that. (i.e. makes one believe their ideas are good ones). When I was little my dad and I used to meet in the kitchen during the wee hours of the night/morning and feast on cereal with globs of peanut butter in it (that actually was/is a good idea. For all naysayers, don't knock it, till you try it, unless of course you're allergic...in which case, cereal alone still remains one of the more fantastic foods). In fact I do a lot of my living when others are sleeping. Oddly enough, the more I write about insomnia the heavier my eyelids become. You sneaky devil you. If all this was some sort of training used by you dear screen to help me sleep, oh how I adore you. Like I said, no one could understand our connection. What would I do without you?

untitled for now 1

The elevator doors were open. Peculiar, she thought. She said hello to Jimbo, the guard as she does every morning and stepped into the elevator. Her shoes squeaked on the tile. She snickered a bit to herself and caught a glimpse of her reflection smiling back at her in the glass-coated doors. She decided her hair would look much better down and quickly took it out of her messy ponytail, combing her fingers through her just-brown hair. There was no fuss about her. Her face was clear of any stitch of makeup except for the Maybelline mascara she loved to put on her amber eyes. She smacked her lips together making a surprisingly loud popping noise reminding her to put on some lip balm. She reached into her favorite bag from the old village man-vendor in Avignon, and pulled out four different kinds of chapstick. After briefly mulling it over she chose the au natural fruits-of-the-forest and threw the rest hastily back in. She loved how every time she breathed in she could smell a party of sweetness.

The doors opened on floor 8 and the man wearing the beret stepped in. She smiled her crooked smile, but he sort of grimaced and looked down. She always found it so odd how people in elevators just stared at the floor. She took out her beat-up leather notepad and scribbled, “so odd. People in elevators don’t say hi, and stare at floor. Awkwaaaard.” Her notepad was filled with random findings like this. She tucked it back in her favorite bag and started to hum the song she heard while standing in line getting her hot chocolate this morning. She didn’t know she was humming, though she actually had quite a nice voice. The man with the beret looked up, annoyed. She kept humming, unaware. The man with the beret looked over at her now. She looked at him, still humming. Unaware. Carefree. He made a gesture with his bulging eyes as if to say, umm, you’re doing something, and it’s bothering me. Now suddenly hearing the vibrato in her throat, “Oh. Excuse me. I...I didn’t realize, I just…I just like to….n…nevermind. Stopping now.” And the man with the beret went back to the fascination of the floor. She made her eyes wide and mouthed her lips as if to say, w.o.w.

The elevator stopped at floor 30 and the man with the beret got out. She did a little dance and continued on to floor 32 where she exited noticeably.

Her shoes squeaked all the way down the hall. She tried to go on her tippy-toes as she noticed everyone watching her, but it didn’t make a difference. I really need to remedy these shoes, she whispered under her breath. She stepped into her office, closed the door and kicked off her shoes. "Take that shoes," she said, as they slammed against the wall noisier then thought grabbing unwanted attention. "Oh, I’m so squeaky, squeaky," she exaggerated as she pranced around in her socks making faces and flailing her arms about. "I like to squawk. Squaaakkkk," she continued in a high-pitched voice, now motioning her arms and head like a chicken. Little did she know she had an audience peering at her through the venetian blinds.

Kristen!

The door barged open and it was her friend Dawn looking as lovely as ever. Blond hair coiffed at the chin, subtle highlights, ruby lips.

Oh my gosh, you scared me!!! What?

Who are you talking to? And what are you doing this time?

Oh, I was….

And, nice socks…love the dinosaurs. How old are you?

Dawnnn…oh, guess what? I saw Beret-man in the elevator today.

Kristen, stop obsessing about elevator etiquette would you? Put your shoes on we need to go to the meeting.

I can’t.

What? What do you mean you can’t?

My shoes somehow got squeakier, she said twirling her hair in an innocent way that almost made her seem childlike.

Aw Kris. I told you those needed to go a long time ago. You’re lucky I haven’t found a way to accidentally, purposely, light them on fire or something. Just because you get paid to be an environmental-whatever….

Just then Kristen sighed with a smirk on her face. Dawn had a side to her that Kristen just adored. She seemed to teeter in and out of it without notice. The very nature of its authenticity made it endearing and always seemed to bring a smile to Kristen's face; she called it her Bimbo side. True, not flattering, not sugarcoated, but Dawn never cared. Are you having a “blond-moment” Dawn? Is that the new title of my position? Hello, nice to meet you. Yes I am in the environment-whatever field. And this is my assistant, also in the environment-whatever field. We do lots of environment–whatever important things. And they both grabbed at each other’s arms and started to giggle. The way they laughed together was all together charming.

I know technically I may need new shoes, but I just love these. I’m going to fix these. Period. Don’t you remember where I got them? Can’t I just, I don’t know, take them to a cobbler?

Kristen? Like an elf?

Hilarious Dawn. No. You know, like back in the good old days? They still exist right? I just don’t want to get rid of these. Not yet. Not if I don’t have to.

Well then, we need to put down some carpet or something. Or at least let’s find the cobblers’ number pronto. But you know Kris...sooner or later you’re going to have to let that “best time in your life" go.

Yeah, yeah. So I hear.

Come on squeaky friends. Let’s do this. Don't fail me now.

As they were walking down the hall she reached into her favorite bag, pulled out her notepad and wrote, “make a new best time in my life. Dawn is right. start plans tonight?”

What are you writing now? Please tell me it’s not some weird philosophy about the cafeteria food?

Nope.

And she put her notepad away, smiled and linked her arm around Dawn’s.

Dawn smiled too.

You’re kinda crazy you know?

Yeah.

to be a writer

It’s been some time. No. It’s been time. Period. I haven’t really sat before my screen, keys tippy-tapping, mind unhinged, words sinuous and unstoppable from the lengths of my fingers. It is not a lack of want, of desire, of ideas, of scenes passing through my head as if in a movie. It's more of a paralyzing feeling…where will this go? Where does this have the potential to go?

This nagging nuisance seems to lie in the sheer fact that I have too many thoughts, too many ideas pulsing through my mind. I try to grab at one, start writing, and before I know my struggling musician-heroine in the streets of Barcelona has turned into a happy-go-lucky starving hobo on the streets of Morocco who meets a snake charmer that will change her life, turned into…well, none of that is actually true, but you can see where I’m going with this. The point is my ideas run wild. I need to find a way to tame the ideas in me, to direct them for the long haul, to make them more than just short stories; because, to be a writer…that is what is coursing through my veins.