Deeps

She had a way of staring into other's souls so deeply that she'd reach bottom, only to find herself there, staring back.

Today is day of strange coincidence

Scene: self at coffee shop, reading the Aug. 31, 2015 edition of the New Yorker.

Scene: page is turned to page 13, an advertisement for the Picasso Sculpture exhibit at the MoMA, coming this fall. (Member Previews Sep 10-13)

Action: I pick up my phone to mark down the dates.

Setting: I've finally gotten up the courage to look up Elvis Presley's birth date, moments before. I read Presley's biography this January (book recommended by Etsy's CEO Chad Dickerson, in an internal email chain). I'd been avoiding it for months now, but curiousity won out. Right. Now.

Action: I'm Googling famous people with my birth sign.

And then: A wild Pablo Picasso appears.

#what_the_ever_living_fuck

dream sxapes

last night I was lost in Split/Dubrovnik, responded to an ad for a game night via a list serve and ended up, confusingly enough at a different game night, the weekly meeting of the local bdsm club. (oops). they were nice but I couldn't keep up with their jokes, the newspapers filled with lewd images were beyond my reckoning, the night ended when i couldn't remember my ATM pin, which would get me into the second round of that night's games, deeper in the pub's belly.  Some nice ladies stayed out in the common room though, playing some weird form of newspaper boggle with pencils and tales of sexploits.

upon reflection it was a weird form of social psych sadism, I suppose.

I headed home early and got lost or something somehow ran into my old 7th grade friend/crush named Two who was working in the pub as a busboy and saw me there. He warned me that it was a good thing I hadn't been able to remember my pin; that the back room was dirty and dank and that it wasn't a good next level to find yourself at. I struggled for a while with the decision to somehow reassure him that it wouldn't have been the first time I found myself in dark places or that I could have handled it but decided that that was quite beside the point of it all, anyway.

Then we were escaping, somewhere still in the city, mostly just to stone benches where we could catch up on lives long since lived. He was afraid of running into his wife, but I felt something bigger looming down over us, and ran away, back to my room, at the corner of the city, built into its heavy stone walls and up above the din of the crowded streets, below.

In so many ways

I saw someone drawing on the train today, the second person this week. They were both equally talented and that old doubtful demon raised his head again and asked: how hard is it to draw, nicely, to draw well. Are we all inborn artists, just waiting for the call, the reckoning, the right smile from the right muse on the subway?

I don't know anymore, I just don't know anymore. Sometimes I think that it's just The City and that there's something in the water that changes us all to be the best at what we are and then from time to time I meet someone who isn't and is struggling and I know that I am wrong.

You were good at drawing though, you *are* (still and always, so might we all) talented but whether that proves or disproves anything is unknown and probably, as is wholly probable, uncertain.  You're not a good sample set as you were and why do all the talented people end up, at one time or another, in the new york xity.

(I am nothing; I am naught. What am I doing here; I don't know anymore)

draft copy

** VACATION THAT SETS YOU FREE **

** that's a lot of responsability for a vacation, dont you think? **

** YES BUT FREEDOMMMMM **

** reality girl, be realistic.  what's going to make this vacation different than the other ones you've taken? **

** how is spending time trotting around Europe really any different than trotting around NYC? **

** WEIRD LANGUAGES, DIFFERENT SYSTEMS, BEAUTIFUL BEACHES **

if you are a prolific person, then be prolifical

awkwardness is no excuse for lack of manners.

no manners is a fear of interacting.  COWARDICE!?

______ is a very well mannered person.  is it a matter of remembering to interact?

of interacting at the right level? of saying hello, how are you doing?

today, i learned that six thirty is family dinnertime at the neighborhood diner.

i dont want to couch my view as the 'feminist' perspective, but thats what it is.

at the root core of it. a feminine perspective.

rock it girl

if my legacy had to be anything, i think i would want it to be coinage of the term 'dainty hiking'

~~attributes of a 'dainty hiker'~~

- really into ultralight packs (this is a practical concern, a dainty hiker is weak as shit)

- never seems winded

- bounds down hill

- shoes that look more like slippers than hiking boots (see above about being weak as shit. those hiking boots are heavy as fuck)

- always seems to have all the things that you could need.

- crosses streams via the rocks whenever possible (dislikes wet feet)

- takes a lot of pride in finding convenient, well-shielded spots to pee

Mad respect

To all the single soul apartment dwellers that buy whole watermelons

And doubly, to those that finish them within the week.

To the fools with hangovers that wake up super earls.

To all the ladies making breakfast.

To all the peoples still asleep.

To all those that still start debates on the internet, like it's 1988 and we're all just trying to connect, for the first time in a long time.

Or maybe in forever.

"For-ever-ever?"

Yeah

Fo'ever.

Growing up

Sometimes I think growing up is more and more just circumscribing things that you really want to happen in life as opposed to things that you think would be cool but aren't really a necessary requisite experience.

The growing up part is where the requisite experiences set gets distinctly smaller, and more refined.

Along with a healthy dose of not give a fuck itude. But maybe that's just the circle getting smaller, too.