I can sing.  I can sing along with the radio and harmonize.  I can sing along with chords and improvise.  I can dance.  I can't open my mail.  I can grow spinach and tomatoes.  I can till earth and build beds.  I can cut flower bouquets and leave them on the doorsteps of little old ladies.  I can't meet deadlines.  I can write a book.  I can write ( Read more... )

For all the moping I did on Sunday, this really turned out to be an amazing week ( Read more... )

An idea is being born.  I can feel it twisting out of the soil of my brain, reaching for some related knowledge to cling to like the morning glories outside grasping for an anchor.  I don't want to lose it.  Think think think.

There is a problem.  The stock market crash in 1929.  Surplus production puts millions out of work.  In my mind and the ( Read more... )

It's hot.  And not quite dark out yet.  We've got the fan on in the bedroom, and out the window our yard has turned into a tropical jungle on steroids that smells good and is a fantastic explosion of lush greens ( Read more... )

I lost a check for $203.40...  A lady bought some books from me directly during my shift the Friday before last... the same day I wrote about the chalk butterfly.  I gave her the carbon copy of a sales slip along with 10 books in a paper Trader Joe's bag.  She gave me the check, and I remember taking it back to the kitchen and setting in a secure ( Read more... )

I am struggling and alone, so I will try this.  JJ is participating in relay for life at his school tonight.  He won't get back till 6am.  I wonder if maybe my body is sad because it subconsciously knows that nobody wanted to hang out with me tonight with JJ gone.  I have plenty of friends, but the only person who is ever interested in doing things ( Read more... )

Now that the weather is nice, I started a regular thing of doing these artsy-fartsy chalk drawings on the patio of the coffee shop each week.  (Today I drew this giant butterfly whose wings were made out of treats.)  The part of the patio that I like to draw on is right underneath a flowering dogwood that was shedding all of its petals today.  It ( Read more... )

Work, or Ow, my soul
I wrote an essay in college called Chicago.  Somewhat autobiographical, but this is not the intention.  Vignettes include:  Immigrant philosophies of ambition, my first desk as a four year-old girl, a meat packing plant, Wacker Drive.  One chapter is titled, "My dad's boss throws chairs."  I want to expand this piece.  I recall ( Read more... )

Beer cans lay sideways on sweet-smelling tabletops strewn with playing cards and tortilla crumbs.  Deflated balloons bob on their ribbon tails through air that is visibly empty but with residual magic still left in it.  Floorboards creak beneath me.  I gather some nacho pieces and flop down onto the sofa that still smells like my friends ( Read more... )

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