perpetual huddle

Sitting on a swing, talking to the imaginary, invisible, audience

Whenever I'm struggling just to be human, which is more often than not, I return to this bit by Rob Brydon on Human Remains. He's the only actor I know who plays a hapless optimist even better than Steve Carell. These words are my mantra and my manifesto, my worry beads, my comfort food...

***

Friends, and not even friends, but acquaintances have said to me,

"Life has dealt you a bad hand."

Well, I'm pretty philosophical about that...

If a life of

turmoil,

anguish,

sorrow,

doubt,

fear,

regret,

and longing

is a bad hand, then yes...

but is it?

***

Heartsick again tonight

Too many black men murdered by police in this country. It has to stop. We need justice. Take action for justice. #BlackLivesMatter

Five Concrete Things You Can Do to Make Black Lives Matter

Give for Thanksgiving!

Wishlist

Karen's bookshelf: wishlist

Godland Volume 1: Hello, Cosmic!

by Joe Casey

tagged: to-read and wishlist

A Pattern Language: Towns, Buildings, Construction

by Christopher W. Alexander

tagged: to-read, read_chunks_of, and wishlist

Descent to the Goddess: A Way of Initiation for Women

by Sylvia Brinton Perera

tagged: to-read and wishlist

Preschool in Three Cultures: Japan, China and the United States

by Joseph J. Tobin

tagged: to-read and wishlist

The Authority, Vol. 2: Under New Management

by Warren Ellis

tagged: to-read and wishlist

Meditation Resources

I am creating this post because my dear friends Cait and Jay got married three and a half years ago and as my gift for them leading up to their wedding I meditated for at least 5 minutes a day for 40 days.

As a good friend of the Couple I had meditated and done guided relaxations off and on since 9th grade, with varying levels of discipline. I meditated sitting, lying down, walking, sobbing hysterically in the fetal position, guided, unguided, with the Quakers, with my sister, on my own, inside and outside, and for various amounts of time, so don't get the idea that I had some strict notion of the Ideal Sit or Pure Buddhism.

I am still in the same place, many years later. I meditate because I love silence, I seek wisdom, and because it seems to be the only thing that consistently helps me find some peace in the midst of the relentless stream of anxious thoughts running through my head constantly. My disdain for everything woo-woo and New Agey has been tempered by the fact that meditation and mindfulness seem to be basically the only tools that allow me to live with and move through a baseline physiological state of PANIC.

In anticipation of the wedding I was looking forward to sitting each day and maybe reaching a new level of commitment to daily practice. I made a "Nabble" forum for those who wanted to participate with me and discuss their experience. Many people joined me and we had good conversations on the forum.

Now Nabble keeps reminding me the forum is going to be deleted. But one piece of it I would especially not like to lose, and that is the list of meditation resources. So I am re-creating it here and will be updating it to include new ideas and favorites. Please explore and enjoy. I am still finding my way with this, although I am excited that I have reached a new level of discipline, in my own way, with meditation. The baseline now is hopefully 20 minutes a day. The goal for the last several months on Rarotonga has been an hour. Now I am back to Seattle reality so 20 minutes becomes a challenge again. Here you are:

I like the clear and simple Insight Meditation approach: New To Meditation?

Tons of free streaming guided meditations and dharma talks: dharmaseed

The Mindful Way Through Depression is a great book on meditation and mental health. It comes with a CD. Here are the tracks from that CD that I particularly find useful:

Listen to first! 3 minute general intro: Introduction

These three (sitting, 10 min each) work well together:

Mindfulness of the Breath
Mindfulness of the Breath and Body
Mindfulness of Sounds and Thoughts

Great quick one, 4 minutes. Do it on the bus or at work to re-center:

The Breathing Space

A meditation session is also often called a "sit."
But lying down is my favorite way to do a "sit:"

20 minute bodyscan:
My favorite basic guided relaxation

30 minute bodyscan:
Bodyscan

Usually I lay in corpse pose on a mat with a pillow under my knees, a thin pad under my head, and a heavy blanket smooth over most of my body, kind of like this man.

All Yoga Nidra, lying down:

Some elements of Yoga Nidra are setting a personal resolve (e.g. "I choose to live with an open heart."), rotating bodyscan, counting down the breath, crazy-cool visualizations (an endless sea with no shore).

10 minute Yoga Nidra
20 minute Yoga Nidra
30 minute Yoga Nidra
45 minute Yoga Nidra (different "narrator")

I recommend doing the shorter ones a few times before the 45 minute one. It is kind of long and challenging, at least for me. For example you count down your breath from 27 to 1 in 4 different places -- Belly, chest, throat, and nostrils. Enough to really break a mental sweat.

I love Yoga Nidra in general, but here is one to help you sleep:

50 minute Yoga Nidra: Relaxation Technique for Deep Sleep with Relaxing Music and Rain Sounds

I once heard a teacher say that if you fall asleep during meditation, you need to sleep more than you need to meditate. They are different activities, both restorative. Lately, I've been needing sleep more, but I have to help my brain realize that.

20 minute Guided Meditation to Sleep

Finally, for now, if you are feeling more interested in the more "spiritual" side of meditation in context, find any Dharma talk by my new favorite teacher: Kiku Christina Lehnherr

goodreads widget

Books I finished in 2014

freedom to love and tuition bills!

also, give this lady some $s.
fighting the good fight
for all us complicated ladies.

$s for drawing and dance

you aren't supposed to be able to talk about love
or
dance about architecture.
and i hear money talks
so how about showing some love for a an old friend who is into
drawing about dance, by giving her some cash.
support emilee's campaign on indigogo

us in the old days, prepping a loom

to continue making odd, avant-garde art in other countries.
once, she made a piece for me to wear by weaving film
of an angry woman
with silk
into a dress fit for a priestess.
i don't know if i've ever felt as vulnerable or strong
since, standing in a gallery, letting people look at me, at it, at her work.
even back then, this woman made the kind of art we all need to be fully human,
cerebral, creative, and intensely moving,
and she's still at it, both maintaining her integrity and furiously evolving.
seriously friends and strangers, give her some money.

My Dad is Funny

retcon

as you can see, friends & family,
i have stopped updating this blog.
working on it started to feel like
another chore for my to-do list
instead of an exercise
in creative discipline....
think i'm splitting hairs?
so do i. maybe i'll just
take any excuse to quit
doing anything i really care
about, hopefully just before
it can count as an accomplishment
or a failure. too bad nobody's counting.
i'll probably resurrect perpetual huddle
if there's a time when i trust myself
to actually write instead of get all ocd
about linklisting every magazine article i like.
for fun, scroll through the archives to find
all those entries i backdated.

p.s. read dogs & water

sunday afternoon

one summer i lived in bellingham
in a house filled with music.
all the boys who lived there
played at least two instuments
and together they called
themselves "same as castles."
glin (the one on the left)
was one of the real
bandmates/roommates,
while i was staying rent free
in a largish closet, just
recuperating from school.
he'd always take breaks
from practices to follow
me out to the porch
and bum a smoke.
he made me feed
his vicious flying squirrels
when he was out of town.
he took me to my first
strip club ever... in canada.

now he's finished an album of his own
"later days" and i haven't been able
to get the first song "disappearing trick,"
out of my head for at least a week.
i sing it in the shower and hum it on the bus.
of course the whole album makes me nostalgic,
but i think i can assume it should
make anyone feel something like nostalgia
even if they've never cannonballed
into toad lake on a hot sunday afternoon.

go listen to asthmaboy on myspace
or download the whole album here, for free.

aug. 13 new yorker pg. 26

ebony spleenwort...
densely covered the trestle
between 104th and 105th Streets.

The Kingfisher

The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower, in his beak
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn't have its splash of happiness?
There are more fish than there are leaves
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
wasn't born to think about it, or anything else.
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water
remains water--hunger is the only story
he has ever heard in his life that he could believe.
I don't say he's right. Neither
do I say he's wrong. Religiously he swallows the silver leaf
with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry
I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body
if my life depended on it, he swings back
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly

--Mary Oliver

no duh

muni no signs
on the bus ride to our school picnic
i asked the kids what
these signs meant.
samantha gave me
an exasperated look
and easily rattled them off:

no smoking
no barbecue
no dancing
no toothpaste
and
no perfume

lesson plan

thursday august 8th

under science:

"miss huddle will wear
her constellation socks."

r.i.p. gracie

what oprah knows for sure

A-

i gave blood today (pause for applause).
last time i donated was outside
officemax in a mobile unit.
basically, i was stuck in a stuffy van,
a needle dangling out of my arm,
with my regional manager yammering
away nervously in the next bed,
and heckling the tiny asian girls
who couldn't give a whole pint.
i had the last appointment,
so they told me not
to climb stairs without a friend,
kicked me out onto the sidewalk
and drove off.

this time i donated at the irwin center
and now i want to hang out there every day.
first of all, the building is super-strange.
the parking lot is paved like a patio,
and landscaped with corkscrew topiaries.
there are also three fountains out front,
the water dyed the color of blue-raspberry.
inside, everything is round and dim,
designed to be soothing.

the sign-in clipboard
has a built-in digital clock.
they give you a t-shirt
before you even fill out
the paperwork.
in the waiting area
there are good magazines,
and even a book-swap nook.

once you're in back the nurses
are all lighthearted and unhurried.
they call you by your first name
and ask you how you're feeling
with genuine concern every couple minutes.
they joke with you about the tropical fish tank
and your friend's iron levels. apparently,
laughing keeps your blood pressure up.
you squeeze a little foam ball
as a cradle gently rocks your bag of blood,
and before you know it, you're finished,
with a hot pink bandage around your elbow.

where else could you
lounge in a recliner,
pretzel crumbs all down
the front of your shirt,
drinking cranberry juice
through a bendy straw,
and feel totally self-righteous
while you're doing it?

after you sit up slowly
they usher you into "the canteen,"
a round bar stocked with packets of oreos,
where you get to wait for at least another 15 minutes
while another nice lady serves you more juice.
the stools are padded,
the counter, cool marble.
there's a big plasma-screen tv
set on close-caption,
more good magazines,
and a bunch of brochures
calling you a hero.

its 56 days until i'm eligible again,
but my best friend is going to pound
some iron supplements and give it another shot,
so with any luck i'll be back next weekend.

Labels: come here often?

block quote: totally forgetting

I bought a black chiffon spaghetti-strap shirt and jacket once. The salesperson told me I couldn't wear it with corduroy. There was a sense of danger in her voice. It didn't sound like merely a "fashion don't," but rather a word of serious caution, as though the combination of the two fabrics might result in an explosion. She repeated the warning as she bagged the garment. She was troubled by an uncanny sense that I owned a lot of corduroy. The military must have bunkers full of carefully separated corduroy and black chiffon secreted away somewhere in Nevada. It's one of those tigers we hold by the tail, like the A-bomb. I never wore the black chiffon shirt and evening jacket. Too risky. I buy impulsively sometimes, totally forgetting what I look like and how I spend my time. Amazingly, the fantasy of going out someplace kind of fancy, on a night when I wasn't wearing corduroy and had shaved, lasted long enough for that shirt and jacket to make the cut through three moves and countless closet cleanings.

--paula poundstone, there's nothing in this book i meant to say

the year of the bellydance

listen to charlie schroeder's
funny little radio story,
originally aired on
weekend america,
about him enrolling
in "dunk dreams,"
a class to make you jump higher.
i like the good-natured tone of the piece.
plus, he interviews his mom... always endearing.

who's prissy now?

out of entertainment weekly's
25 greatest action movies
of all time, goldfinger is #19.
this morning i found the item
posted on my bedroom door.
listed among its merits:
Sean Connery
in a powder blue
terry-cloth onesie.
great minds think alike!
anyone who can find
an actual captured still,
of the bond bathing outfit
wins a kiss on the mouth.
but for now this pre-007
ensemble will have to do.

non-alcoholic... i can feed it to my kids

If you can't quench my thirst
What you in my fridge for?
What you wanna live for?

scroll down the a.v. club's first annual absolute best issue
to "best skeleton in the closet of a famous rapper"
for the full audio clip of notorious b.i.g.'s "pepsi freestyle"

block quote: i could do that much

She bought me a little Wurlitzer electric piano. It must have cost two years of saltwater taffy savings, and it was only a tenth of the instrument that I had sold for a few hundred dollars after my father died. She showed up at my place the day of delivery, hiding her face in excitement and fear. "I thought you might want something to practice on. And to work with. While you're... while you aren't..."

read the next three paragraphs, here.

i typed them straight from the page,

without looking at the keys.

it was fun, a little like it was my own.

i haven't had much time to blog,
but i'm almost to page 500
in the time of our singing
a vast novel by richard powers,
broiling with hyperbolie, epiphany,
music, and race.
my commute is long.
the book gives me a lot to think about
as i struggle to find my place
at a school in the bayview
district of san francisco.
the kids at work, especially the girls
come to think of it, only the girls,
are always asking me what i am.
even though i can count the other white
faculty and students on one hand,
they're not asking what you'd expect.
"what are you? a mother? a sister?
a teacher?" they grin, and maybe
hop on one foot while they ask,
but they demand the answer.
i try to avoid the question,
usually by laughing indulgently
and saying "i'm certainly not a mother!"
or "i guess i do have a sister.
she lives in seattle.
do you know where seattle is?
its in washington state."
today one of them caught me off guard
i stopped, halfway through tying
a new bracelet on her upturned wrist,
accused again of not
being something,
or at least,
of not knowing it.
"miss huddle,
what are you?"
the sparkly beads
slid off the string,
one after another,
hitting the floor.
i snapped "actually,
i'm a writer."
she started crying.
i bent and reached
for the first bead i saw.

today on aol

mindless pap. hanson on gadgets
rivals only sheriff uses pink to deter prisoners
for the america online grand prize in journalism.

buy a dead squirrel on ebay

amys taxidermy

on the same page

after a long drive up the coast
as we re-entered our neighborhood
my best friend said. "i kind of want
to go to that ... comic book shop...?"
i just nodded.
nothing says "three day weekend"
to me quite like standing
in a fluorescent-lit storefront,
"casually" browsing
the trade paperbacks
for new compilations
by my favorite authors
or "just looking" at the selection
of TNG action figures.

i left data behind,
but i walked out with fell,
a promising warren ellis
and ben templesmith collaboration
about a homicide investigator
exiled from downtown,
sent across the bridge to a haunted
wasteland called snowtown.
sadly, it turned out to be an awkward read.
the panels are almost all close-ups,
drifting with luminous aquatint clouds.
templesmith uses computer-aided
blurring in lieu of action lines.
the images are gorgeous,
but they're an uneasy fit with ellis's
in-your-face gross-out prose.
detective fell with his suit, tie,
and little shock of neon blond hair
just can't pull off the muscular straight-talk
that makes you love spider jerusalem.
forget the feverish gunmetal menace
of snowtown, ellis needs the gritty
sprawl of transmet, its bustle,
its blunt lines and bright colors.

i love smoking

our new roommate brought
with her tons of i love lucy on dvd.
it is bizarre to watch as a woman,
but it is also shocking
to see a celebrity
openly shilling cigarettes.
there she is, lucille ball,
lighting up, taking a long drag,
and repeating the name philip morris,
without a hint of irony.

skip the speech-bubbles

another random find from the sfpl
graphic novels cart, bluesman book 2
bills itself as "the second stanza
of a 12-bar graphic narrative
in the key of life and death."
the artwork lives up
to this ambitious jacket copy;
it pours out of the page,
with some of the same weary
and uneven power as the music
it seeks to imitate. the bright scratches
feel like an old-time recording.
the writing, on the other hand,
is more than uneven.
the dialogue swings so disconcertingly
between the tough-talking wisecracks
of a gumshoe in a hard-boiled mystery
(I don't think you rightly appreciate
the ever-deepening pile of shit
that you are standing in, Mister Johnson
so pardon me as I waive a handful
of it under your nose...)
and the sweeping platitudes
of an unspecified narrator
reflecting on a parable
of u.s. race relations
(There is a dignity,
I think, in celebrating
our fortune together
this way. Rather than
as you would have it--
forever divided.
Until there is not enough
left for even one man
to bother calling his own.)
that halfway through
i just stopped reading
and listened to the pictures.

they do?

They say a moonlit deck
is a woman's business office.
--the lady eve

hankie parachute

at the maker faire
the folks from techshop
gave me the chance to machine
my own brass weight
on a metal-lathe.
i wore safety goggles.
i tightened chucks
and turned cranks.
the gold coils shivered
away from the spinning rod,
as the bits pushed inward,
cutting the base, the shoulders,
the cap, and finally, shearing
the whole thing off to drop
onto the shavings below.
the finished product looks
like the antique brass
weights in granddad's bindery,
only it is brand new.

it has a magnet inset
in the base, but i can't bear
to part with it just yet,
so the fridge will have to wait.
i like to feel it
heavy in my palm.
i like to run my thumb along
the sharp edges.
technically, it is insignificant,
an elementary exercise,
a trinket from a hipster conference,
but holding it, i call my dad.
"i miss granddad" i say.

i get lost trying to explain
how it reassures me of something
i can't seem to put words to,
so i try to explain the whole faire instead.
the botanicalls booth was clever--
your plant telephones you
and asks for water in a funny voice!
the homeschooler in me rejoiced
at madame ovary's shameless eccentricity,
and her sticky wands made of trash.
charles benton's kite aerial photography
is both neato and transcendent.
he uses rubberbands and balsa wood
to form images of the world
that couldn't wouldn't exist otherwise.

at this, dad interrupts me to
tell me that granddad
used to trick out his kites too.
in fact, granddad rigged up a device
to send parachutes
made of old handkerchiefs
sailing up the kite string,
and when it hit the top,
they released.

the brass of the weight
holds the heat of my hand.

amazon.com

I remember Dole pineapple rings
on a bed of lettuce with cottage cheese on top
and sometimes a cherry on top of that.
--joe brainard, i remember

i tried green apple and i tried the strand,
but guess who came through for me in the end...

walkman time capsule

um it is now um 12:05am on october 24th, 2005. it is now technically the last day of long weekend. i have gotten almost exactly no work done. i'm 22 years old. my father was married at this age. and to motivate myself i am making this record of what i'm doing. uh-- it's supposed to be a record of the fact that i'm working. ... so, i'll, uh, just keep you updated. my room is a pile of shit. i have upturned umbrellas. i have typewriters separated from their typewriter containers. i have, um, fork and knife sets that you might use when you're camping. ... anyway ... i'm just gonna keep cleaning until i've got organized piles for each of my classes, and even if i don't get any work done tonight, if i just get prepared to do work, if everything is just clean and prepared to do work, then i'll just fall asleep on my sheetless bed and everything will be o.k. ... cause i feel like i'm capable of doing work, but. alright! better get started!

mother's day

my best friend loves
the movie shirley valentine
and said the main character.
reminded her of me.
i saw it and it reminded
me of my mom, so
i sent it to her
for mother's day.
in retrospect,
maybe not the best gift
for a holiday celebrating
sacrifice in the name of family.
i should have clarified on the gift tag:
mom-- please don't abandon everything
and move to a foreign country without warning!
just don't be afraid to enjoy the view
from a table for one every once in awhile.

homesick

the internet can never
bring me the smell
of fresh baked bread
wafting out of le panier
as i pass, but now,
thanks to streetnote,
at least i can listen
to this guy rap about pot
in pike place market.

loyal porter

last night, as i packed for
my weekend trip to monterey,
the tag on my discount jeans
caught my eye for the first time,
"the loyal." a name that sounds
a little boring, but trustworthy,
like a girl who spends her weekends
birdwatching with her mother.
then, today, on the drive south,
mom and i stopped at REI
to get me another pair of pants.
the ones i found are perfect.
they're asphalt gray ripstop fabric
and the pockets zip shut.
i love them.
but, i have to admit, for a moment,
the name of the style stopped me short.
right in the midst of all that adventure gear
i chose "the porter pant." the porter,
a person hired to carry burdens
up and down the same trail day after day.
its not that i'm especially brand-conscious,
but the marketing types at these big corporations
spend a lot of time and energy
matching visual aesthetics,
intuitive word-assumptions,
and a consumer's desire
for an certain identity.
why couldn't i have chosen
a pair of the "ventures"?
why not lead an expedition,
plant a flag? why not "the riptide,"
for that matter, irresistible,
and just off the shore?
my hesitation was ended
by two thoughts.
1) i know, at least,
that i'd just look silly
in the "overboard short"
and 2) if you read further down
the tag, you'll notice the porter pant
does have "a gusseted crotch for mobility,"
which sounds both
almost unendurably practical
and perversely comic,
which sounds about right to me.

bad poetry and good

i was recently asked to ghostwrite
another blog. according to the author,
this is a perfectly reasonable request
because "all [i] do is steal [my] [material]
from [her] all the time anyway!!"
i refused, but promised to at least
give credit where credit is due,
for this great quote she found
in sound and sense. perrine
via carles, tells it like it is
for your general edification:

And here, perhaps, we should discuss the kinds of poems that most frequently "fool" inexperienced readers (and occasionally a few experienced ones) and sometimes achieve tremendous popularity without winning the respect of most good readers. These poems are frequently published on greeting cards or in anthologies entitled Poems of Inspiration, Poems of Courage, or Heart-Throbs. The people who write such poems and the people who like them are often the best of people, but they are not poets or lovers of poetry in any genuine sense. They are lovers of conventional ideas or sentiments or feelings, which they like to see expressed with the adornment of rime and meter, and which, when so expressed, they respond to in predictable ways.

april

she's no lucy, but
beagle or something's
keen reminder of fall
on a warm spring morning
caught me off guard,
i was suddenly grateful,
nostalgic, and wary.

my first baby box

one of my co-workers brought back
a kit for new parents as a resource
for each toddler-room teacher
from a meeting she attended downtown.
basically, the kit is a mint-green cardboard box
covered in photos of multi-ethnic kids,
a little thinner than a shoebox,
with a plastic handle on the top.
inside it has a bilingual board-book,
Frisky puppies play.
Frisky puppies chew.
Los perritos retozones juegan.
Los perritos retozones mordisquean.
and a magnet for california's
less catchy equivalent of mr. yuk,
the "poison action line,"
along with a bunch of brochures,
pamphlets and booklets
about early childhood development,
full of clinical, but cheery, bulleted lists.
When you discipline your child:

Talk your child in a serious, but loving, voice.

the whole thing was a little troublesome
for a woman whose chosen career
is often seen as a kind of
extended mommy-training...
that said, it was immensely
satisfying to carry a briefcase
for a day, cardboard or not.

dad's night

i'm like the dad.
i have one night
a week to cook.
last week i made
the easy meatloaf
from allrecipes.com
this week i made
the chicken marsala
from epicurious.com
i think the leap from
watery beef and ketchup
to shallots and fresh sage
is pretty impressive,
but i don't think i can maintain it,
and i don't know where
on the internet to look next.
maybe i'll call mom
and ask her for one of
her famous soup recipes...
or maybe i'll call and ask dad
if i absolutely have to have waffles
for a legitimate "breakfast for dinner,"
or if he thinks i can squeak by with pancakes.

punch, roll, & crimp

as a former officemax copy center
employee i got excited about
the durable and attactive
spiral bound menus
at tawans, but i had trouble
describing the coil inserter
to my dining companion.
this australian chick
does a much better job.

taste / gustation

tonight the velo rouge cafe screened
two documentaries by local directors
one about native american salt songs
and the dying culture that needs them
one about a man-made salt sea
and the dying birds that need it.
i ate a lemon pasta dish
topped with fresh ground pepper.

happy anniversary

i can't believe its been
six months already!
i'm still trying to catch up
on polishing up my drafts,
but they've multiplied
from 9 or so to about 75,
a good sign... i think...
but a little overwhelming.
one day at a time, right?

psychic dojo

my best friend ordered psychonauts from gamefly,
for old time's sake, because we both loved
it in college. she wrote a final paper
on it and i featured it prominently
in a presentation i gave to the local rotary club.
its still the coolest video game ever created!
in it you're a little psychic kid at a special
summer camp for honing your mental powers.
you collect figments of imagination,
sort mental baggage,
and fight the internal censors.
most of the action takes place
in other people's minds,
and all the levels open off
the collective unconscious.
seeing it again,
i'm not only reminded
how great the game is,
but how lucky i am
that i still get to hang out
every day with a person who
can truly appreciate gems like this:
He isn't dead, his astral projection
just got kicked out of my mind.
And I'll kick your *ass*tral projection
out of my mind too if you don't get moving!

perpetual huddle

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Sitting on a swing, talking to the imaginary, invisible, audience

Friday, July 8, 2016

Heartsick again tonight

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Give for Thanksgiving!

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Wishlist

Karen's bookshelf: wishlist

Friday, January 2, 2015

Meditation Resources

Thursday, January 1, 2015

goodreads widget

Monday, September 22, 2014

Sunday, January 19, 2014

$s for drawing and dance

Thursday, November 25, 2010

My Dad is Funny

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

retcon

Sunday, August 12, 2007

sunday afternoon

Friday, August 10, 2007

aug. 13 new yorker pg. 26

The Kingfisher

no duh

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

lesson plan

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

r.i.p. gracie

Saturday, June 23, 2007

A-

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

block quote: totally forgetting

Saturday, June 16, 2007

the year of the bellydance

who's prissy now?

Friday, June 15, 2007

Thursday, June 14, 2007

non-alcoholic... i can feed it to my kids

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

block quote: i could do that much

Friday, June 8, 2007

today on aol

Thursday, May 31, 2007

buy a dead squirrel on ebay

Monday, May 28, 2007

on the same page

Sunday, May 27, 2007

i love smoking

Saturday, May 26, 2007

skip the speech-bubbles

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

they do?

Sunday, May 20, 2007

hankie parachute

amazon.com

Sunday, May 13, 2007

walkman time capsule

Friday, May 11, 2007

mother's day

Thursday, May 10, 2007

homesick

Friday, May 4, 2007

loyal porter

Friday, April 27, 2007

bad poetry and good

Thursday, April 26, 2007

april

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

my first baby box

Sunday, April 22, 2007

dad's night

Friday, April 20, 2007

punch, roll, & crimp

Monday, April 16, 2007

taste / gustation

happy anniversary

Saturday, April 14, 2007