impermanence

art that moves me pt. 1

Louise Nevelson. Sky Cathedral, 1982

If only I could put all of my belongings together. Paint them black. Step back and see their relationships. So gorgeous. To me, well...I don't think it gets better than Nevelson. It's huge. Those are real chair parts. It's a giant sculpture. All those things precariously glued together. Are these the remnants in the aftermath of a tornado?

Right now, this is both perfection&chaos. All of these disparate pieces of life shoved together suddenly create a masterpiece. United in color. Nevelson wrote that black held a "totality, peace and greatness."

pump up the jam!

Jacob bestowed upon me some hopeful news today. He was reading Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live and he found the following quote: She says while being at home recovering from surgery an advice nurse on the phone gave her some of the best advice of her life "Listen," she said "you are supposed to avoid stress and get lots of rest. But if your soul wants to dance, then staying in bed is stressful, and dancing is restful."

I could be dancing! As insecure as I am, I have always found enormous value in shaking my ass off – yes in public, yes atop chairs in front of mirrors when I believed I was the only one around, yes in front of thousands of seated folks squinting to get a good glimpse of James Taylor. I can’t help it! It’s in my blood. My parents were hippies – dancing the weekends away at Grateful Dead concerts, and soon enough I was joining them.

To this day, when life gets complicated, I get on the dance floor. It’s akin to a desire to get drunk, or get outta town. It’s my coping mechanism. I’d like to make a request on The Fez to be on a seven week stint of ‘Shut Up and Dance’ nights. I need them ALL!

Thanks for the reminder, Jacob. Just what the doctor ordered!

will never lose hope

Yeah, if I had known it would be like this, I would have done everything in my power to make different decisions. It crushes my heart to see things the way they are left. Two people so closely entwined require a severance so that they can grow, but how I wish it didn’t have to be this brutal.

I am compelled to link this experience of parting to the Once song “Falling Slowly”: Take this sinking boat and point it home; We've still got time. We don’t have a choice about what to do now --- we must make the best of it. As if this was part of the plan all along. We would come together, and grow and blossom, and then we would separate and find value in the separation. How I pray that what is left can still be nurtured and we can find ourselves growing back together in friendship.

We already know that I’m sentimental. That I do not take love and friendship lightly. I hope that some of you understand my choice to try to reconnect this family unit and make it work this time – with open eyes. And yet at the same time, how it is of EQUAL importance to me that she and I find a way (someday) to bring out each other’s shine again, like we always have.

she likes animals.

Wandering the blogworld, I came upon Karen's blog and this hilarious post about hating The Muppets. Not sure how many of you know, but I A.D.O.R.E. them! I always have. I do think The Muppet Show was an odd-odd production, often geared towards adults than children. What's the deal with those old crotchety men? And the eagle? There are many characters I will love forever. It is Kermit, however, that I surround my love and devotion.


I think Kermit is sexy. I do. I know it's strange, but I am ACTUALLY ATTRACTED TO KERMIT THE FROG! I used to fantasize about kissing him! (((It's full disclosure here today on shedreamsingrids.))) Especially when he was the reporter on Sesame Street, I found his wit to be quite alluring. The way he pulls in his frog lips when furrowed with a problem, his voice, and of course, the way he dances! Arms stretched out (two poles propping them up) he does fast 180 degree rotations, and with such joy!

The attraction began early, but was greatly heightened by The Muppets' parodies that happened in the early 90s. It was easy to get posters, tshirts,



and other ridiculous paraphernalia, like the 'Amphibian' cologne below (which YES, I do have!). By this time I was in high school, and the kitschiness of adoring Kermit was kinda charming (no?), so it was easy to still secretly want him as my boyfriend.



Is this ridiculous? Yes. Is it true? Yes. I like him. A lot. No, we don't need to discuss that piece of bacon that adores him. She's redunkulous! How hideous! What can he possibly see in her? Meh. He's a loyal, hardworking, genius of a frog, and I believe in his talent.

Writing this, I realize that there's more to my love of animals. While sifting through a giant piles of images with Jacob. I came across this image painted by Michelangelo:

Leda and the Swan


Do you guys know the story of 'Leda and the Swan'? Zeus masquerades as a swan and SUCCESSFULLY seduces Leda?!?!? Yeah, crazy, but am I ENTIRELY wrong to think this image is hot? Yeah, I know. I'm crazy about nonmammals! Can we at least agree that it's erotic?

I am compelled to share that I don't actually want to have sex with animals; this is just a fantasy of characters. Why though? Why is it so important that you leave this reading WITHOUT the belief that I'm 'into animals'? It's both humorous/frightening and true/false. Not sure if I could possibly convince anyone of the validity of my arousal here, or if I have, that I still maintain shreds of sanity. It's just so unfortunate that my attraction to this frog and this swan will divide us forever.

gab's creative process pt. 1

My nights of basement/craftroom time with Jacob have been productive. I'm enjoying the dreamy quality of these photos (thanks to my glamorous camera phone). They're all misty and void of focus. Meh. It's alright. The nights have felt similarly.

I used to have the first collage (first pic) hanging up on my wall --- in its unfinished half-baked stage --- about three years ago. I could've made it last night though, and let me be honest here, that seriously surprises me. I know that at a certain point in life, an artist's eyes can be set on making the same impact, working out the same visuals, but it still looks and feels so fresh to me.

While discovering all these old friends, I came across this little 'tutorial' of sorts that I had made. It's a bit fuzzy in its execution. I was writing out on graph paper my art's philosophy: I don't paint or draw; I'm a relationship maker between images. I went on and on about these things that I still so adamantly feel. I had just told Jacob the night before, in fact, about my draw to these clippings. Each individual square/rectangle can stand alone. Put into a grid or a Rubik's Cube, that square/rectangle MUST relate in some way to the others.

My heart warmed realizing this unchanging belief that I've had now for years about my artwork. Here I am reprocessing&recreating the same visual messages. The second photo is part of a new piece. Looking through it all, and the images I'm continually drawn to, I feel like I'm somehow making a point to impose structure on the unpredictable wildness of the world --- but specifically of femininity. Without taking the time away from these unfinished works, I don't think I would have realized the real commitment I have made to working with images of women. Does this mean I'm just grappling with issues of femininity myself?

it seemed so poignant last night

the listing begins.
perfect writing utensils.

list it out!

I'm tired of not feeling good enough. Good enough for who? Where is this magical bar of greatness that I so desperately fail to reach? Why do we keep ourselves down so much?

Bah! I'm so done with this: 'Are you really SURE you like me?' bit. The line has gotten so tiresome.


Instead, I would like to take Cheyenne up on her challenge of THE LIST EXCHANGE! And I would also like to encourage anyone else to save your lists for a week. What will we do with these lists? These lists that will mask my 'not good enough' moods? Well...well....I think we should look at them. SEE them! Take pictures. Laugh, smile, learn etcetera etcetera.

never was a ‘stuffed animal’ girl.

I never wanted to sleep in a sea of my little furry critters, like some of my other friends. Some had them all lined up on their pillow. Not me. I was never terribly attached to one bear, or one dolly. One of my dearest friends used to like to sleep in a sea of his favorite clothing, all smothering his blankets. To me, it’s my people that I want to all pile in on my king-sized bed for a long long afternoon nap.

I have an attachment disorder. So very attached to so many people. I don't want to move from one person to the next, I want just want to keep adding the newbies. I suppose this accounts for my love of throwing parties and having knitting/crafting nights. Let’s get ALL of my favorite people together --- please. I'm not one for having TWO close friends, or staying in all the time. It pains me when I go a long time without seeing someone. I want to divide all my time between my oodles of people and be with them constantly. Time management is an issue for me.

It always amazes me when I find someone new that intrigues me and doesn't seem to mind me monopolizing their time. I wonder if I'm "coming on too strong" with friends. Am I calling too much, should I wait three days like courting men do? The truth is, I want to see 'my people' at all times. So so important to me that I don't lose touch with anyone either. I may move away, or change jobs, but you must know that once you've reached Gabrielle's Gates of Obsession; you ain't never leaving! Muahahahaaaa!

I have been accused of trying to get everyone to be my best friend, and I think that's a fair accusation (although I will do a bit of squabbling should you use it against me). My tendency with 'my people' is to try to see them as much as humanly possible. Perhaps we could gluestick our arms together? I would know how you go through your day, how you interact with your own people, how you eat your food, choose your clothing. I think this shadowing desire was part of MacKenzie's astute observation that I have no boundaries. Oh, the boundaryless girl.

Was I supposed to shut up a long time ago? Or refrain from telling you the inner workings of my mind, and ALL of my ultimate fears? Was I not supposed to ask about why you would leave him for her? Was I not supposed to flirt so much, and find your perimeters of what's appropriate? Boundaries, boundaries. Should we not talk about it? I’m really just in awe with everyone and their distinctiveness. I feel hardwired to have these exchanges of intimacy --- a bearing of our souls.

I do find myself falling into situations where I have laid out my life's story to someone I have barely met. I think we have this understanding between us, when in reality they're sweating to get out of the conversation. I suppose they weren't quite ready for the 'my mother abandoned me' bit. There are times though, when there is this magical connection between me and 'my people', where I truly feel connected for life. Somewhere in the sky, you and I share a wondrous star.

I wish I could say that I have accepted my predilection for finding my dozens of peoplemates, but I'm not. Grappling with some common understanding of how our society works: one secure life romantic relationship, solid family, two close friends, five acquaintances, etc. Where does my village fit? I think the most vulnerable part is always wondering if the scale ever gets close to even though. Will I always like you, need you, want your time and attention more? Will I always be this needy about reassurance? Where did all this wetblanket insecurity begin? Even after a ten year relationship with Ryan, I was still wondering if he liked me.

Certainly there are aspects of some friendships, whether it's been said or not, I know there is solid mutual adoration. As for the rest of you, I guess I'll just keep enjoying you, and unless you tell me otherwise, I'm gonna put my faith in believing you enjoy me too.

At the end of this, I bet there’ll be some questions as to the identity of ‘my people’, but I’m pretty sure it’s obvious. Maybe I should have stuck with stuffed animals after all.

requirements of taste

“I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like... Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the damn truth, and by this measure I was having one of the best dates of my life.” -High Fidelity

As a sort of question to all of you, I post this quote from a fabulous movie. Glorious movie!, and I’ll take any of you on the mat to prove it (ha! Who am I kidding about fighting, but you get the idea). I have spent my entire life having more or less ‘requirements of taste’ in my inner circle of friends, and certainly with my sweethearts. This is fairly common, right? If you don’t think these things are funny, then maybe you won’t get my humor at all. If you don’t think my favorite books are beautifully written, then perhaps you won’t understand the way I see the world.
This has gotten me into trouble. I would normally describe myself as pretty open and inviting of others, but these preferences I have get me labeled as an elitist. I have tried to reexamine, downshift, and avert your eyes. It’s as if knowing that we’re going to disagree on something I hold so dearly, is too painful. I’d prefer not to know.

So when you say that you love love love my favorite things, I swoon. I can’t help it. How lovely you like these things too. You have such great taste! What’s superfabulous, is when you like things I have yet to know, and then I see/read/watch these things and realize that your own collection of preferred pieces of entertainment are equally brilliant.

I have gotten better. I don’t have any expectations that my friends will adore Woody Allen. I know that he makes most people cringe. Such a shame his love affair with his stepdaughter would ruin his work. What’s the big deal?!?! Ha!

I feel like this can go two ways. If you and I are at odds in our worldviews and passions in life, if you pass my ‘requirements of taste’, I think we can still have a great time together. Inversely, if our conversations skip without a hitch, and you’re fabulous in so many ways, let’s not worry about the details of what entertains you (i.e. Chey, I still adore you, despite our differing of preferences).

Now, should you be glamorous and amazing + you share my love of The Postal Service, Vonnegut, and Waiting for Guffman, well I will carve your initials in my life’s tree trunk.

seven sisters

I do want to say the wittiest thing ever, and make your head tilt to the side, and think lovely thoughts about me. ‘Oh, Gabs, you’re so clever,’ you’d think. Maybe it would even instigate a thoughtful sigh on your part.

Why? Why do I care so much what you think about what I write, and what I think? Even after a huge caveat that I’m not as funny as the rest, why do I still get caught up in writing something worth reading? I think I keep forgetting all these differences. Why aren’t you entertained by these neurotic ramblings that happen in my mind? Aren’t I supposed to put out into the world the face of confidence and charm? Aw, snap! I missed that one then.

I still grapple with this scared feeling that there will always be an inequality between us. My affections overwhelming all of us --- which brings me back to this horrific fear of coming off as. . . desperate. YEP! I said it. I think I come off as desperate. Desperate for affirmation. Desperate for attention. Yeah, how’s that for charming?!? (the saddest part of this post is that it’s a bloggy form of the dreaded question ‘does this dress make me look fat?’ --- which means there MUST be a phatrillion comments about how fabulous I am, and how I have nothing to fret about, etcetera etcetera. For that, I do apologize. This is more of an expression of mess my brain makes for me.)

All of this brings me to The Pleiades. So much wonderment of my childhood was devoted to the stars. I haven’t really given them much thought lately. Today, in the midst of my psychodrama du jour, I stopped to look outside. The rain. The gorgeous rain -- and think of The Pleiades. Do you think we could take a drive and look at the night sky sometime? I think I need to really see a sky COVERED in stars again. It’s been awhile.

hoarding whore

Jacob and I were recently discussing my fabulous ‘collection of things’ in my craft room. I have vintage photographs of longlost (read: imaginary) relatives. I have hundreds of art postcards. All of my shelves are kissed with little inspirational trinkets and tchotchkes. It’s my art den. My own little womb, swathed in a comforting blanket of personal joy.

It’s when I bring out my collection of clippings/images that things get outtahand...

I have folders of clippings cut from women’s magazines of the 50s: images of women, images of Danish Modern furniture, bizarre floral design, recipes for peculiar dishes combining gelatin and beef. I have folders of clippings cut from contemporary design magazines, and children’s encyclopedias. I have images of amazing diy projects I want to do someday, or ads incorporating reinterpretations of famous works of art. Folders!Folders!Folders!

Sometimes opening up a folder is like getting reacquainted with an old friend. “Oh, I haven’t seen you in years!” (although it may have only been a few months). And certainly, there are images I’ve carried around with me in these folders for over a decade.

I really have come so far. I used to just keep the entire magazine. I had boxes and boxes of magazines that I’d schlep from house to apartment to new house. I have pared down. A select lucky number of images will actually be incorporated into something of meaning. Whether it’s a journal, or an art piece – there are some images that I feel like I need to be able to see at a moment’s notice, while other images comfort me keeping the thousands of others company.

I got so caught up in a sea of my images that I forgot altogether that Jacob was there. My focus on relating all these familiar images together took over, and I realized what Jacob was saying all along --- I don’t collect; I hoard.

Paws off, Buck-o! I bear my teeth and growl at any scoff of the legitimacy and value of my things. My glorious, gorgeous things! You may have your books, or priceless china. For me, I'll take my musty-smelling, jagged-edged images over the crown's jewels - anydayoftheweek!

last night she gave me the moon

“Wanna watch Vertigo?”
“Sure.”

Did she know then that she giving me such a gift, to share this movie together? Obsession! Intrigue! This film captures such a feeling of my early love affair with cinema.

Hitchcock + Jimmy Stewart + Kim Novak + brilliant score = HEAVEN!

There was nothing sweeter.

sourpussy

I tried so hard to have a bad day. Extra work piled atop of me. People and their crabbiness. Yeah. I tried. Complained and whined a lot, and yet... right there beneath this disheveled facade is a smirk of joy. I can't help it. I feel good somehow. And hey, why question these things?

And, in case you were wondering, Solomon,

I would DEFINITELY take the pill that would make me never need to sleep again. The drawback --- never being able to sleep even if I wanted to, just doesn’t seem negative at all anymore.

I was thinking earlier today if I have somehow used up my brain’s vault of blog-worthy thoughts. Are these thoughts of merit renewable resources?

insert thoughtful title __________

Last night I was stuck, shin-deep in cement. The creative process always has this troublesome spot for me where I get too heady questioning every choice I make.

Is this too crafty?
Is this too narrative?
What’s my intention with this?
Do these things relate to one another?
Am I being too preachy?
Has every centimeter of this piece been expressed before?
Am I copying someone else’s vision?
Will anyone else find value in this work?
Will this look good in the morning?

And it was just moments --- sheer moments --- ago when I was skimming the delicate surface of inspiration. I was there, making the good choices, seeing things playout in their fashionable ways aesthetically, and I was feeling it.

La de dah de dah… la de dah de dah… and then SCHLOOOP! Cement. Soft, squishy, inviting, but unfortunately solidifying. Here I stand, immobile. Artistic potential stalled; in hundreds of cases, including last night, artistic potential extinguished.

if i had my druthers

I’d play the piano, and so would you.

I would use the word ‘druthers’ more often.

I would feel awake right now --- peppy, even.

I would spend all day in my craft room, amongst my “clippings” and images. Moving them around, making connections with them, thinking about their relationships with one another.

If I had my druthers, you’d want to be there too. Seeing these images and their potential.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day

I was supposed to walk this morning. I had spent quite a bit of the weekend fantasizing about this morning’s brisk excursion. The perfect music. The perfect quiet. The perfect smells and sights of my neighborhood and the park.

I couldn’t do it though. That wretched, heartless, evil in this world (aka daylights savings time) ruined all! I just couldn’t get up this morning. Poor P enduring my gapillion snoozes on the alarm. I had to soak up every seven-minute interval! At about 7:42, I realized there was no hope for me and my walk of bliss. It would be ho-hum, driving to work I go.

(Meh. At least I didn’t have to rock this dress with those tennis shoes. I mean, I coulda pulled it off, but you know.) In the Sentra I sit, radio goes on to 94.7 because no, I don’t have a CD player, and no, I don’t have an iPod for the car adapter thingamadoodad. What is playing on our alternative station? ‘Time’ by Pink Floyd. Not quite sure why. When things like this happen, I immediately think someone has died.

Remarkable belief in humanity and the twinkle of goodness that exists from starting a new week with a feeble Monday morning came over me. An enveloping of calm and comfort created by years of listening to Pink Floyd as a child with my parents and then again as a young adult. How this experience with this inopportune drive to work magically turns into the one moment that was necessary for today: perfection.

I blast the music. I’ve really been into volume lately. Must have some resonance for me because it’s something I only do when I’m truly alone. There I was with my coffee cup, my crazy dress, my 11 minutes to get there, and:

Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say…

i'm looking through you; you're not the same

Finally realizing the extent to which I am incapable of caring for myself. The amount of responsibility I have avoided, especially within the last two years show-stops me. I don’t need to be this person of lethargy. She’s unattractive and tired. Wah wa wahhhh… (if only you knew the right keys to put those ‘wahs’)
I’m ready to get up now.

I’m also ready to share with you the songs that are tapping the tender in me: Postal Service’s cover of “Against All Odds” and Mates of State’s cover of “Starman”. Well, of course the Once soundtrack as well. Yeah, I am that sentimental. I’ve got nothing...well, let's say very little to hide.

TwoSixTwo

Two camperdown elm trees on the walk to work. A large gorgeous one stands in front of the Bush House. A slight, delicate one stands before the Oregon School for the Blind.

Six songs played on my way. On ‘Shuffle’, the iPod played: The Cure‘s “Lullaby”, Weezer’s “Say it Ain’t So”, Ella’s “Black Coffee”, Postal Service’s “Sleeping In”, The Sounds’ “Tony the Beat”, and Tears for Fears’ “Head Over Heels.” Does Ms. iPod have something to tell me about the greatness of today? Is she planning a day of random favoritest moments of wonderfulness? ‘Cuz that’s what I think when a mess of radass songs are picked for me. Go ahead, play what you’d like, Ms. iPod, I trust you.

Two days of walking, and feeling hopeful freshness.

Handkerchiefs

Oh memorabilia… I hang on to it as proof that I experienced moments of meaning. Somehow my brain’s recollections of events and people, feelings and events, does not properly portray these subtle essences. A letter, a receipt, a torn paper cup of happiness will all tap into these parts of my inferior mental images though, and join the connections of sentimentality.

My dear dear friend, Jennifer gently mentioned my habitual pattern of changing focus and directions in life. Loved you for so long; then loved someone else. Then wanted to do this with my life. Then got bored, and found this. And it’s so exciting. And then I fell for you…so hard. Yeah. It’s how I roll. While my focus changes, it is the love that is permanent, for pretty much everyone. If only someone could send me the serum for ‘letting go’ --- that would be something worth a wish.

Each of these loves in life, whether they’re Kermit the Frog, The Beatles, or Melissa in high school, I gots the tchotchkes to prove it. Is getting rid of old love letters part of the letting go process? If yes, say no.

just one more thing

It's as if we're from two different countries.

heart.

I'm reading about stealing bandwidth and how displaying images from the web is at the cost of the host's website. Fascinating.

Once is one of those movies that has strum a chord in me. Sometimes I cannot rationally break down the reasons certain movies or songs just ---- get to me. And this movie with it's heartbreaking&making soundtrack has this very characteristic. It makes my heart tender.

53

I am amused. I have written today’s date about a dozen times already. Each time, I was crestfallen. ‘Today’s her birthday,’ I silently say. But it’s NOT! Today’s not my mother’s birthday, it’s Julia’s birthday! Ha! The ninth of March is my mother’s day. I find it all so fascinating because I pride myself on remembering these details in life. Here I am enduring this enormous weighted recognition that there will be no exchanges of birthday wishes. Heavy sighs. Droopy corners of my mouth. I have no relationship with my mother. She has vanished from my life. I have let her go too – at least physically.

As a woman of almost 30, I try to be so rational (well within (my emotional)reason). I try to look at it like Pamela does, mothers are women who have done the best they can with what they had/have. I’m there. I get it. She’s no Mother Mary. She’s no Wonder Woman. She’s just like me raising my own children: inexperienced, tired, scared, excitable, curious, yearning. Why then, can I not successfully wrestle this issue down? How can a mother abandon their children? Even if their children are almost 30, doesn’t she still have some requirement of relating?

Yeah, so don’t abandon me. It sux. I don’t like it. I wonder when she does turn 53 this Sunday if she’ll think about how lovely it’d be if I showed up with loving arms. I used to call. I used to write her letters and emails pleading with her to deal with her years of guilt --- put them aside --- so we could just have some contact. Any contact! As a mother, I just don’t see how this can happen. How do you steer your life away from your child in need?

The nature of this blog is to be a warm (attractive) place for me to process the tartar of life. And oh, has it built up, baby! After all this tapping of complex cavities, I am still amused. Here I am experiencing the pains of life and loss, and it’s on the WRONG DAY! Ha! Levity is sacred! You’re right, Cheyenne, the joke is the thing!

parsley, cottonballs, rosemary, and sugarcubes

I’m not as funny as you --- any of you --- really. But I am superb at realizing how funny things can be. That is to say, I think very highly of my personal sense of humor and how it is able to pick up on many levels of subtlety. I thought I would challenge myself by bragging.

For most of my life I have found any notion of ego or arrogance utterly repulsive. Probably rooted in my discordance with my brother (oh yeah, I have a brother! He’s quite-quite ignorant and arrogant --- isn’t that the perfect combo??), but interestingly enough, I still managed to befriend my bestest friend in high school who embodied the bravado of being the smartest man alive. Oh Solomon, the things you showed me. I suppose Jared also had tinges of an egomaniac as well.

My love of the Enneagram has showed me though that there is part of being a 2 that is secretly aware of their own ultimate power and strength --- repulsion being an aversion to one’s own nature.

The only thing I brag about with no shred of uneasiness is my art knowledge. I think choosing something as obscure as museum artwork to be knowledgeable about has worked to my advantage. Of course writing that down, I start to worry that I’m about to be tested (which I would love, so go ahead!). I suppose that’s part of the problem though. Once you’ve offered your own belief that you’re terrific at something, there’s always someone there ready to tear you down. I have learned to stuff it. Stuff it, Gabrielle.

At Hannah’s glorious Fourth Birthday Tea Party, I bought sugarcubes - by far the most charming thing about the décor, although the silver trays of sandwich triangles certainly weigh in. I would like to take this time to say that I pride myself on noticing the little details in life. Forget the big picture and the meat of life! Meh! I’m in it for the parsley!

In which she discusses why she writes again…

I’m not going to lie. (What a lovely way to start a new blog with, eh?) ((As soon as I typed ‘eh’, I suddenly feared Jacob’s accompanying shudder with this word that I used to overuse)). I’m starting a new blog to be one of the cool kids again.

I used to blog. Twice, actually… First here and then here. As a youth, I was an avid journal keeper, but it took reading my beloved Girl’s blog to get me to publish these ideas online. I bring all this up as some justification as to why I must begin again with the blogging. I would be a liar, however, (and remember, I said there would be none of that earlier) to say that I wasn’t recently inspired by the likes of these ladies: Ms. Snapdragon and Ms. Brilliant.

I have to start fresh. Just like opening a gorgeous smelling new journal, I must start with a new location leaving what was written behind. I want to build a new relationship to the process of writing and collecting these writings. I have been realizing that my life is desperate for some discipline. Can this blog of lofty thoughts and painfully artsy aspirations be my new ritual?

So thanks ladies, for being good role models. I can use some.