Posts Tagged ‘whiney and pathetic’

whale song

August 3, 2010

 A fish swims through the sea,
while the sea is in a certain sense
contained within the fish!
Ah, what am I to think
of what the writing of a thousand lifetimes
could not explain
if all the forest trees were pens
and all the oceans ink?

(mewithoutYou, the dryness and the rain) 

 

i haven’t been dreaming for weeks.  dammit, i always dream.  but i woke the other day with a faint memory of an image that was the ocean.  then there was a quote (a couple, actually) on twitter about the ocean that moved me, and a link to a song that referenced the ocean.  then i put my ipod in and heard a song that i hadn’t yet listened to, which ended up being about the ocean.  and the public tv show i sat down to watch with shortcake, while listening to the song about the ocean, was . . . about the ocean.  i’m a little bit annoyed with the whole sign thing, and i fought with my ego regarding the agenda here (trip to tahiti, anyone?), but i thought, ok ok fine.  got it.  ocean.  fine.

then a package arrived in the mail.  a gift from pixie, torch-bearer-sister-parachute-medicine-woman-extraordinaire, beautifully crafted by lauren: a necklace, called “whale song,” with an abalone shell pendant.  lauren listed the beads and explained their unique properties, all extremely relevant to me right now.  and the abalone shell, of course: “intimately connected to the sea . . . harmony . . . tides of emotion . . . trust in intuition.”  she also made a sachet of herbs and crystals for me that contained the same wonderful things as her dream pillows.

so, you know, i cried.  a lot.

in colorado, i bought a turquoise necklace from a native american woman parked at a mountain pass.  i let it absorb the energy of the mountains, the peaks and valleys, and knew that it would always remind me of the awe i felt there, the connection to Creation, to the earth’s natural power and beauty.  so now, apparently, i am collecting the elements, because this talisman is ocean.  and it is washing over me, through me:  the tides, the currents, the refracted light, the jagged teeth of the sharks, the whale songs, the warm salt water, the remnants of a sunken ship.  

i took this picture for pixie and lauren, planning to just crop out the face.  yyyyes.  i am aware of the puffy eyes and dark circles.  they were well earned.  (as were the unplucked eyebrows!  and also that notch on my nose.  and also the poor exposure.)  but there is something so raw and honest about how wrecked i am in this photo, and the strength i feel regardless, that i’m showing you all.

(wrecked)
(wrecked)

pixie also led me to this poem.  and so i’m paying it forward.

The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

The Mad Hatter: Have I gone mad?
[Alice checks Hatter's temperature]
Alice Kingsley: I’m afraid so. You’re entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.

 

god, do i hope this is rock bottom.  have you noticed?  i mean, obviously.  i might as well admit it.  yeah.  i’m kind of going through a thing, worst ever.   and no, actually, i’m not ok.  not at all.  thanks for asking

i tend to get these “signs” of comfort or of direction when i am low or confused.  i get to a place (and it is predictable, but i always forget) where i am so lost and/or incapable of functioning that i reach out, beg really, for some sign that will tell me what to do.  these signs have been abundant, and mind-boggling, as they always are when i am in touch with my truth.  but where they have led me has pissed me off, in an ignorance is bliss (though bliss is definitely not the word.  more a flat affect stupor) sort of way.  so on a recent bike ride, i had a conversation with myself.  or, Myself, or whoever it is that gives me these signs.  i said something like so what’s that about then?  the fucking signs?  could you just stop with the fucking signs?  or could you just stop pretending that you’re seeing signs? (that’s another self-talk voice.  apparently there are many.)  ooh!  ooh!  i know!  i know!  i need a sign about signs!  a sign to tell me that i am actually seeing signs!  and that they matter!  and then i went crazy.  absolutely lost it.  i was angry at myself for being such an idiot, for having such outrageous self-talk discussions, for actually asking for such a thing.  a sign about SIGNS?!?!  my eyes were blurred with tears, so i had to steer my bike off of the road (and almost collided with a truck in the process).  i stopped at an abandoned house and threw my bike onto the overgrown grass and wildflowers.  i saw a shed, and thought it would be a lovely place to have a breakdown.

when i stood in front of the open shed, this is what i saw:

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i’ll give you a sign about signs.  how about a fucking shed full.

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and i cracked up.  out loud.  i mean, not that that is any less confusing.  but it does validate the whole . . . sign . . . thing.  i retrieved my bike, wanting to go home for my camera, and there was another very specific sign in front of my face.  but i won’t tell you about that one.  maybe eventually.

also, when i returned with my camera, i considered breaking into the house.  this was on the door, after all.  but i didn’t.  next time?

TAF_4060x

tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr

tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr

today, i sever the connection to my inner Wisdom with my own hands. 
the Places She leads me, i cannot go because i am weak. 
the Light She shows me, i cannot embody, because i am weak.
the River She floods, i cannot swim, because i am weak.
the Truth She sings, i cannot hear, because i am weak.
the Fruit She offers me, i cannot taste, because i am weak.

this threshold of Knowing is crossed, and so perhaps when i return, the door will be propped open.
but i know i will not return.  i will search my whole life for that elusive gateway, and will not find it.
today i gather scraps of shed skin, and paste them to my face, because i am stupid.
because i am weak.

today i think of Orpheus, and plant seeds in my garden—let them be the Brave ones,
now that the frost has passed.
(but even Orpheus looked back.)

today i recognize that a bird in my backyard has called out,
(as i write this, shortcake says, “look, mama!  a bird!”)
like a reminder of Morning,
and that i chose sleep, as did you, because we are weak.
(did you?)

this is not Bravery.  this is not receptive Stillness.  this is not bold Foolishness.
this is not silent Power.
this is smallness.  because i am weak.
(does anyone have any chocolate?)

 

i’ll add a few inspiring, though not “pretty” links now, to completely contradict everything i just said:

a poem about dancing.  yeow

i’ve always wanted to photograph people in the shower.  check out this series.  yeow.

in case you missed this on my facebook, yeeeow again:

number one!

April 28, 2010

 

 Make yourself necessary to someone.  Emerson

I hate quotations.  Tell me what you know.  Emerson

Actually, if this were paper, I’d be furiously scribbling all over that first quote until the ink made holes in the paper.  Then I would tear the paper into a thousand tiny pieces and then I would burn it.  And then I would dig a hole in some remote wilderness with my bare hands and bury the ashes.  That’s how much I hate that quote.

Someone posted it on facebook the other day, and I tried not to look at it.  Unfortunately, it lodged itself into my memory and I’ve been dwelling on it.  This morning, my will faltered at the strength of my curiosity, and I searched for the author.  It was like a knife in my heart (only a mild exaggeration).  EMERSON!?  My dearly beloved?  Say it ain’t so, Ralph Waldo!  Say it ain’t so!  Alas, it was him.  I am betrayed.

navel-gazing holga screw up.  'cause i SUCK!

navel-gazing holga screw up. 'cause i SUCK!

The thing is, I’ve just stubbed my toe on this little pebble of self-doubt, which made me fall and scrape my knee on a sidewalk of self-pity, and when I tried to stand, I sprained my ankle in a rut of self-loathing.  How embarrassing.  I throw my hands up in the air now, make my hands into signs of number one!* and say “I’m good!  It’s alright!  I’m all good!”  But still I feel like an idiot; it’s always worse when there’s nobody to laugh at with you.  And I walk it off, walk it off, but it still hurts a little, to tell you the truth.  All sorts of ridiculous, but honest, emotions that equate to I’m not enough.

And then Emerson tells me to make myself fucking necessary.  Which I just can’t even believe is possible.  How does one become necessary to someone else?  Especially someone who is so acutely feeling her not-enough-ness?  I mean, necessary?  This is when I’ve been necessary to someone else:  as a uterus and a birth canal.  There are a lot of uterus/birth canal combinations walking around, if you hadn’t noticed.  So even my sole case of necessary-ness is questionable.

How’s that for pathetic?  Is this working for you?  Great!  I know it’s making me feel a lot better!  I’m so awesome!  Yaaaaay me!

[stomps on a ziploc bag full of pretzels]

[pops a chocolate covered espresso bean]

Today I was shopping for sunglasses.  The muzak chick was singing something like “does anybody need you?”  I was like, the fuck?  What’s wrong with you people!

The sun was shining, though.  I took a walk in the woods with girliefriends and smelled the pines and touched the clear water and discovered some crazy mushroom thing.  Everything is fine, just fine.  Just.  Fine.  So don’t worry.  Empty flattery will earn you a middle finger, anyway.  But if you just so happened to want to give me a hug, to come up with something deep and edifying to say, and to maybe also make out with me, I’d probably be OK with that.

[curtsy]

 

* “number one!” is a great story from my sister (that you really have to see her tell), in which a drunk guy stumbled out of a club, fell head-first into a garbage can, then jumped back out with his arms raised, signaling and shouting “NUMBER ONE!”

We now interrupt our regularly scheduled upswing with . . .

everything

and 

mental

 

By the time I descended into my lair to get some crazy out last night, I fucked up an attempt to do an ink wash of yesterday’s sketch.  And so I was infuuuuuuriated with myself.  Because I could have developed film or played the guitar or painted a watercolor or worked on that terrible opening chapter.  And those thoughts made me more insane because then I decided that I am just an all-around absolute loser, of course.  Why must I (TRY to) do everything?  My muse is not just promiscuous, she is a whore.  Because she makes it so that I am not even good at anything.

(I am not looking for pity or smoke up my ass, here.  I am just spilling.  So pleeeeease, so help me, don’t.)

I’m a little thrown off by this.  And I’m kind of spinning in circles.  And I’ll do some business things when I can today, like working on the photography website and ordering shipping supplies.  Good, concrete, boring things.  And I will have a friend here for coffee, and I will screw a few hinges onto my cupboard doors.  And, of course, I will mother as a verb.  But I can’t promise that I won’t just go ahead and have a breakdown.  Which makes me feel weak and stupid and lonely, because who feels this way, really?  I mean, pull yourself together, woman!  There are real problems in this world!  Remember how you felt about your fellow college students who complained about their art woes while you studied organic chemistry and microbiology?  Where is that one chick?  Maybe she was just a sad, jealous, trapped little thing.  But maybe we could buck up and channel her today?  Huh?  You lunatic? 

 

Shoot.  I’ve just realized that there are people that blog to uplift and inspire other people, and not to talk to themselves in public.

And so I’m going to try really hard to post something normal-bloggy tomorrow.

*curtsy*

Durga in A minor

February 9, 2010
If you have never been called a defiant, incorrigible, impossible woman… have faith… there is yet time.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes
watercolor on arches hot press paper

watercolor on arches hot press paper

 This may be redundant, but listen.  The last couple days have plunged me into some ridiculous, epic journey of self-loathing and rage-y despair.  It was not so much a passive state of depression, but an active fury.  When I said I wanted to throw a temper tantrum, I totally meant it.  I was hard-core craving broken dishes on the driveway and screaming and kicking and throwing.  The desire was really just for the sake of the feeling of it, but more subtly, I suppose, it was the if-i-can’t-have-EVERYTHING!-exactly-how-I!!-want-it-and-NOW!-then-i-will-throw-a-fit . . . thing.  And not being able to throw fits all day long was like being told by the obstetrician to not push.

And, oh!  Look at the moon.  It is a little waning thing.  How predictable.  I hate myself for being so fucking predictable! 

(Just kidding.  But if I would’ve said that yesterday, I probably would’ve meant it.) 

 And so it was in this state that I did this painting.  I’m borrowing this guitar, if you remember, and although I’ve previously never learned anything beyond the first three chords in Harvest Moon or a Nirvana riff or two, I’m trying to get my rock on.  I really am quite terrible at it thus far, and my fingertips are red and swollen and sore, and hooray for a very easy E minor chord, but still, it just feels sooooo damn good to play it really loud.  It is also a good thing to have around when one is craving a temper tantrum.

A part of my self-loathing was regarding my inability to just be calm and sweet and nice.  I mentally noted one failed attempt at Zen, F minor, housewifery, and altogether goodness . . . after another.  I did try to wrangle it in, the crazy.  I was bringing my attention to that which is, but it turns out that that which was was the ridiculous desire to scream and swear and maybe even to bite.  Sometimes what presents itself is the painfully beautiful glitter of snow, and other times it is just, you know, biting. 

Considering the honesty of the emotion made me think (with a little help from my friend), waitaminutehere.  Maybe this is OK, simply feeling what there is to feel, as opposed to denying, or worse, becoming completely out of touch with, extreme emotion.  (And also, she told me that someone called a picture of me cute.  Ah, flattery.)  Fiery is a part of me, and trying to be “good” and “nice” is sometimes especially exhausting.  I woke up thinking about archetypes, and trying to remember some of the goddess myths that would point to the fierce aspect of the divine feminine.  And, so hooray for facebook, where Chameli mentioned Durga.  I cued up Ragani‘s “Durga” on my iPod, and I named my painting after her.

 I’m putting the original up on my Etsy, as well as a few prints of both this rocking Durga and The Selkie.  The prints have not yet arrived from the printer, and so I’m listing them at a discount until they do (I am such the terrible businesswoman!).  You’ll get them cheaper for being a little risky and patient.  Apropos.

***EDITED TO ADD: the 8×10 prints have sold, already!  I’ve just listed the 5×7.***

nightmare

February 8, 2010

hi.

excuse me please, while i have a temper tantrum.

i am just all whiny and piny and altogether feeling like throwing things and screaming.  strangely enough, it’s not a terrible feeling.  i think it would feel really good and not at all negative.  the negative part is not being able to do it right now. 

hmpf.

so over the weekend (this is not the temper-tantrum.  just my exposed soul, is all.)  i had the worst dream i’ve ever had.  not one of the truly terrifying ones; no loss of a loved one or anything.  i mean like gory, horror-flick style.  i am still quite amazed at the twisted horrificness (nope.  not a word.) that came from the depths of my subconscious.

i’m going to tell you about it, which is sort of a problem because a.) it’s just nasty and not really inspiring blog material, and b.) if you were so inclined, you could analyze a road map of my inner workings.  and i don’t want you to know.  i really don’t.  and yet, i’m telling you.  (idiot.)  so look away if you must.  i will have a lovely guitar-playing, dread-headed, tube-sock-ed girl to post soon, and you can just hold out for that if you came here hoping for loveliness.

this is not lovely.  and also it is long.

there was more to the dream in the beginning, but this is where it got ugly:  it was my first day back to work as a nurse.  the hospital building was dark and there were no patients in the rooms.  the hospital was also sort of a dormitory and maybe a church and had a mental institution vibe.  i stood with three other new workers, and we wondered what we were supposed to be doing.  we figured out that we had been assigned to some experimental project that had, that night, been suddenly abandoned.  the phlebotomist came onto the floor and asked where all of the “scions” were.  (i should note that i woke up from this dream wondering where i came up with the word “scion.”  i can’t ever remember hearing it.  googling it gave me the chills: a descendant or offspring.  a shoot or twig from a plant for grafting.)

we told the phlebotomist that apparently, the project had been abandoned.  she stared at us in horror, then relief, and went running, full-speed, from the room.  slowly, the “scions” or patients or subjects or whatever began to wander into what was like a large surgical area.  they were sort of zombie-like and bloody, but cordial enough.  (ha!) one doctor was with them, and it seemed like he was trying desperately to save the experiment, and he took a few of them into the operating room. 

somehow we new workers ascertained that this experiment or whatever it was was intended to help the human race live to its highest potential.  the scions were people who were dead or dying, their bodies (but not souls) salvaged by some new medication.  the surgeons, we learned, performed procedures not unlike lobotomies, nipping and scraping off different internal organs, trying to find the right combinationfor their ambitious goal.  some of the patients ended up being exceptionally “good,” or moral, after a procedure, some gained genius intelligence, some could actually fly.

as we were learning this all (maybe the surgeon was telling us, as he operated?  i don’t remember), a beautiful blonde woman sat up on her surgical table, her chest oozing new blood upon the old dried blood.  she was screaming and screaming in agony and pain and sorrow, pointing at a stainless steel table across the room.  there, on the small table, sat her heart, bloody and beating.

i backed away slowly, half-listening to the doctor explain that things had started to go terribly wrong.  i quickly found a set of many open doors, and walked outside into a group of scions.  i was about to just walk away, the fresh air felt so fabulous in my lungs.  but i noticed the scions staring at the humans playing in the snow in the distance.  the other workers were with me, and we decided that we could not just let these things escape.  there was a definite sense of martyrdom:  “save the human children!”

suddenly we workers all had bloody swords, and we ushered the scions inside.  it all got really terrifying, then.  they were disgusting and putrid and it was a bloody mayhem amidst the surgical steel hospital equipment.  there were too many, and there was no controlling them.  it became every-man-for-himself, and i was running, opening doors that led only to windowless rooms, finding small openings and squeezing through them only to find another room, often dorm rooms or classrooms or apartments.  i would search under beds for trap doors, climb into empty elevator shafts, scream and pound on locked doors.  it was endless, and each new escape led to another prison.  and all around, there were scions.

at last, i found myself in a darkened hallway, dark rooms with locked doors everywhere.  i noticed the sword still in my hand, and suddenly remembered a rule that i could leave if i took a scion outside with me.  there was a woman in a lobby trying to deal with the chaos, and i was trying to show her my xeroxed rulebook, to point out the rule about escape.  but she could not hear me.  i grabbed a bloody scion anyway, the sword to her neck, and suddenly i noticed a glass window open a crack.  i could hardly contain my emotion.  it opened onto a rooftop, but we were a story or two above that.  i had to muster the courage to jump out, and to kick out the entire window so both of us would fit, but i was desperate, and left with no other choice.

i kicked, i jumped, and then beside me, (real) Shortcake woke me up.  i couldn’t even find the courage to look around the room.  i held my little teddy bear girl and shivered.  to take my mind off of the dream, i imagined a story plot about secret lovers sending letters to post office boxes, and a granddaughter discovering them.  i didn’t go back to sleep for hours.

how bout them apples?

boo (as in boo-hoo)

January 20, 2010

Have I told you that my family has abandoned me?  My mom, dad, grandma, aunt, uncle, brother, and sister all moved to Arizona over the course of a few years.  Julie found a mister there, and now my little nephew and niece have both betrayed me by being born Arizonians.

Julie and this gorgeous yiddo beebee came for a little visit this past weekend.  It was wonderful, but then, go figure, they left.  Look at these pictures and tell me I should be OK with how very far away they live.

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layla

Yeah.  I didn’t think so.

It kills me.

(Destruction and) Renewal

January 5, 2010
watercolor on arches hot press, ink/digital

watercolor on arches hot press, destroyed with ink/digital

And so, apparently, my muse is pregnant.  And hott.  And she wears tube socks.  I can’t shake the tube socks.  But she is unable to tell me how to stop ruining everything. 

I began my routine of late-night art Mondays last night.  I developed a crappy roll of film–an entire roll of images I knew I didn’t need to take; began a beautiful ink drawing, but screwed it up by ignoring my intuition to just stop; then made this watercolor and destroyed her, too.  This one I “destroyed” by getting crazy with the ink. 

What you see here is my desperate attempts on photoshop to cover the ink mess.  Desperate attempts=digitally making most of the inky crap black.  I think I made it even worse.  It looked really good when it was all white.  Sort of unfinished, but in a good, wispy way.  And then, as I had just done with the ink drawing, I ignored that little voice that said “that is enough,” and assaulted it with black ink.

I am on a “ruin everything” mission, it seems.  Yesterday, I forgot to add salt to the bread, and ruined it, which, in turn, ruined the cinnamon rolls I made with the same dough.  And there was last night’s mess of an art session.  And today I ruined what should have been a really good curry dish for lunch.  I mean, Julie ate it.  And had seconds.  But it was RUINED!  RUINED, I TELL YOU!

I’m reading Women Who Run With The Wolves (a title that Hercules had a hard time checking out from the library for me), and I’ve just read a tale about a girl who, essentially, carried a magical doll in her pocket that told her what to do: turn left, turn right, stop talking.  I’ve got that magical doll, we all have that intuition.  I think my current task is to remember how to listen to her.

I think I get it.  I do think I hear her (so many voices up in here).  I do think that I can decipher between internal and external.  But I tend to disobey.

The Illustration Friday prompt is “Renewal.”  I had read that a couple days ago, and remembered it as “Rebirth.”  Close enough, right?  My intuition tells me “yes.”

DSC_0627x

see? blue cast. photoshop fail.

Today I received a mini lecture about a homework folder.  I’m sure it was as simple as “Mowgli didn’t bring his folder to school today,” but I only heard: “You are a failure as a mother, and your children are destined to become even more terrible failures than you, thanks to your parenting ineptitude.”

When I got home, there was mascara all over my face.

Now, granted, it is a new moon today, plus, nature is just about as dark as she gets right now.  And however skeptical you might be about nature’s effects on the soul, the new moon does at least have physical implications for me.  (read: P. M. fucking. S.) 

Anyway.  I came home—drippy mascara, hungry kids, and all; and went online to place another photo order.  While the order was uploading, I (surprise!) went on to facebook, where a friend admitted to having a bad day.  It was a simple, honest sentence, but was more comforting to me, in that ridiculously depressive moment, than any other words or actions could have been.  Beyond support, advice, or sympathy, it sometimes is just nice to know that you’re not alone. 

I know. I know how obnoxiously weepy and sappy and whiny that sounds if your life is perfect and you are never sad.  (Seriously?  Your life is perfect, and you are never sad?  Wow.  Bitch.)  But for those of us humans, we actually find great comfort and connection in one another’s imperfections.  It’s true, isn’t it?  Don’t you feel closer to a person once you’ve seen their soft underbelly, their endearing (and not so endearing) flaws, their mistakes and secrets?  Or worse, their mundane?

So why in the world do we try so desperately to hide those things?  We flaunt what ”should” be flaunted, and hide what “should” be hidden (including our sadness).  And then we, wearing mascara and perfection, disconnect.

I had a similar conversation with a friend the other day, and she remarked on what a vicious cycle it is: the attempt to connect by appropriately flaunting and hiding and fitting into stereotypes, which, in turn, only causes more loneliness.  Counterproductive.

I was feeling all smug and non-people-pleasy then, like, psssh.  glad i’m not like that.  pssssh. 

Until I thought about what it would be like to meet, in person, some friends I know only through this here electronic device.  And it made me feel socially anxious–a feeling I am not at all familiar with.  I realized that this is totally different than the normal way of getting to know someone.  You people know me at my most manic depressive.  I flash my soul here, in words and pictures and drawings like I would never do over a casual cuppa, yet you would not even recognize me in passing.

Someone directed me to this post by Jen Lee that says it perfectly.  “Being new friends is sometimes about breaking the bad news to each other.”  My confession, my soft underbelly (no pun intended), is more about how normal and relatively boring I actually am.  And so, without further ado, I’m breaking the bad news, a few of my horrifyingly mundane attributes:

 (these will not be making it to the christmas cards.)

~ I have ugly feet.  I mean, who doesn’t have ugly feet?  But apparently, mine are even that much uglier.

~ My dreadlocks really have nothing at all to do with a spiritual journey.  It’s just another hairstyle.

~ I have really short, stubby fingers.  Bad for arpeggios, good for trills.

~ In a matter of minutes, I can be all three of these things: extremely happy, painfully sad, and completely apathetic.  Quite frequently, actually, this is the case.  (Did you know that already?)

~ Currently, my comfortable jeans are a size 12.  And I have neither ambition nor desire to change that fact.  I’m fine with it, but if exercise and dietary discipline are virtues, then fat is a fault.

~ I’m not terribly good at photoshop (obviously?).  AND I use (prepare yourselves, photographers!!!) Photoshop Elements.

~ I don’t wear sunscreen because I like how I look with a tan.

~ I am likely the messiest person you’ll ever know.  Seriously.  (Tell ‘em, real life friends.)

~ I live in the most standard ranch house ever.  And I don’t.  Have.  Anything.  Hanging.  On.  My.  Walls.  (except something I will tell you about later.)

~ I don’t at all take care of things like DVDs (Hi, Jessica!), TVs, laptops, carpets, . . . oh, anything really.  I don’t take care of material things.

~ I was the homecoming queen.

~ I don’t send Christmas cards.