lettered

 

Untitled, oil and wax crayon on paper, 1969, Cy Twombly.

Dear Blue Letters,

Today I have for you two lovely thoughts on letters, from two lovely books.  

The first is this quote from By Cecile, written by Tereska Torres: 

But this afternoon Myette holds nothing in her hand but the sheet of white paper, on which there runs a writing so miniscule that one might think that there are only light, delicate lines traced across the page, lines that do not form letters, only a series of sea-blue threads marking undulating wavelets on a deserted beach.

These lovely blue lines lead me to your song of the day, and to the Cy Twombly drawing above.  The tangle of unletters in the drawing bring me to the letters beyond z which you can read about in Things in Nature Merely Grow (by Yiyun Li).*  The notion of letters that are beyond z opens a door to fabulous visual and mental experiments: what do they look like?  What can we spell with these letters?  What sentences should be written with these letters that are beyond?

Which reminds me of visiting the page-scented used bookshop with a friend and a conversation we had after:  I was saying that reading was keeping me sane, and we talked about whether all reading could keep you sane, or if it needed to be un-fluffy reading.  Now, we could spend a lot of time discussing what fluffy reading is, that's sure.  Maybe fluffy is the stuff than confers what you know already?  Bias confirming?  Or is it the stuff that entertains?  The books that mesmerize and enchant you into staying up late to see what happens?  I think, though, even so: any port in a storm; any reading will keep you saner than no reading.

*  Yes; that actually makes a total of three lovely books.  Enjoy a further tangling.  And another.

little fishes

 

Dear Shopping List,

If you happen to be going to Trader Joes, will you please pick me up another packet of these custard filled fish?  What a beautiful world this is, that custard filled fish are available to buy!

I had Taiyaki first two summers ago, at a place that sold them in Palo Alto.  I loved them then, but there is no nearby custard fish monger.  Until now.  If you are like me, you maybe don't have an air fryer or microwave, and maybe you don't want to wait 8 minutes on the oven; but I have a solution for you!  It's my same old solution for re-heating anything that tells me to put into the microwave- you probably already have one in your kitchen- a frying pan!  Be sure, my friends, to fry these fish in butter!  They are so good!  If you want specifics, use a non-stick pan, put the fish in on medium-low, with a lid on it.  After a minute or two, turn the fish over.  Wait another minute or two, then remove the lid, and butter each side of your scaled little pals, right in the pan.  Now grill them until you achieve your desired crispiness and color.  

PS  

Yes, I tried the bean paste filled also; and the Oreo-filled, and the matcha-filled, and the chocolate, too.  My favorite was the certain blandness of the custard.  Ah, and did I mention you can get them with ice cream in them, too?  If you are feeling like you want a larger cooking project than 5 minutes of buttering and pan-frying, you might like this recipe for making them from scratch.  You will need a sea bream shaped mold, similar to this one.

tea stained

 

Still Life, on tea bag paper, Ruby Silvious.

Dear Surface Interested,

What do you think of this?  Might we sew these salvaged tea bags into sheets that we could draw or print on?  The thing that compels me is the delicate and random staining.  It speaks of age and weathering, fragility and skin, also the relationship of the tea to the drinker's lips, and the leaves of tea that have grown somewhere far away.

cheeries

 

Dear Chérie,

I often write cheeries, when I mean cherries.  This is somehow as it should be.  I am making some ceramic cherries.  These are the proto-cherry.  Watch this space for more, possibly.

These cherries may put you in mind of a cocktail I made up, the Don't Worry Baby;  I can tell you right now that the Baby, I Don't Care cocktail (as soon as it is invented) will be even better than the Don't Worry Baby.  In the meantime, baby, have this great book of poems.  Have this, too; baby, I don't care.

everyone*

 

Dear Radio Dodo Listener,

Here is a fine version of a fine song: your song of the day!  I love this song's stately procession.  A woman sang it at our wedding.  A thing happened, though, at the wedding, where another paid musician suggested that I ought to also have Forever Young, because this fellow had had it at his wedding.  I said okay, because I didn't want to fight with talented musicians who knew better than me; but, yes, I regret that I didn't say no to it.  It's a tiny thing, of course, like every transgression (and every grain of sand).  Forever Young is fine, it is fine, really.  But it isn't half the song that Every Grain of Sand is:  Forever Young is a wish song, Every Grain of Sand is a statement song, a proclamation.  Our wedding was not a wish, our wedding was a proclamation.  If I had it to do again, well, there'd be some changes made.

1.  It will be our guest list.  Not anyone's mother's guest list.  No one 'should' be on the list- the list will contain the names of people we want to celebrate with, people we want to witness the pronouncement of our vows.

2.  Our wedding will be in the publicly owned Estrella Adobe, because a smaller venue is no problem (see item 1).

3.  Not only am I making the cake, I am going to make the food, too.  Because items 1 and 2.  I do not want to share the fun of throwing this big party.  We will not have dinner, or lunch, or gawdhelpus brunch; we will have things you pick up and eat.  Petits fours, tiny sandwiches, itty-bitty crackers with cheese, jam, and a celery slice on them, olives, nuts, that kind of precious, exquisite thing: amouse-bouche.  We will have champagne.

4.  No stupid registry.  In fact, no gifts.  Because when you are 55 and looking at your overcrowded kitchen and your underfunded savings account, you are going to choose to sell all that silver on eBay.

5.  No suggestions.  Have your own damn wedding if you want to have certain songs sung, or certain foods served, or a professional florist.  I loved doing the flowers myself- it was a pleasure to spend all that time amongst the flowers.

That should cover it.  If you know anyone gettin' hitched, give them this list, or the gist of it (which is Do it Your Own Damned Way)- they'll thank you for it!

*Everyone.  Everyone.

bedtime story

 

Dear Tucked-In,

Tonight, a bedtime story.  I think you will find it delightful!

who died and left you in charge

 

Dear Searching,

A book you might like/read/find beautiful is Things in Nature Merely Grow by Yiyun Li.  Notice my ‘might.’  I worry about making suggestions to you- because who died and left me in charge?- as my friend’s mother* used to say. 

Things in Nature Merely Grow is a book about suicide and being a mother.  There was a joke, around looking for books for 8, 10, 12 year olds when my son was that age:  Book has an award; qualifying question:  Does the dog die?  I can tell you right now that the dog dies like you wouldn't believe.  I still think you should** read it.  

Two more books, which I also liked, even loved, but with a little more distance; with a measure of bleakness & sorrow:  Bastard Out of Carolina ( Dorothy Allison) and Member of the Wedding (Carson McCullers).  Dogs die and so does hope in these two, but yeah, I still think you should read them.  The truth has a beauty no matter how sad.  

*My friend's Mom was named Yvonne.  An amazing woman, really; much older than the usual 13 year old's mother.  She and I got along like a house on fire (peculiarly, all old people liked me in my early teens).  Yvonne was a classic alcoholic who chain smoked .  Which didn’t daunt me, because outside of my parents, all my relatives were drunks, and most of them smoked.  She was a connoisseur of country music (when that category meant Tammy Wynette and Waylon Jennings), and a font of phrases like ‘better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.’  She also loved to say; and this one might be my favorite:  Let’s not, and say we did.  I imagined, in my very rural and insulated childhood, that everyone’s mother had phrases like these, and that I would just be collecting more and more of them as life went on; but no, no one else’s mother talked like that, and I have only the handful of phrases to get me through the age she must have been when I knew her.

 ** But, don't read Bridge to Terabithia,  Or do. because adults love this book.  If you want a book where the dog doesn't die, try Pinky Pye.  Or the very lovely Raising Hare.

 

Super

 

Eric Carle, from Draw Me a Star.

Dear Asterisked,

I have been really looking forward to giving you this inflorescence of songs.  I know you probably get weary of my hyperbole; tired of my adoration for all kinds of wonderstuffs made by people.  Well, you can invest your time anywhere; but for me, it is so nice to think of you getting this little packet of beauty.

Keely Smith

Belinda Carlisle

The Carpenters

Sonic Youth

 Peggy Lee

U. S. Girls & Bootsy Collins

The Ray Conniff Singers

The Ventures

Delaney & Bonnie

 PS  The song was originally titled "Groupie," and it was written by Bonnie Bramlett and Leon Russell.

lily pad

 

making it

 

Girl, Interrupted at Her Music, Jan Vermeer, 1658-1659.

 

Dear Y'all,

Again, I have read a book that has me asking why haven't I read this already? Where have you been all my life, Girl, Interrupted?  I could really have used this book... but, that isn't to say I am not happy I found it, finally.  As I was telling a pal, this book made me feel seen as they say; it was strumming my pain with its words.  And, you, lucky you, can read it right now!  In fact, take a chair by the light; I'll wait while you read it!  

I especially love to read about women and their brushes with, or even full assimilation of, madness.  Madness, as you know, is just a kiss away.  But, let me cut to the nub of the matter:  there are two types of books about women trying to get what they want.  In the first type, the women are killed for trying to get what they want, or even for daring to ask.  In the second type of book, the women survive.  Girl, Interrupted, is of the second type.

I have lots of evidence of the literary death penalty for women who want.  Here are just a few protagonists that are punished by death: Lily Bart, Daisy Miller, Marguerite Gautier, Catherine Earnshaw, Lilia Herriton, Edna Pontellier. I still haven't finished it, but I think Anna Karenina gets the big sleep, too.  

Take heart, though, reader, because I have just read three other books where the woman is not put to death for asking for something.  Now, Voyager, Butter, and Famesick.  Happily, Charlotte, Rika, and Lena all 'make it' to the ends of their books, against all the odds, and Famesick isn't even fiction!

PS

Another kiss away.  Does the woman in The Yellow Wallpaper make it?  Offred?  The woman in What Kingdom?  Marie Cardinal makes it, in The Words to Say It.  So does Leonora Carrington in Down Below, Therese and Carol in The Price of Salt.

another poetry corner

 

Dear Reader,

Another poem.

Tiny

Today
I woke up

and I was so
tiny.

All of the things I said were so small.
The sounds I heard were not even whispers.
And the things I thought were dust specks,
And the desires I have are wind, that comes from nowhere and blows back there just as quickly.

I was so tiny.   All the efforts, all the work, all the ideas were so very infinitesimal.
I was not all the earth, and all the sky;  I was not the timeless sea.  
I was tiny.  

Tinier than anything that could do anything to aid anyone.
Tiny.

the way I work

 

Dear Fellow Workers,

The title here, 'the way I work,' is a bit of a joke; I don't really work in the normal sense.  I just sort of drift, or bop around, from one project or notion to another.  This is not said as an explanation, or excuse.  Anyway, when I go to write a poem, I don't sit around a desk expecting, waiting for it to show up.  It's more like leaving a door open and hoping a wayward bird flies in.  I am always muttering to myself in my own mind: your people may call it 'thinking.'  And sometimes, all this muttering forms some phrases and lines that seems worth jotting down-  and so they are all over the place, in journals, on scrap paper, on receipts.  They lie around like that for months, or even years before I have some reason to take a look at them and shape them up a bit.  I mentioned a week or so ago that I had sifted through them looking for some to submit to a call for poetry, and I found several I thought you might like.  This is another of them.

The writer of 

There isn’t any time left, of course, but I will
write a song for you and you won’t even
know what it means, and it will hit you
like a ton of bricks, and I will say very
little about it for the rest of my life.  
 
It will feel like a one-room apartment with 
hazy late sun coming in.  It will sound like
dust motes on the air.  It will be a dainty
woman singing loud, and a tough guy
weeping his sad ballad. 
 
It will let the light through, and keep out
the lies and mosquitos.  It will stack up like
bowls in a cupboard.  It won’t leave you alone. 
It will stain you and your whole life, and all
through it, under every overpass,
along every fence line,
at all the stoplights,
you will think of me,
because of the song that I have not yet become the writer of.

 

poetry corner

 

Dear Reader,

I am sending some poems in, for approval or reproval, rejection or exception.  No, that is not one of the poems I sent in.  And this one following isn't either.  They wanted a poem for everyone, you know, a soft, pillowy, kind poem that doesn't let you feel time or sadness.  I like that kind too, and so I gave them some of my shortest, comfiest things.  Although, what do we mean by 'kind'?

This poem I am giving you is not kind, but it could be soft enough to crash into at speed, and it might not even need this title, borrowed from a C. S. Lewis book.  

Till We Have Faces

I once knew a woman who changed her name to Iris.  She once had a huge black dog, large enough that she could have ridden him.  He had the name of a Greek god.

I once knew a woman that the building was killing.  It made an air that depleted her vitality.  She would try not to enter the building; she would send in others, to be damaged unwittingly, one supposes.

I once knew a woman who said “read this book- it is for us.”  I met her again, much later, at another party, and she had a handbag with a telephone handset on it.  You could speak into her bag.

I once knew a woman who dug into her ancestry.  She made large cardboard tombstones for them.  

I once knew a woman whose father was a diplomat.  He built a motorhome out of teak and marble and drove it all over India.

I once knew a woman who played piano with real joy.  She wasn’t anyone you would know.   It was just her and her piano, pleasuring each other.  She came from a time when a lot of people knew how to play a piano.

I once knew a woman who warned me to never yield my position on the sidewalk; stand your ground, she said.

I knew four men:  they had the head of a rhino, a horse, a bear, an eagle.  They had all this confidence that I wanted for myself.  To steal it, of course, if necessary.  They would give it to you, but it wasn’t the real thing, they gave you confidence, they praised you, but only as much as it wasn’t taking anything from them.  They couldn’t really give confidence, they could loan it, like a plastic container with leftovers in it.  I thought they couldn’t give it because of greed, but a poet I know said they didn’t actually have confidence; that I was mistaken.  He said these four men had the same doubts as I did, as he did.  I wonder about that.

rhododendron

 

Dear Garden,

Today I have two songs for you, with the title of rhododendron.  One, two.

 

surf guitar

 

Dear Listener,

I have a nice version here, a kind of surfed up, rockabilly Lust for Life.  It think it is just grand; I hope you do, too.  It's your song for the day!

Well, will ya look at that!?

 

Debbie Harry

Dear Whom it May Concern,

Every once in a little while, upon a time, so to speak, I get so ebullient, so touched by something I read that I cannot bear not to share it; and so I get a little pile of the book* to give to friends, or I email everyone with the essay.  Well, once upon one of these times, I was filled with love and admiration for Helen DeWitt.  Well, no, that isn't quite right, because I am still filled with love and admiration for Helen DeWitt.  I think she is a great, great mind.  I feel my cells changing when I read her books.  I adore her, and when I went to share a thing she'd wrote, on cloud nine with my affection, I said that it wasn't just that I loved her, it was that I wanted to inhabit her, to be her.  One of my friends said:  You cannot be her; she has blonde hair and she smokes!  A pause while we consider.

I still wonder at what that means, that rebuttal.  There is, I think, an irony, in that being blonde and smoking is actually available to anyone with, hmm, say 20 bucks and a few hours?  So, those are not the things preventing me from being Helen DeWitt.  The obvious reason, is that someone is already being Helen DeW.  Namely, Helen DeW.  And all of this is crazy self-evident, so what am I saying to you today, exactly?  I am saying:  what are we doing if we are not trying to be like the humans we admire?  Where else can you go for the teachings?  (And yeah, I will give you cats as role models, as mentors, as idols, and in fact you can take the whole of the fauna, and the flora too, and take geo physical while you are at it, but it seems to me to make a lot of sense to emulate those we admire, in any and every way.  And you know, sure, you can model yourself on the cosmos, too; it seems a good design).

You might wonder, though, what has become of my topic: the impulse to share things I love.  Well, it takes an occasional beating from clumsy responders, but even now, I have three very fine poetry books stacked up and ready to give to what I hope will be a receptive and open heart, and I am so excited about it!  And, if they land poorly, that is fine too, because a book lives a long life** and many other readers will come upon these three specific copies and maybe one of those readers will want to be Sandra Cisneros, Ada Limón, Olivia Gatwood.  They won't even need bleach.

* e.g:  Faux Pas, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, The Hare with the Amber Eyes, Cold Comfort Farm, Cary Grant's Suit. 

** the used copy of Wuthering Heights I read was 76 years old.  I read a copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame from the library that was 100 years old!  It worked just as good as new.

today

 

Dear May Day,

I expect you are at home, observing the national strike.  As your day unfolds, in solidarity and resistance, you might listen to this wonderful song, your song for the day.  My DJ played it a few weeks back and I was smitten.  You might be smitten, too, but wait until tomorrow to buy it!

because, because, because

 

Prop food from Wallace and Gromit animated film A Matter of Loaf and Death.

Dear Reason,

Because of Covid 19, I had to get a cell phone, and because I had a cell phone, I had to get on social media (did I have to, though?), and because of that, because I am now giving entirely too much of my screen time to the tiny, absurd, glassy, smudgy finger-printed cell phone surface (when I could be at the Drive In watching 30 foot high heads in close ups with 8 foot wide lips!!!), I have seen some mighty fine recipes.  One of them is this one, from Poppy Cooks.  She calls it the Ultimate Girl Dinner.

A little day music.

 

teardrops & sighs dress

Dear Listener,

A while ago I sent you the Faye Webster song "But Not Kiss" and today I am giving you a nudge to the longer Tiny Desk Concert from Faye Webster, because it is very fine!

pan-fried

 

Still Life with Frying Pan and Eggs, screenprint, William Scott

Dear Dinnertime,

This is really good- I think you should try it.  I added an egg and breadcrumbs, cause that's what I thought it needed after the first time I made.  I put in a lot of minced chives.  I also left out the salt and ground in an obscene amount of black pepper.  I think you should think of it as a concept, and not a recipe.  Mix some stuff up, make little mounds on the pan, cover them with won ton or dumpling wrappers and then pour on the water/cornstarch/flour mix.  Oh, and cornflour is the British word for cornstarch, so don't let that stop you from making these!  Eat it with sliced cucumbers with vinegar sprinkled on them, and maybe some sesame seeds.  

sandwich cookie

 

A cookie crochet pattern on Etsy.

Dear What to Do?,

How about we make these TKO cookies?  I had one, in September of last year- on a side quest kind of a pilgrimage to Bouchon.  I have to tell you, confess to you, that I have a Marxist & Feminist dislike for the Men of Food.  I kind of hate Celebrity Chefs and their expensive luxury goods, books, beaneries, dining rooms, joints, and all that hoopla.  I know you have made things just as good if not better, dear friend, and so have I; and I know that you are barely going to be thanked, let alone be paid for, let alone monetize making food for the people you love on a corporate level.  (Now you are asking, are we getting a recipe?  Or an embittered rant?  How about both!?)  What I am saying is, I love you for making your kids a peanut butter sandwich, a quesadilla, a pita with tuna fish.  I love you for making ordinary food that people live on everyday, and I hate that we all 'celebrate' by paying someone else to cook for us; that we rave about and idolize the cooking of the Named Ones and we don't even remember to say thanks to our mothers for the thousands of meals that kept us alive for years.

So, that is what I hate, and what I love is making things.  I bought one of these at Bouchon, and it was really very good.  The cookie is like the now extinct chocolate wafer cookies we once bought to make nifty cheesecake crusts and icebox cakes.  So, how about we make these Posh Celebrity Chef Oreos and see what we think?  Will they be good?  I am not sure, because I haven't made them yet either!

PS  Maybe you don't want a cookie, maybe you want a keychain?

Addendum:  I made a half recipe:  if you'd like half as many, try this recipe instead, or make your own adjustments. 

fronds & wands

 

guimauve wands

Dear Reader,

I am back at my Job, and it crowds my letters to you right out.  I'll be done this week, though, and then it is back to the regular demons:  Ennui, Apathy, and Insecurity.  They will keep me from writing too, as often as they can, and so will the dread and dire condition the world is in.  Am I promising you more?  If it sounds like maybe, you got it in one!

I have things for you, though, and so let's get on with the dispersal!

Fennel fronds.  This is delicious, you should try it tonight!  If you like it, you should check out other wonderful things that Coco Larkin Cooks.  I have made a brussels sprouts recipe, a pasta recipe, an egg dish, stuffed cabbage:  All of them worthy.

Here is Arooj Aftab, once, twice, three times.  

You can go here, too, if you like.  These are really good, but only if you like gummy, chewy, marshmallowing sugarstuffs.  What I mean, is that these are candies to appeal to your inner child, and you may have so much outer adult that you will taste only toothache and longing.

PS  The French people, whom you might think of as sophisticated and refined in their outer adulthood, ils adorant les guimauves.  History and a recipe, right here.  

happy bunny day

 

vistas, surfaces, elements

 

(Preceding seven photographs from The Beatrice Wood Center for the Arts)

that's imposs

 

Dear Distance,

I had forgotten how much I love this song, your song for today.  The Wodehousian 'imposs,' the touch on the clutch, the alienation of proximity, the climaxing anguish.  The bouncy bop juxtaposed against the abject loss.  It is a great song and you can take your arguments elsewhere, boys.  

Didn't you, don't you, feel that way so much?  Even when they are right there, in the next room, the next town?  Even when they are where you are?

sit with the ick

 

Sparer Chairs, David Hockney, 2014. 

Dear Setting,

I thought, when I heard that we were supposed to just sit with our feelings, our bad, icky feelings, that I was already kind of doing that- I feel all kinds of bad feelings, most of most days; but I see now that there is another way to interpret that sentence.  The emphasis is on the 'sit' - resisting the impulse, the compulsion to 'do something.'  This is quite another, much more difficult thing to do.

Just last night, at dinner with a friend: the waitstaff member came over and said the usual kind of things to establish our contact, our social contract for the duration.  They said: I am (insert name), and I will be taking care of you/your server for tonight.  This is a very familiar exchange; we know what is expected of us, and we comply by responding at the appropriate times in the appropriate manner.  But there is also a lot of choice in this exchange.  Was I going to be point person?  Speaking first, was I going to defer always to my companion?  Was I going to say nothing and let my companion always speak first?

The four way intersection with stop signs works because we know the rule: first at the stop bar or to the right goes first.  It cause me a fair amount of anxiety, these intersections, because when they are crowded, or have two lanes in any one direction, I lose track of who arrived where and it what order.  It's a great feeling of relief to transact the four way stop all on your lone, without any other cars at all.  The back and forth of conversation between people that do not know each other is similar- it works because we know we need to 'respond' at certain times.  

Okay, now imagine yourself in one of these Groundhog Day type convos you seem to always be in with a family member:  They say "you know what I hate?" and you feel a flush of 'ick,' because you feel you should intervene in this person's (possibly) uncomfortable feelings of hate, you should help them to feel un-hate by pointing out what a nice day we are having or something like that.  Well, instead of rushing in with the weather, you let it sit there, the statement of hate, and you also sitting, in your feeling of ick.  It's an incredibly bold move, I know.  It's downright subversive, and the feeling of ick is uncommonly powerful and you know if you just said some small thing about the weather and condoned this hate by your complicity, by your responding, that the ick would dissipate some; I mean, how can you just stand there while people say a thing they want a response to?  It's hard, like not even lifting your racket when the ball comes over the net at you; hard like standing there in a game of chicken, trying not to flinch.  Because it is pretty automatic, for me, anyway, to step right up and respond to any and everything.

And, you think?  So?  Well, let's take this non-responding and sitting in the ick slowly, let's just try it, try it somewhere with low stakes, someplace outside of the family.  Maybe when you are ordering food at a restaurant.  Maybe when the waitstaff comes over and needs your answer, you withhold the smiling pleasantries and just state that 'tap water is what you will have to drink.'  It does feel icky, oddly, to me, the pared down facts version of what I will have to drink, because I am not re-assuring and kowtowing.  And that is how I am trying to learn to sit with the ick.

  

PS  There is a song for you, today, for this sitting.

re-make

 

(On a related note, check out the ceramic cat mewseum)

Dear Remorseless,

Today, I am ripping out all of it and re-making my whole life- the past part, of course- the future part is impossible to contain.

Here is where I am starting:  my job will now have been UPS driver.  I have been at it for 27 years, and I love it, because I know all the people I deliver to, and they are always happy to see me.  It isn't a great job, pay-wise, but it's steady work, and it leaves me plenty of time to write in the evenings and play music in my all-girl band.

I also only have punky and net clothing now.  And boots.  Most of it is black, or pink.  My favorite thing to wear is a big crinoline with a men's dress shirt and noisy, clunky, buckled boots.  The shirt is done up partly with safety pins- big gold ones that I got in a junk shop.  I have 12 pairs of fishnet stockings, and I never hesitate to wear the torn ones, with odd shaped holes in the ankles.

I have read all of Truman Capote's books, plays, letters and screenplays, and of course, also, the entirety of Colette.  I only have shelving everywhere.  And ceramic cat figurines.  I have 27 thousand books, and thirteen hundred vinyl records.  There is a sofa, and some chairs.  There is nothing, nothing in the kitchen at all except a moka pot.  All the kitchen cabinetry is filled with books.  I often wish I had time to learn to cook.  I play mah jongg for money and I always win.  I give my winnings to the animal shelter.

I got a law degree, when I was younger, because I didn't like people thinking I wasn't smart enough, but now I know this is just how they make you feel when you are female.  I chose law not because I had an interest in it; only because I thought I could buy your respect by going to school for so many years.  It was a folly, yes; but there is no youth without folly.  Having that degree and doing nothing with it was, after all, the whole point.

A few other details of my re-made past; when you said you thought I was in danger of wasting my life, I threw my drink at you, glass and all.  When you cajoled me into having dinner with you, I packed up all my stuff and moved two days later, and I left no forwarding address.  When you told me I should just ignore it and get on with my life, I slashed your tires and stopped answering your calls.  When you told me it sounded like a mental problem, I burned all your letters and joined a writer's group.  I also never spoke to your thoughtless ass again, because why would I?  That time you made fun of the shirt I liked, the shirt with all the dancing people on it?  That was the day I vowed I would never listen to anyone's advice unless I asked them for it.  It has saved me a lot of consternation, and if I hadn't stopped talking to you after that, I would have thanked you for the lesson.

PS  Here is your song for today.

more flowers

 

budding