OMG! I totally got BANGS!!!! (and a sidenote about feet.)

So...whatdya think? Don't mind my lips (they have a mind of their own...aka my mind is at their service.) Also don't mind that pile of junk on my bed--"my place is usually a little tidier than this." Major props to the talented Kelsie for givin me such a hip do.

In other news, have I ever told you about this quirk I have where I think everyone has six toes at first glance? It's weird, right? ("My name is Innigo Montoya" and all that jazz.) Even myself though-- I just looked down and since it's such nice weather my feet are bare (not to mention I'm inside my house) and I did a touble take: holy crap, I have six toes! Wait--Phew, nope, just five. Just five, like every other day I've looked at my feet for the past twenty four years. I think it's safe to say that I've looked at my feet every day of my life, which is remarkable. I'm trying to think of exceptions, like that week I went blindfolded or that one time I got separated from the lower half of my body...can't think of any exceptions. That is remarkable. I had no idea I could be that consistent.

PS I just realized in those old school pics I also had rockin bangs. So this is just a return to my roots.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?

There's something I don't understand. How does Juicy Couture a) actually sell velour track suits and b) charge $118 for the pants alone? And since when do people wear patent leather loafers with track suits?

I'm actually asking, if you have any thoughts.





Oooh-just got way better...how do they charge $300 for these gray cashmere beauties, note the nice pink flats.

Indulgence, because I'm in charge here.

Someone asked me today what my favorite memory of my mom is. And even though I should be doing a hundred different things right now, I'm putting them aside to remember for a few minutes, because as I read today, "No one owns the past, but it is a grave error not to inhabit memory" (Patrica Hampl).

I am surprised to find that the things that come first to mind are hardly moments, and not really distinct in time, but a blending of thousands of moments to recreate the emotion I remember more concretely than any scene:
-sitting next to mom in church, especially while singing the hymns, and watching her "jot" down notes in her planner, probably what we would have for dinner that week. She would point out words in the songs and if they were comforting to her, she would write those in her planner too.









-pulling in the driveway and seeing her curls in the kitchen window; walking in the back door and having her look up at me from that same chair at the table, smiling a very particular smile.
-seeing her sitting at the end of the hall with her legs crossed in front of her, surrounded by stacks of mail and the newspaper.
-having her call me on her way home from work to see if I needed anything from the grocery store; going with Dave to meet her at the store, because for some reason we liked grocery shopping with her.

-cooking dinner together. watching her cook dinner from the table as I did my homework.
-Making beds together at the cabin.
-Hearing her laugh at parties.
-My endless fascination with the contents of her purse.
-Her stashes of candy throughout the house
-Watching her wash her face at night
-Singing at the piano; the earnest look on her face like it was business, and we
might as well be performing for the queen.
-Looking out the window on a spring morning and seeing her in the garden.

There are more--there will always be more.

Wish you happyappyappyappyappyappyappyappy

We went on an overnight excursion to Bryce Canyon for some XCountry Skiing to celebrate Kingfish's birthday. The pictures speak for themselves.
But first, an oldie

Fact.

I am one of those people who wears her sunglasses indoors.

And contrary to what I imagine the people walking past me are thinking, I do not do this because I think I am a rockstar. (That would be Ben.) I do dream of being a rockstar, but if that dream came true, I would NOT wear sunglasses inside because that would be way too typical. I would be the most down-to-earth normal joe rockstar, I would even have to refrain from doing humanitarian aid and funding a well-publicized cause. But since I know quite well that I'm not a rockstar, it is perfectly okay for me to wear my glasses inside.

I do it because my glasses are fragile and I've already broken infinity pair(s)--never know about pluralizing that one--and the safest place to put them is most def not in my bag, nor in my pocket, nor in my hands when I'm carrying books, books, etc. and putting on my puffy jacket. When I'm around David, the safest place to put them is most def also not on my face, but no place is safe around David so I still have to put them on my face and risk getting pushed out of the canoe and into the lake and then watch my glasses sink to the green mush floor. Actually, I don't open my eyes under water (still afraid, and can't jump off the diving board without plugging my nose) so I just imagine watching them fall. That was a good pair of glasses. R.I.P. bitten tort shelled dears.

When I wear my sunglasses inside, especially underground, I get strange looks. So in the vein of Huck Finn (as long as I'm in and in for good I might as well go whole hog!) I pull out a little strut and pout my lips and act as rockstar as I can.

Now you know.

Over it

I'm feeling over blogging, and I'm getting the feeling that some of you sympathize. It feels like a pet--not in the hairy poopy slobbery way that demands attention, but in the manthistakesalotofwork way.

Taking a step back from blogging and facebook, etc. (my phone is even dead currently), it's nice to remember how to live just for livings sake, not for postings sake. Once again, I've reached the point of no return. My attention span is beeping at me. I know my time is limited until I hit "publish post" out of irritation. Maybe my fingers can squeeze in one last thought before mutiny: I want to buy a macbook. And soon. Any thoughts?

String Quartet in F by Ravel

It sounds like pine trees and endless grass. Like Firehole River smashing powerful on rock and wood then falling vulnerable through air. Like early early sunshine that sees you before you see it. Like the way the earth grows, and as mysterious.

I admit, I don't know what to do with music most of the time as far as words are concerned. How to spin sound into letters, either to describe or mimic. But there are a few songs that seem to play the inside of me, and I wonder if they sound as familiar to everyone else. I don't think my brain very much resembles Ravel's or Mozart's or any of the greats--so how did they know me well enough to write me in their songs?

Last night, we discussed the question, "What is Literature?" in one of my classes. I eventually arrived at a saying of Marvie's: The meaning of communication is the response you get. I think I agree with Mr. Stanley Fish--literature may be shaped more by the eyes reading than the hands writing. And perhaps its the same with music.

I read and hear landscapes.