booktopia.

this is via ithyle.

This is a list of the top 100 books ever published. Supposedly, the average person has only read 6 of these books.
This is what you have to do:
1. Copy the list on your blog.
2. Read through the list and mark the books you've read in bold.
3. Italicize any you started, but didn't finish.
4. Color the ones you loved in green. (Or whatever color, really.)



1. The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
2. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
3. The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
4. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
5. Life of PI - Yann Martel
6. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
7. The Color Purple - Alice Walker (i've seen the movie about 100 times. does that count?)
8. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
9. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
10. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
11. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
12. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
13. His Dark Materials (trilogy) - Philip Pullman
14. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
15. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
16. The Hobbit - J.R.R. Tolkien
17. Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
18. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
19. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
20. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
21. Chronicles of Narnia - C.S. Lewis <---oh, i smell a rat. this isn't a book, it's a series and how can they have one book from the series alone beneath the whole series, as a separate entry? especially since they kept 'his dark materials' together? hmm...
22. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – C.S. Lewis
23. Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne
24. Animal Farm - George Orwell
25. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
26. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
27. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
28. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
29. Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White
30. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
31. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
32. Complete Works of Shakespeare
33. Ulysses - James Joyce
34. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
35. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
36. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
37. The Bible
38. The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
39. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
40. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
41. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
42. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
45. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
46. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
47. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
48. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
49. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
50. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
51. Little Women - Louisa M. Alcott
52. Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
53. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
54. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
55. Middlemarch - George Eliot
56. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
57. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
58. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
59. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
60. Emma - Jane Austen
61. Persuasion - Jane Austen
62. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
63. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
64. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
65. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
66. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
67. Anne of Green Gables – L.M. Montgomery
68. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
69. Atonement - Ian McEwan
70. Dune - Frank Herbert
71. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
72. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
73. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
74. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
75. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
76. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
77. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
78. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
79. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
80. Bridget Jones’ Diary - Helen Fielding
81. Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
82. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
83. Dracula - Bram Stoker
84. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
85. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
86. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
87. Germinal - Emile Zola
88. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
89. Possession - A.S. Byatt
90. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
91. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell <---i can't overstate how much i loved this book and the author.
92. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
93. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
94. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
95. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
96. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
97. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
98. Watership Down – Richard Adams
99. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
100. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas <---remember in 'the shawshank redemption' where the dumb inmate looks at this book in the library and says, snorting, "alexander dumbass?"

i've never even heard of some of these books. faraway tree collection?
oh well. i'm certainly more well-read than most people, according to this highly scientific list.

also, some things i did not do today:
-go to the gym
-eat well
-leave the house
-do anything productive at all
-meditate
-write

downer/upper.

things i'm not stoked about:

this is fucking terrible, but not surprising.

things i am stoked about:
-carrots (so good!)
-broccoli (if i had to only eat one vegetable for the rest of my life, it'd be broccoli.)
-trace minerals (shannon is a big believer in these, but i don't really like the way they make the water taste. nonetheless, they're really good for you and they kick canker sores in the pants.)
-the gym (i know, old news, but i have fallen back in love with it.)
-writing (again, yawn, but i am deep in the midst of a passionate love affair with it. hopefully long-term.)
-flip-flops (i used to wear them everyday, and then i backed away from it, but i have been enjoying it being warm enough to wear them again.)
-peter hoeg's new book, 'the quiet girl.' ('smila's sense of snow' is one of my top 5 favorite books, so i was THRILLED when i saw that he had a new one. i'm listening to it on cd and LOVING it. so much so that i am looking forward to reading it the normal way already. there was a sense of restraint and distance in 'smila's' but this one is so much more passionate and funny and warm. i mean, he's danish, so there's still the scandanavian-ness, but not nearly so much.)
-joyce carol oates (am i boring you by talking about her books and her all the time? she's just so amazing. i'm reading 'my heart laid bare' and it's wonderful.)
-frigoverre (in me and shannon's on-going mission to eradicate plastic from our lives, this was a landmark discovery. i fret about plastic food storage and this stuff has a glass base. we've got tons of it and the thrill hasn't worn off yet.)
-making smoothies for breakfast (gina got me started and now i can't stop. i actually did stop for a couple of weeks, but only because we didn't have any food in the fridge. but i went grocery shopping yesterday and came back with organic blueberries and raspberries, some frozen peaches, more rice milk, spinach....i already had some of my favorite rice protein powder and some sprouted raw flax seeds. so, super tastiness this morning.)
-the liam finn album. remember i posted a video of his performance on david letterman and said i'd bought the album? well, it's good.

seriously, though, guys.
please use your hands-free headset with your phone, and even when you're kicking it hands-free, keep your phone somewhere aside from on your person. not to be all preachy, but brain tumors are sons of bitches, and i love you guys and i want you to live.

blahblahblahwriting.

i flew back from LA yesterday for writing class.

i thought it was the last one, but i guess it was the second-to-last one.

i've been feeling a bit unenthused about my class, kinda aimless and drifting, and was toying with the idea of just not going, but not seriously. maybe old me might have done that, flaked out, but i know myself well enough to know that if i'm resisting something that much, then i should probably shut up and do it, so i went.

my travel day was mostly fine. at LAX to early, since traffic on the 405 is a total mystery and could potentially have taken hours, but in actuality took minutes. some drama in my head about missing my shuttle back to 'Luma, but it didn't happen, so overall, fine. uneventful. no gavin newsom to gawk at. i got home with enough time to hang a little, change clothes, eat something and then head into the city for class. again, thought i was going to be late for class, which i have really tried to avoid after being so late to the first class, and time bent enough for me to make it.

my big resistance to the class lately has been reading my new fiction project. as much as i knew i should share it, i was really afraid of negative feedback, do kept feeling like i didn't want to share yet. but what the hell am i wasting my time writing for if i'm too afraid to share anything i write? in theory, the writing itself is the reward for the writing, because you're releasing things out of your brain that would otherwise just build up and smother you. so, it should be a relief to let it all out, whether or not you share it. but really, why bother if you won't share it? how do you know what you need to work on? how do you know if it's any good at all?
so, i brought my laptop to class, with the intention of reading my new stuff.

when it was time to read, i almost chickened out, and i got all flustered and nervous, but i did it anyway. so, i read, the first 10 or so pages of the book, and heard a few noises from the rest of the class as i read, some 'hmm' and some laughing. that's a good sign, i thought. after i was done, everyone was wildly enthusiastic. everyone applauded me at the end of class. lee, who is sparing with his praise, said, not just yeah, but fuck yeah. alan, my teacher, referenced dickens and kafka and margaret atwood. i think, after the difficulties and the repetition of my mistakes in the memoir, me reading this was a surprise for everyone, because the novel is more me. the memoir was artificial and forced, but the novel is me writing the way i want to. everyone was really interested to see what happened next, and there was lots of discussion about directions to take it and what should happen to the main character. alan sent me an email today, about some authors he thought i might want to read, that he was reminded of by my writing, and he said that my piece was still with him, he'd been thinking about it. he said it was "really, really amazingly good." yay!

it was very exciting. after being so scared and protective of it, and so afraid of it being ripped to shreds, or just left kinda soggy and damp, to have everyone be so positive, so impressed, was terrifically validating. *this* is how artists keep themselves going. yes, you have a feeling you're good, but you need periodic validation to keep you going when you have forgotten, or when other people have told you you suck. these are the memories that light your way when you need some illumination. so, i am jealously, feverishly clutching this feeling to my heart. i can do this. i can do this. i am good at this. sometimes i'm not sure and maybe i even think i'm crap, but i have it in me.

alan did a bit of a wrap up for the class, with some general words of wisdom and encouragement, that really hit the spot.

i've actually hit a bit of a wall with my story. i imagine it like this: i'm in a car. i set out filled with excitement, a really clear plan in mind of my route. my tank is full, i have snacks, i have good road music and i'm GOING FOR IT. so i'm going! and it's awesome - as awesome as i'd imagined, maybe better! man, the scenery is so good and i've got the windows rolled down and the music is blasting and i'm singing at the top of my lungs and drumming on the steering wheel! then, as time passes, i start getting tired. my trip has taken less time than i thought, and some of the stuff i had planned turned out to not be that cool so i skipped it, but don't have alternate plans. it's getting dark, i've eaten everything i brought with me, i don't have anywhere to stay, and i might have taken a wrong turn. i'm driving slower and slower, down a road that i thought i knew, but am realizing i don't actually know. slower and slower, until suddenly i am stopped completely on a deserted road, in the middle of the night, surrounded by huge trees. i don't really know where i am and i don't know where i am headed and i am feeling overwhelmed and scared by the confusion. it was all so well thought out, you know?

this is me, lost and scared in the middle of my project. i have run out of gas, i have lost the map.
and this isn't the first time this has happened to me.

i realized that this happens every time. i have a bunch of started but unfinished projects, short stories or something, where i started off really elated and clear and slowly rolled to a stop at some point, unclear what to do, so i abandoned the car and walked home.

but i'd like to end this habit.

alan was saying that writing your book can be a chance to work through all your problems? are you a quitter? work it out on your book. lazy? superficial? fearful? pour all of it into the writing of the novel. he said that when he wrote his book, he was at a really low point. but he surrendered to the process. he said, alright, this is me - whatever i am. pathetic, angry, sad, frustrated, everything i am, i'm not going to hold back, i'm going to pour it all in.

so, i'm in.

he talked about being in the middle of his book and being at temple, for yom kippur. the rabbi is lowered to the ground my two other people, prostrate before the torah and god, on the day of atonement, and he says something in hebrew that translates to 'here i am.' and that's what he imagined doing with his novel. here i am, face down, prostrate before you. i am hiding nothing.

i got tears in my eyes when he said it. partly because of how beautiful that image of total surrender is, and partly because i reminded me of one of mom's ubiquitous labelmate messages, one on her bathroom mirror. it said 'here i am lord.'

admitting we have no control and we're flailing around trying to make it happen when really we have no idea what we're doing - it can be terrifying. but it's what's true most of the time. we have no idea what we're doing. we're scared and confused and just doing it, whatever it is, and hoping for the best.

i appreciate the liberation of surrender. once you surrender, it's out of your hands, which is a relief.

i've been feeling like a failure because i don't know what i'm doing with my writing and i'm worried i'm going to quit and be entirely without a goal again and that i'll waste this new sense if clarity, which was so hard earned through mom's death, and that i'll just sit here forever, waiting for something to happen to me, because i don't know what to do. i want to really Be this new me, in the world. i feel so different and so much more capable, or, i did, but it feels like it's going away without opportunities to use it. like, being me, in my house, at the gym, isn't enough. like i can only shine and know myself in a state of crisis. i don't want to lose this sense of purpose, of ME, this version of ME that i really admire, but i just can't seem to figure out how to translate ME into a post-crisis life. i am all filled with fears again, hesitating because i can.

so, i'm pouring it all into the book. so help me god, i will finish this book. it will be hard, probably, because most things worth doing are, and i am going to dig deep and mine everything i have and i am going to just pour it all in to this project. every ounce of my insecurity, my needing my mom, my doubts about my future and what i am capable of, my fears of repeating my mom's mistakes, my fears of failure, my hunger for success and to make myself proud, my need for approval, my shame, my anger, my quitting, my regret - ALL OF IT. fucking all of it. if i have anything to offer the world, if i have anything good or bad in me, i hope to show it in this damn book. i'm sorry it wasn't the book about mom, but i'm just not ready yet.

i get mail addressed to The Estate of Jenna Fisher.

it's so weird, because getting mail to her just feels like a mistake, but that mail, to The Estate, is like a little electric shock of realization - mom has an estate because she died. she died. my mom died. she's dead. she's no less dead now than before. it can be so painful still sometimes, even though most of the times it's not. sometimes something will hit the scar in the right way and it just stabs me again, the realization.

i heard that sharper image is filing for bankruptcy. it's probably because mom is dead. i think she might have been single-handedly keeping them afloat.

today was my last training session with jimmy. i tried to figure out how to buy more sessions, but i just can't afford it without screwing myself financially. i'm feeling really sad about it. he's leaving at the end of april to move to ventura to be a cop (the good kind, not the criminal sodomizing kind), but i had hoped to stay with it at least until he leaves. maybe something will turn up. i'm have a really hard time letting it/him go. it's embarrassing to admit, but he was one of the biggest things that helped me get through my grieving. it feels painfully appropriate that he's going now, as i am realizing that i am out of the woods with the grieving, so to speak, and that it's time to figure out how to live again. like my crutch is getting yanked out from under me, and i need to wobble around unaided. i mostly kept it together, saying goodbye, but i had to go down into the locker room and cry a little bit.

okay, i haven't worked on my book today, so i'm going to log some hours.

p.s. we have a reading scheduled, as the culmination of our class, and i'd love it if you'd come, if you'd like. it's on april 13th, a sunday, from 2 to 4pm, here:

Bird and Beckett Bookstore
San Francisco's
southernmost literary & jazz joint
in the heart of the city's
Glen Park neighborhood

653 Chenery Street,
between Diamond & Castro
in Glen Park
1-1/2 blocks from Glen Park BART station
& MUNI lines 23, 26, 44, 52 & J-Church

don't worry, i'll remind you.

david suchet and shasta marie.

this is the actor, david suchet.
i'm having a little bit of a love affair with him right now.
why, you ask?
well.
you may or may not know that i listen to books on cd quite a bit, and by 'quite a bit' i mean instead of the radio or music, in my car. i am always listening to something when i am driving. i'm surprised mykhail didn't start speaking in an english accent, after listening to agatha christie for 3 days.
anyway, i am going through an agatha christie phase, and this is all because of the wonderful
david suchet.
he is most famous for playing hercules poirot in the agatha christie movies on the bbc and he reads the books on cd. not only is he adorable and charmant (as the french and, like monsieur poirot, the belgians, say) as poirot, but he does the voices for everyone else in the books, creating AMAZING voices. i seriously can't stress enough how impressive his vocal range is. he can play poirot, who is a pompous little belgian man with a french accent, a blowsy middle aged american woman, a well-bred young irish man, and a blustery old british general, each distinct, each entirely consistent. and then he has his normal voice for the narration. AMAZING, you guys.
so, i'm on my third book on cd by him.
here's a clip of him talking about the making of a video game version of 'murder on the orient express.' it's not amazing, but he does the poirot voice and you'll see how different it is from his own voice.

tonight, i popped in a movie that i had rented from netflix and HE WAS IN IT!! yeah! i know!
it was 'the falcon and the snowman' which was dated and featured a very young sean penn and his huge nose. seriously, it looked like he had a fake nose on or something. was it always so big? did he get a nosejob?
anyway, david suchet plays a russion diplomat and he is fantastic. so suave and self-assured.
then, from doing research on him, i find he's won tons of awards and was nominated for his performances in 'who's afraid of virginia woolfe?' and 'amadeus.' oh, and he was at the royal shakespeare for, like, 100 yrs and played caliban and iago and tybalt.
also, he's 5'6", which is so poirot.
anyway, it's exciting. he's great, and he actually works quite a bit. good for him. he deserves it.
***********************************************************************************

on a totally different note, i haven't talked much about putting shasta marie to sleep yet. i think i am avoiding it, since it's hard being here at the house without her. she deserves a tribute, but i'm not ready yet.

hey jealousy.

(remember that song? i wonder what the gin blossoms are doing now... not much, i'd guess.)

anne lamott, who wrote the book on writing that i talked about a little while ago, talks a lot about jealousy. how jealous she feels when a writer friend of hers is succeeding and she's not. she talks about the illusion of 'getting published,' like getting published is the beginning of everything unsolved in your life getting handled. she talks about filling the spaces inside yourself with the writing, not the dream of being published.

i'm feeling jealous of other people's connections. i'm feeling caught up in the illusion of getting published, being a gajillionaire and having all my problems solved. i am feeling empty, not writing enough in the last week from my sickness, not feeding myself with the stuff i have in front of me - the writing - and hungry for what's not in front of me - making money doing this.

there's no moral or anything, i'm just stating this stuff publicly, to get it out of myself, so it doesn't feel so sneaky and secret and moldy.

my cough lingers on, making me feel like a pariah in my own home. i mean, i am grossed out and repulsed by my cough, and i imagine myself cringing away from someone else with my cough, so i cringe from myself every time i am wracked by a coughing jag that leaves me crunched up and heaving. i'm so embarrassed by uncontrollable coughing. i wonder why. i recall a time i was on the bus, having a tickle in my throat that i couldn't get out, and needing to cough in that kind of unbridled way that can feel so urgent. like, eyes bulging, deep breaths for deep explosions, that feeling like every time you inhale you're choking because of that goddamned tickle. and i remember trying to cough a little bit, on the bus, demurely, really aware of all the other bus riders and how bummed they'd be about me having a nasty coughing fit, how worried they'd probably be that i was sick. and i remember this feeling of panic because i COULD NOT get that damn tickle handled and every inhale was torture, and barely breathing until my stop came, so i could get off the bus, bend over, and cough myself hoarse. that's how i feel now, with this damn cough. so urgent, so embarrassing, so painful. why do i give a shit if people think i have TB? why was i so okay with choking/smothering to death, so i didn't bum a bunch of strangers out? weird. so unlike me.

i'm reading a book by joyce carol oates. for my writing class, we're supposed to be reading books by one author, submerging ourselves in this writer's work, in a kind of dialogue with them while we are writing. i chose philip roth, mostly because i had a book by him that i'd started but not finished. so i read one book by him and it was good, moved well, i felt good about it. i chose my next one by him, a pulitzer prize winner, and was struck by how similar it was to the other one. i mean, the story was totally different, but both narrators were jewish guys from newark. lots of details about newark and being a jew. the stories were about other things, but the voice, if you will, was dang near identical. also, the majority of this second book takes place in the mind of one character, him imagining the mind of another character. there was setting, but it was very much mental. i have been struggling with this in my memoir, my difficulty setting my story in a concrete time and place, with details that let the reader settle in, so i thought it was ironic that this book, very good, was entirely based on the exact same thing that i was trying to NOT do. and i saw how tricky it can be, and i saw where some of the feedback from my classmates was coming from, how being led by the train of thought of the narrator can be dizzying and disorienting. it can really work, but it's not easy, and even a well respected author like philip roth was struggling with it.

so, my teacher said maybe philip roth wasn't right for me, given the navel gazing, so he suggested i find another writer. so, i went to the library and was looking around for an author with a HUGE section. we're looking for someone prolific, so we don't run out of books by them before we're done with the project. i ended up with joyce carol oates, which is a bit of a cop out. my teacher read joyce carol oates for his memoir writing, and he recommended her to my writing partner, who was having trouble finding the right author for herself. so, that i ended up with her too seems kinda uninventive. but, i will say, that woman is prolific. sheesh. does she even sleep? but this book, which i chose basically at random, is EXACTLY the same thing as the others - this hallucinatory, out of it, stream of consciousness. the physical setting is unclear sometimes, because the characters are mentally unhinged.

it's just so weird that, of all her many, many, MANY books, i chose this one. clara, my writing partner, was saying how she was really compelled to keep reading the JCO book she was reading, but couldn't really figure out why, and i kinda agree. i am not really enjoying the book, in a traditional sense. it's unsettling, filled with isolated, crazy people. and yet i am continuing. interesting. even if we factor in my personal weirdness about finishing books once i've started, there is no good reason for it.

tomorrow i head back to the gym for the first time in a week. i've felt bad about not going, but also shy about my cough and how wheezy i am with the coughing. plus, a little weird and light-headed off and on. so, it'll be nice to go again and i hope it feels good and not depressing because i have become a jelly donut in the week that has elapsed.

i inched my way back into the real world today, after my week of sickness exile. well, i got groceries yesterday and went to therapy, so i was started inching then, i guess. today, the dentist for a teeth cleaning (i was a year and a half overdue, which is actually pretty good for me) and then to a cafe for an iced coffee. i sat in the sun drinking my drink and eating a piece of coffee cake. made some phone calls, paid some bills, wondered where my money would come from.

who do i appeal to for help with things, now that i don't feel connected to god or the universe? if the only thing that's real is >this<, our physical bodies and our mental capabilities, how do i make things happen that feel impossibly big and out of my range? usually i'd talk to the universe about it, but since i'm not sure that i believe in it, it seems unfair for me to ask for a favor. so, who do i ask? how do i make it happen?

good quotes.

writing a novel is like driving a car at night. you can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. - e.l. doctorow

writing is so difficult that i often feel that writers, having had their hell on earth, will escape all punishment hereafter. - jessamyn west

what you have to do now is work. there's no right way to start. - anna held audette

this book is holding my hand and guiding me through the storm:



dear anne lamott,
thank you. not a moment too soon.
sincerely,
kira fisher

writing is torture.

last week's writing class was absolutely the best so far.

i've had some lingering doubts about how well i was fitting into the class, from a writing stand point. everyone else has a really sparse style, while mine is a 'more is more' kinda attitude. (which can also be used to describe my attitude towards jewelry, too, i think. just pile it all on there and go.)

we read chunks of our writing every week, what we've been working on that week, and afterwards we get comments.

everyone is very careful about each other's feelings and we use a the old compliment sandwich method of feedback (not purposely, but it just seems to work out this way) where there's a compliment, a minor criticism, and then another compliment.

i've felt like my compliments so far have been half-hearted, like the other people in the class, including my teacher, were struggling to find positive things to say. they were the kind of watered down that you give to a friend after you've just watched them in a terrible play, where you really reach to find something to say that is positive, despite having just watched/read/heard something almost without redeeming quality. (not that that's ever, happened to me, pals! you're all flawless, always, without exception!) like, 'wow! you sure wrote some stuff there! that was a lot of words you used!'

and then the criticism didn't feel like stuff i could grab on to, which was just as disappointing, because i am all about improvement on all levels. i am so hungry for things to work on, to apply myself to, ways to improve, in pretty much every area of my life.

so, last week, i got a lot of REAL praise for my week's writing, from both my classmates and my teacher. and i got feedback that was immediately helpful and totally on point. everyone's writing was really, really good, noticeably improved from weeks before, and it just felt like everyone's juices were flowing, so to speak.

i left totally excited, like, 'THAT is what i'm talking about!'

it was a nice little encouragement, like a little message from the Muses, telling me to keep writing. not that i would have quit writing, but i am not cut out for slogging away in the face of insane obstacles. i need an occasional ray of light, to mix metaphors.

then this week was torture again.

i have written more in the last few days than in years and i'd say 3 pages of the 15 are usable and the rest are the writing equivalent of what scales are for singers. just warming up. i just couldn't dig in. i tried the same section multiple times, stopping at the end of one sentence and starting all over again. it was so frustrating, to be working so hard and have nothing that i'd like to show for it, but then, at the same time, in a weird way, it was a little bit awesome. having to really brace my feet, bend my knees, drop my shoulder and fucking PUSH. i didn't give up, i didn't despair, because i realized it was just a bump in my writing road, and i just kept writing.

it was exciting.

i have to many things rattling around in my head. i started a new fiction story the other day, based on a sentence that popped into my head fully formed (like athena, kinda.) it's like...the handmaid's tale meets the golden compass. or something. i have no idea, really, what it is, but i only want to write that, and writing my memoir is feeling more challenging.

actually, i need to amend what i wrote above.

my writing of this new story was ease itself. it was fun, exciting and i could have worked on it for hours longer than the 3 i did. it was the dang memoir that was so hard. and i kinda wanted to chuck the memoir and just work on this new project, but i totally resisted that urge and forced myself to go some good work on the memoir. it might not be the best work, but it is stuff i won't be ashamed to share on thursday night, though i am not anticipating last week's accolades.

maybe, since i was so good about my memoir writing, i'll let myself work a little bit on the other one. just a little. not tons. like dessert.

i've been doing the majority of my writing in pen. this my axe,' as the guitarists say. mine is tha silky black one, with the gold fountain tip. it's so amazing. i am going through ink cartridges like nothing, which is making me feel like a polluting asshole, but i guess that's a bit better than using a disposable pen where i throw the WHOLE thing away. or something. i use a hard cover lined notebook, with paper that's thick enough to avoid bleed through from my wettish pen, but not super thick. i'm getting writing cramps, where my hand feels permanently frozen into a writing claw. it's cool. it's like i'm a dancer and i'm finally getting mangled-looking feet! i'm earning my wings, people! i've been enjoying the act of writing the memoir, LOVING my fancy pen and just generally down with my process.

but for this other story that i'm hatching i used my laptop, to compare the experiences.

so far i'm not seeing a dramatic difference, but i'm interested to see if anything pops up.

this last week i felt like i was coming out of my funk a bit. i called a bunch of people, while i had the energy. i worked out more. i just took advantage of the up-swing in my energy.

then the clouds came back and i realized how much the sunny spell had to do with my positive outlook. now i'm feeling a bit droopy again, but i'm also PMSing, so maybe it's nothing major. i mean, probably it's nothing major, because i'll be fine, but i am hoping that i have a little break from feeling filled to the brim with despair. it's been nice to feel so fit, emotionally.

i've begun seriously talking and thinking about selling Yumi. i haven't talked to allen about it yet. ideally, i'd never have to tell him, but i haven't come up with a scenario where that'll work since be lives there and he's obviously going to have some feelings about it. to say i am dreading it would be the making of a true, if under-, statement. is there something more extreme than dread? sinking dread? creeping dread? anticipating with abhorrence? i talked to our realtor about it, and got some info from her to help me, the names of some people in mendo who might be able to help me. i know the market is crap and whatnot, but seriously. i need to dump that thing. it's killing me, and not a little bit. actually, allen is killing me. the house is fine. he is not. the worry about him and the stupid sense of responsibility i feel for him, like he's an invalid who needs caring for or something, is fucking KILLING me.

what the hell kind of grown man is comfortable having a women more than 30 years younger than him supporting him? doesn't that make him feel bad about himself? it makes ME feel bad about HIM, for sure.

whatever. love and light, allen. get out of my house and go away.

more about writing.

alan, my teacher, said something that stuck with me a couple of classes ago. or maybe last class. i can't remember.

anyway, he warned us that writing would start taking over our lives, that everything else would fade back and a lot of things would seem less and less important in the face of our writing. that prophecy was both terrifying and exciting. i felt a thrill of anticipation for that sensation of absorption, that level of commitment and focus. i mean, i already have problems with letting crap slide, so that was scary to hear, but i appreciated the sentiment.

and these last few days i've felt it, just a bit. that feeling that all i want to do is write. i skipped the gym two days in a row, which for me is basically unheard of these days, because i was just so into my writing. i'm not really down with suddenly becoming a slug-butt again, but it is exciting to feel so moved.

he also read us some passages from hemingway's book on writing, titled, mysteriously, 'on writing.' hemingway suggested writing until you knew what was going to happen next. he thought we shouldn't write until we were feeling blank. he referred to our creativity like a well and said we should draw deeply from it, but always make sure to leave some, then to give it time to refill itself. so, when you're done for the day, stop and go do things that get you out of your head and away from writing.

i'm having trouble with the 'getting away from writing' thing at this point.

hard times again

hi.
i haven't been writing much.
i'm having a hardhardhard time again.
i can't really talk much about it because i have to get ready to leave for my writing class, but i just thought i'd let you know i'm alive, i'm struggling, doing lots of reading, going to the gym and that's about it.
i'm going to endeavor to write more again, because it's good for my melon.
sometimes, when you're sad, the last thing you want to talk about is being sad.
sometimes you don't want to talk at all.

it's okay.

i found this poem in a folder in my office. i used to have it taped to my bedroom door.

musee des beaux arts
about suffering they were never wrong,
the old masters: how well they understood
its human position; how it takes place
while someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
how, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
for the miraculous birth, there always must be
children who do not specially want it to happen, skating
on a pond at the edge of the wood:
they never forgot
that even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
in brueghel's icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
but for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
as it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.


it's funny to me that i had this on my door, post-high school, but before my mom died.
this is an idea that i've always pondered, the way that pain or tragedy can be really private, but i had so little experience with anything really sad (messy break up, maybe), i didn't really know anything about any kind of suffering.
i think back on people that i know, who have had terribly painful, difficult things happen to them, and i just couldn't relate because i hadn't experienced any pain.
again, not like the death of my mom qualifies me as an expert in suffering or pain, but it really did give me a new perspective, and an ability to understand pain in a way that i never could have even imagined before-hand.
and it's true, the terrible things that happen to people, most of the rest of the world knows nothing about it.
i think about the people i went to school with, or worked with, and imagine things that happened in their home lives that i wasn't aware of. while i was agonizing over something insignificant, people's private tragedies and pain were playing out unnoticed.
i remember feeling a sense of shock and upset that people could laugh or ride their bikes or fall in love as my mom was dying. it just felt so huge that everyone, everywhere should know about it.
i'd like to apologize to anyone who reads this and who has gone through something personal and terrible and who i wasn't able to really connect with. i want to apologize for not being able to be there for you. i know all pain is pretty personal, and me experiencing something heart-bruising doesn't mean i understand every pain conceivable, but i understand some of it now, more than i ever did before. i am sorry you had to go through that without me. i hope i am able to be a better friend/relative/daughter/neighbor to you in the future.

bzzz, bzzz, bzzzz.

my little brain has been buzzing with activity lately.
it's a good thing.
i am filled with curiosity and an honest commitment to learning about things right now.
the problem is an overwhelming amount of things that i would really, really like to be working on, all at the same time.
examples include:
-cooking - reading cookbooks, cruising epicurious, shopping for utensils (hello, food processor!)
-french - i bought a french magazine, and am trying to slog my way through it, with my mom's old french/english dictionary and one of those '500 french verbs' books. slow going.
-design/house stuff - reading house magazines for ideas, set up idea notebook, research eras of design, thrift store shopping, researching green building options
-personal productivity - research various systems, finish reading 'getting things done,'
-chores - reorganize closet, vacuum, find places for all of the stuff i keep bringing home from mom's
-writing - do some, research classes, read some books about writing

see?
it's a lot.
i have been getting a fair amount done, in general, but i'd like to be more organized about it. i am pondering setting my interests up like a school or work schedule, where i set slots of time everyday/week for various subjects, so i am sure that each interest gets its own undivided slot of time. so, say, doing an hour and a half of design research 3 days a week. working on french for an hour every morning. whatever. you get my meaning.
i'm not sure it'll work, but i'm pondering it.

me and shannon brought the dog up to RV yesterday.
i bagged mom's clothes, or, at least some of them. armed with 4 bags of kitchen-sized bio-bags i packed all her pants and long sleeved tops. all undies and bras. all work out clothes. all were put in bags, labeled, and taken to the local goodwill, where they were dumped into bins unceremoniously with other people's crappy stuff. it was hard to see her stuff reduced to so many bags of crap. (clearly she isn't the sum of her belongings, though the staggering quantity of her belongings does go a ways towards representing the vastness of her being, in quantity, if not quality.)
seeing her stuff allowed/forced to mingle with strangers' stuff, her sweatshirt in a pile on top of other people's sweatshirts/jeans/whatever, was terribly painful. it felt like they owed her a special bin of her own, or a ceremony should have been performed to commemorate the magnitude of meaning of them being allowed the privilege of passing along her clothes to others. and, i looked at her faded sweatshirts, with their frayed cuffs or necks cut off or the purple jersey button down with the little cow patch sewn on, and i know that no one will sense the vibrations of my mom, and people will pass these things on the racks because to them they are just ratty sweatshirts, and they can't sense the mana inherent in them. those are just weird old exercise socks, or those are just some bright purple stretchy pants, to them. to me, they are artifacts of the life my mom lived, and proof she existed. i hate that the physical stuff that lasts is always so impersonal and the really important stuff, the intangibles like her voice and smell, are the first to go.
i kept her favorite hat from her radiation days, and it still smells like her. it's been hard finding stuff that still smells like her because everything smells musty in her closet. lots of stuff smells like mildew, from drying too slowly in the freezing cold laundry room during the winter/fall of her malady. but this hat smells like her still. i have been wearing it all morning, periodically taking it off to bury my nose in it. i am both comforted by it and afraid i'm ruining it by wearing it, adding my own smell in and wasting one of the last known repositories of my mom's smell. before this, i couldn't have imagined the panic i'd experience about the loss of something so commonplace. i would have stored things in air-tight canisters if i knew. i would have archived every voicemail.
at this time last year, we had no idea that this year would look the way it did. at this time last year i couldn't have conceived of the idea that mom wouldn't see another thanksgiving, christmas, birthday. i couldn't possibly wrap my brain around that. this time last year i was learning how to walk dogs, settling into our new house in silverlake, making my way through classes i would eventually have to ditch at the last minute.
things can change so dramatically, so quickly.
we packed mom's stuff until we didn't have any more room in the trunk, then headed home. (stopped for my celebratory espresso shake along the way, and to drop off hats and cancer books to the cancer resource center in ukiah).
we cried heading home, about everything, holding hands on top of the center console.
i wonder sometimes if it would be less painful to just never go back to Yumi (mom's ranchlette). it seems really appealing at times. even driving up there, through this heart-grabbingly beautiful scenery, is painful. i have driven up so many more times under duress, because mom had cancer and i was going towards her and the cancer, or away from her and her cancer. i didn't have enough time to lay a foundation of cozy feelings about it. now it's almost solely pain.
i know, i know.
it wouldn't work and i'd never do it anyway.
but i think about it.
being up there, where it's like mom laid out in teeny farm form, just reminds me now of how gone she is, physically.
i am not at a place yet where i can take much comfort in spiritual presence or something like that. mostly i am still pissed about the absence of her familiar form.
plus then i could let allen shamble off into his destiny.
he played a cd of his band at 11 for the last hour we were there. they sounded good, but it's weird that he jams out to his own cd. is that common for musicians to do? my minute experience with such things left me feeling profoundly embarrassed when forced to listen to my own voice on cd. i can think of very few things i'd like to do less. but anyway, he jammed out. they have a gig at the konocti harbor inn and resort, which is a really big deal for them. i snickered in my head, thinking of its old incarnation, packed to the gills with old sun-flayed alcoholics. it's got a white trash history that's hard to shake. it seems to be where bands go to start to die, though it used to be where bands went to finish dying, so perhaps it's coming up in the world. the website looks pretty professional. anyway, allen was stoked on his cd and stoked on the gig. so, kudos to him.
okay, i feel like i could keep going, but i need to get dressed to leave for therapy.
thanks for checking in on me, by the way.
sometimes it seems like everyone else is kind of over mom's death (not really, but you know.) i feel like everyone is going to get bored with my blog, now that i the dramatic stuff has passed.
so, if you're checking in and reading, thanks.

abiding.

feeling sad for the last couple of days.
it's like there is a membrane that keeps us separate from the sorrow of our lives, and the sorrow of the world, and sometimes it thins and becomes too thin to keep out the emotion. like the normal weight you carry just suddenly seems unmanageable.
there's no new drama, just the same old 'wow, i really miss my mom' drama.
i'm already tired of being so sad, so regularly.
this last year, with all the tragedy and sadness, is totally an aberration. i am really not good at just being with sadness, mostly because i don't tend to be sad for very long.
i don't mean that in a snotty way, like i have everything figured out.
i just mean that i am fortunate in that i don't usually have to deal with that this lifetime.
i guess i have gone through minor depressive phases, but nothing severe enough to label with a capital D. just low phases that last for a few months.
so, long story overly long, i have a hard time being patient with my sadness.
i keep wanting to hurry up.
i spent a large portion of the day over at my dad and linda's, and linda reminded me that it hasn't really been very long since my mom died. it feels like it's been epochs and ages - like so much has passed that we've moved into a totally different class of tool making or something - but in actual human time, it's only been a very short period of time.
i guess especially for something so big.
if i had started a new job that length of time ago, i'd still be getting acclimated to being at the new job. it would still feel new and uncomfortable.
so, similarly, only times one gazillion, i am still uncomfortable with my grief.
and you know, i have probably already mentioned this before, but i am still pretty uncomfortable with everything that happened within the last year.
there are very few chunks of time from the last year that aren't shot through with veins of unpleasantness that i'd rather not look at right now.
i keep looking over my own shoulder, making sure i'm processing everything i need to process, and that i'm not avoiding anything or stuffing it, which is stupid since i tend to err on the side of masochistically OVER processing and OVER addressing painful areas inside myself. it's pretty unlikely that i would leave something untouched inside myself.
but still, i hover over my own shoulder, whispering suggestions to myself.
i am not helping, to be honest.
i spent all day in my pajamas yesterday.
i finished reading 'what is the what,' which was sublime and highly recommended. because i was feeling so raw, i cried for an especially long time over everything that he had to endure, and everything that africa has to endure. it is the understatement of a lifetime for me to say: things in africa are pretty fucked up. i'll save my thoughts on africa for another time. i have many of them.
today, in an effort to discourage more pajama-clad moping, i left the house earlyish. my goal was to make it to the little hippie church in fairfax, where we had mom's party, in time to make their sunday morning services. but i had the time wrong, so i was there pretty late, so i didn't go in. but i was already feeling raw, and not ready for the rest of the world, so i went and sat in the garden (where we ate after mom's service), and cried and talked to mom. i'm not very good at meditating or praying yet, and i always feel like, when praying, that i am just basically having a conversation with myself, and i am not sure that that's really praying because it seems to intellectual. so, for some reason talking to mom out loud felt more meaningful. it's counterintuitive, but there it is. i sat in the yard and talked out loud to mom.
i told her the obvious stuff - i miss her, i'm bummed she's gone, i am not done thinking it sucks, it's not getting easier yet, i am ready for it to get easier, i'm having a hard time, i feel far from her...
i also asked her to help me with the allen thing. i feel like i have done everything i know how to do, and have really done a job that i (overall) feel confident and proud of, and yet i still experience almost nothing but frustration in my emotions about him. i just asked her to soften him up some. she was good at getting him to calm down and open up. that's all i ask.
more crying, more talking out loud.
i was talking to her about feeling so far away from her. i feel so jealous of the people who've said that they feel like she's near by, because i absolutely don't feel that way. i really, really don't feel her near. i mean, i have internalized her voice somewhat, so i can draw on that when i need to, but that's not what i'm talking about. i'm talking an external sense of her being near.
i was thinking, and saying to mom, how i suppose my dreams about her, and about her being alive, could have been interpreted by me as a message from her that she's still near me. now that i'm thinking about it that seems pretty obvious, but that's so NOT how i read them. i just felt so upset at the injustice of having to lose her all over again when i woke up. it's like, i'm not done being pissed off about her being gone from my life in the form that i know, and i'm not that interested in cultivating a new form of her being in my life because what i really want is her, back, the way that i want her back. i don't need her hovering near me being a guardian angel, i need her back as my flesh and blood mom, smelling like her and having her soft skin. fuck the disembodied presence.
not really.
but a little.
sara, the pastor of the church, came out and talked to me after the service.
it was nice to see her.
we talked about me, of course, an how i'm doing. (on many, many levels, i am tired in my soul of thinking about how i'm doing, and having pain i need to be managing. i am so sick of my pain.) she was nice and supportive. she told me that my mom being dead might not ever suck less than it does now. that wasn't encouraging. she didn't mean it in a discouraging way, more like in a 'you're doing fine where you are already' way.
she said the pain will just feel less fresh over time.
i feel like, in some ways, it getting less fresh feeling is upsetting to me, too, because that just drives the point home that mom won't be getting any less dead, and i'll just have to get used to it. like i'll get so tired of being surprised by it that i'll just become resigned to it. i don't like that idea very much.
the only pain i can associate this with is break up pain, where you are so torn up that it seems impossible to imagine it ever fading, but it does.
it really does.
and i know mom didn't stay up at night crying over her mom's death, 40 years after the fact. at some point you just accept it. it takes a lot of work to maintain that initial sense of surprise and injustice. i guess you just exhaust in at some point.
took i took myself to a mediocre lunch. i haven't been having a very good appetite lately, so i think that's why it was so nyeh. it was fine, but not what i'd hoped for.
bought myself books, and some presents.
what presents, you ask?
-a little gold-dipped heart on a chain, that is meant to commemorate someone's bat mitzvah. daddy told me that dealing with mom's illness was my bat mitzvah, and now i am a woman, so it seemed appropriate.
-a hard case for my ipod nano.
-an amazing fancy pen that writes like a dream.
-an unlined sketchbook, for writing about how i'm feeling. i have been blogging to help me process, but there are things that i think about or chew on that i don't want to blog about. (sorry, guys.)
i almost bought about a million other things. i love that store. (fig garden, in san anselmo. LOVE it.)
after that, i drove out to hang with daddy and linda, and it was exactly what i needed.
it's nice having adults (and by 'adults' i mean parental figures, recognizing that i am generally considered an adult) tell you that you're doing a good job. sometimes it's hard to tell yourself that in a way that sticks, or can cut through the self-doubt. they were really happy to have me over. they're always inviting me over to hang out, just to hang, and i haven't done it very many times, so they were stoked that i called. and it was exactly what i needed.
this week i have to go up to redwood valley, to take care of some business.
i'm a little nervous.
this will be the first time i see allen after i told him i wasn't giving him money from the sale of mom's car.
ugh.
again, i'd like to stress how tired i am of thinking the same old stuff, and feeling the same old feelings (grief, discomfort, anger, reget, etc.) i'm really, really tired of myself and my load of crap.
and yet, it's here.
so, i just have to deal with it.

The Path.

something about me that will both surprise and probably mostly not surprise at all is this:
i LOVE recommending books to people. ask me and i will put together a long, long list of books, of all different types, that you just have to read.
also, i almost never read anything that anyone recommends to me. it's the very recommendation that almost always poisons it for me. i'll read books that are universally accepted to be worth reading (a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, love in the time of cholera, roots, etc.) but the thrill of discovery and my own personal yearning to read is what makes reading worthwhile to me, and there is something about someone else doing the discovering for me that kinda deflates me.
it's so typically me. do as i say. period. i am not interested in what you have to say. just do as i say.
so, as i have realized this trait about myself, and in my endless pursuit for refining myself into the best possible version of myself that i can be, i have starting reading books that are recommended to me. a little bit. not all the time, and often it is with reluctance, but i have done it before, and i will do it again.
and, or course, often it's totally wonderful, and i am grateful to have been offered the opportunity to share something so special and transformative with someone i care about.
books i have read at the recommendation of other people:
-the secret life of bees
-east of eden
-sho-gun
-jonathan lethem, in general
-the wind-up bird chronicle
and now, the newest addition to the list...
-eat pray love.
lu recommended it to me, while i was going through my stuff with mom. she brought it up, gently but repeatedly, mentioning it in conversation, slipping me little bits of information about it.
with ill grace, i bought it from a little bookstore in ukiah, a week or so before mom died. i didn't particularly *want* to read it, but, because i am trying to not be the person who doesn't take suggestions, i bought it.
i brought it with me, from redwood valley to fairfax, and then from fairfax to petaluma.
i read about 15 books before-hand, but a few days ago i said, alright, kira, enough is enough. just read it.
so, i did.
you guys, it was just so lovely.
it gave me a glimpse of what reading my blog must be like to people who don't know me personally. following the journey of someone who you don't know but are rooting for whole-heartedly, as the struggle and strut their way through both happy and sad times. i only hope i am a smidgen as likeable as elizabeth gilbert (the author.)
i laughed many times, i cried many times, and i was just filled with a commitment and determination to make sure i always, always, always get back in the saddle, no matter how unceremoniously i am ejected from it, and how tired i am of it.
this book might not be for everyone, but ladies and gentlemen on the path, it is fucking wonderful.
as does anyone who will read the book, i felt such a kinship with the author. substitute her terrible divorce and ensuing messy romance for my own life from december 2006 and 2007, and we are like soul mates. bossy, friendly, funny, desperately trying to find peace and maybe even God in the midst of our darkest times.
i was terribly inspired by her book.
*i* want an indian guru.
*i* want to spend months in italy (or maybe france) eating amazing food and speaking a language i love.
*i* want to ride my bike around bali, hanging out with a wrinkly old medicine man.
she spends a large portion of the book (like, all of it) trying to get closer to God. talking to him, praying, meditating, journaling, eating, humping - everything is trying to closer to the core of who she is, and thus closer to God.
i am afraid i'll never feel close to God again, and it'll just be me and my skeptical, proud, bossy brain, trying to be Right all the time, forever.
on some level, i feel like maybe God knows what i'm going through and is just giving me space to do my thing, knowing i'll be back when i am ready.
but i just felt so abandoned by God, and my entire sense of spirit, when mom got sick, and in the state of emergency, i just chucked the whole thing and relied on myself, not something outside of myself, to handle everything.
i am afraid of being disappointed again.
as i am sure i will, because life is the way it is, full of disappointments for every surprising success.
i think i am sulking, is the honest truth.
i am mad at God and i am maybe not ready to talk to him again yet.
how could my God, the God that i thought i knew, let this happen to us? how could he take mom from me, the way he took her mom from her? how could he shower me with ease, cradle me so tenderly for 28 years, and then just drop me?
the only thing that made sense at the time was that there is no God, there's just me and my grief and my situation, and i need to save the questions for another time. at the time, answers didn't matter. what mattered was, in the eloquent words of larry the cable guy, getting 'er done.
so, in the eloquent words of a baby announcement shannon received, i 'got 'er done.'
but here i am now, the proverbial 'er has been gotten done, and i have nothing but time now to float around in my emotions - emotions i realize now i have only barely dealt with as i went through everything. i mean, duh, i cried my guts out, but i never got mad and anyone or anything except my poor mom, and i only allowed myself to really be broken for little bits of time, and then always grudgingly. and i always pull myself back together as soon as humanly possible.
i am afraid of all this emotion, and all my neediness for the past year, and all my confusion and not-knowingness. i am afraid of the future, and of letting go of missing mom and of letting go of hating allen, and of school and babies and homeownership and money and housekeeping. i am just full of fear over my situation right now. well, *right now* i am full of fear.
a couple of days ago i was pretty stoked about the vast horizons of my charred and blackened life, but today it just feels like it's too much for me.

this is a poem i have carried around with me for roughly 10 years. it's by david whyte. i think about it really a lot, especially lately.

THE JOURNEY

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
enscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes
of your life.

You are not leaving
you are arriving.


so, i am looking at the ashes of my life, and trying to see what's written for me.
and i am arriving at my new life, not leaving my old life.
but it's still a lot for one person, even a big-inside person like me, to manage alone.
and i don't mean alone, like without loved ones, because i positively buffeted and carried and in all ways supported by the loves of my life.
but i mean alone, like, without God or anything.
i have said quite a few times, to quite a few people, that there has been only so far that my mental coping mechanisms can take me, and then there is the vast chasm that i can't cross without something outside myself. i can't think myself through this. i can't talk my way over this chasm. it's the kind of chasm you have to just close your eyes and step into, and have faith that something unseen will catch you.
and thus far i haven't been ready to do that, for fear that nothing will catch me, and i'll disappear into this canyon of pain that i'm not prepared to really get out of alone.
but if the whole idea of God is that you're never alone, and that all you have to do is ask for help and it's yours, and that every kind of support and love in the universe is available to you when you're ready to have it, then the only thing stopping me is my unreadiness to have it. and my fear of finding out that i am alone.

so, this is what i am thinking about, home alone on monday afternoon, in my pajamas.
and still, i am on The Path, because The Path only asks that you keep asking your questions, keep turning over the moldy old rocks inside yourself and be open to what you find. so, i turn my rocks over and try to greet my discoveries with love, even when they are slimy and smelly.

hit the ground and run.

one of my projects, on-going, is getting rid of magazines.
i have always subscribed to magazines, as far as i can remember.
when i was little i subscribed to electric company magazine, 321 contact and barbie magazine. barbie magazine only came a couple times a year and, to a little kid, it seems totally random. so, i'd think about it for months and then give up and forget about it and then it would suddenly show up.
anyway, i have always had magazines in my life. my mom's dad gave me subscriptions to magazines for presents, too. like reader's digest. i got that for years, when i was in, like, 5th grade through middle school. it's funny to think about that now, because it seems so inappropriate for the age range, but i liked it. i also got national geographic and smithsonian from him. then, i subscribed myself to sassy, ym, entertainment weekly, details, us (before it was a gossip magazine). then it was jane, w, harpers, us (when it became gossip), readymade, lucky...
mom always had subscriptions, too, so we'll add in more, real simple, elle...
our kitchen had this stack of magazines at the end of the counter that reached nearly hip-high.
we have some hoarding issues.
i kept YEARS of magazines, all perfectly in order, moved from house to house, up until i was...25ish, maybe.
did i ever look at them?
no.
but i always felt like it was a research library, waiting to happen. each one had so many interesting articles, it seemed like a shame to chuck them.
or course, i would never have been able to find the articles i was looking for, without consulting a REAL reference library, which would have their own copies of the articles, which defeats the whole purpose of having my own copies.
i even daydreamed up my own dewey decimal style filing system, to find articles i was looking for. but i never put it into action. and it might have been pretty sad if i had, because i was 19, daydreaming about catagorization. it seems a shame that i wasted mental space on something so dry. i should have been dreaming about stilettos covered in mirrored glitter and making out with celebrities and whatever young adult girls dreams about.
anyway, clutter and hoarding is a serious problem for the fisher ladies. and by fisher ladies, i mean me and my mom. and since my mom is dead, now it's me. and, since i'm going to have to deal with her hoarding at some point in the very near future, excavating through layers of christmas lights and unopened post-its value packs, it is doubly my struggle alone.
so, in my quest for adulthood, i have been monitoring my hoarding. i notice that my own housekeeping style is almost identical to my mom's, which is untidiness that safely but narrowly skirts dirtiness. we don't live in squalor, but we create piles and heaps and stacks for future perusals, which never occur.
take my present location, for example.
to my right sit two stacks of cds, each a little under a foor tall. these are for deciding to either keep or sell. they are leftovers from similar stacks that lived on my desk in my first la apartment.
to my right is a low, menacing stack of papers that are all important. bills, reminders, important paperwork. many of them are waiting for my file cabinet to be moved into the office, but we haven't gotten that out of the future-guitar-cd-chill out nook, currently the unpacked-box-room.
on the floor, to my right, is a small, but disheveled pile of cards, papers, folders and binders. they are things related to mom that i haven't fully come to terms with.
stacks and piles, stacks and piles.
i worry about never having it all together.
i mean, i know it's not really possible to have everything entirely together, ever. and i guess that's what makes life interesting, the endless balancing and rebalancing.
but i'd like to think that my previous disinterested, disorganized, sudden bursts of tidying, followed by long barren periods of accumulation, are just a phase of my housekeeping style which i am currently learning to grow through.
i don't want to have an untidy house that looks like it's entirely decorated according to what ended up where by chance. i want things to look purposeful.
and tidy.
and clean.
and, i admit it, i am not positive how to make that transformation, since my model for housekeeping was pretty haphazard.
mom had a good excuse, being a working, largely single mom of a pretty spoiled, lazy kid. our house was a little cluttered, mostly because i didn't really help, and mom didn't really make me.
so, i'd like for, say, shannon's sections of the house to be less clearly delineated from my own. there is an almost surgically precise line dividing his things from mine and it's a little embarrassing to me.
all this is a long-ass preamble to me starting another long story.
i have been reading a lot of real simple, as i get rid of old magazines. i tear out whatever i wanted to keep and chuck the rest.
so, the readership of that magazine is basically moms. these are busy ladies. they're more affluent than, say, good housekeeping readers, but not so affluent that they can forget about cleaning and just focus on being rich, hot wives. again, they're busy, with careers and kids and husbands and stuff.
so, while i love the magazine, i sometimes i have a hard time relating to the demographic it's geared towards.
these are ladies who will have a cup of tea in silence, at 5 in the morning, to meditate and start the day in peace. finding calm, quiet moments is a constant struggle for them.
i have exactly the opposite problem.
my problem is getting started in the first place. well, part of it is that i have a lot of time on my hands right now, but this isn't a problem specific to this period of my life. when i have free time, i tend to just...loaf. that's the only word i can think of. i can spend a day off doing seriously nothing. i mean, maybe reading. but even then, i'll take breaks to just stare off into space.
is this normal?
if i'm not careful, i can waste weeks at a time, just drifting around the house, reading and snacking and laying on things. the house probably needs cleaning, laundry probably needs doing, there are piles of stuff to unpile, but i don't do it. it's inertia. once i am at rest i have a very hard time not staying at rest.
so, this morning, i woke up and got going.
i am trying a new method for making myself do things.
no staying in bed after i wake up.
just get up and do stuff.
so, i have been meaning to change the bed, to wash out any lingering mold spores, and today is the day.
i stripped the bed, put the wool comforter out in the sun to cook, with some unwashable pillows.
i am washing the washable pillows.
i am washing all the bedding.
i'll put on fresh bedding, including pieces of this amazing 5 piece quilt set that i bought yesterday. it's snowy white, quilted with white thread, with flowers and stuff, a comforter and 4 pillow cases. it'll be too shabby chic all together, but broken up, it'll be perfect. cozy.
i also bought some other stuff yesterday. this is unrelated to my chores, just to share:
-a long grey cardigan. it's kinda cheapo, but i've been craving something with that sillouette.
-this amazing pleather jacket. it's short (not cropped) with some big buttons, puffed sleeves, and a little hood lined in fake shearling. it's black. it's the perfect size for wearing a hoodie underneath. slim fitting, but not skin tight.
-a book about decorating with junk.
-my dream pea coat. talla, it's vaguely reminiscent of yours, which i have a crush on, but it's narrower through the ribs and maybe a skosh longer. it was $200 at off 5th! cashmere wool!!
(on a side note to this side note, off 5th is off the hizzy, people. they have amazing bags and coats and some sweet jeans. lucy, come home soon so we can shop at the petaluma outlets. there is a nine west outlet, too, and a bcbg outlet that was so delicious it made my head swim, but i had just burnt myself out at off 5th, so i had to leave. these outlets are the bomb diggity.)
so, i'm trying out various methods for getting more done.
i think i might be really lazy, combined with not knowing where to start. it's a heady cocktail.
i want to take this time to do some really brave, dramatic work on myself.
i want to be brave about cooking.
i want to practice guitar.
i want to writewritewrite.
i want to decorate my house in a way that i am insanely in love with.
i want to ease up from reading so much. i want to do things, not read about other people doing things.
i imagine myself getting swallowed by my life. i spend so much of it almost totally submerged in it, with days and weeks and months passing without me really ever grasping hold of them. they just slither away. and every once in a while i am able to remember how to rise out of it all and see it with some kind of perspective.
so, i'd like to get better at getting that perspective more regularly.
maybe a weekly check in.
maybe it means being more present at every second.
i'm not positive.
anyone else have any methods that really work for them?
this last year, from december 2006 to now, was like a fire. a fire raged through my life. it burnt everything. some things came out of the fire singed, but salvageable. somethings were miraculously spared. and somethings were destroyed. so, my life burnt down. now, looking at the ashes and the rubble, i am allowed to rebuild. but, rather than rebuilding it the same way, flaws and all, i'd like to use this time, when everything is already pretty much destroyed, to rebuild a dreamhome of a life. i want to add everything i have always wanted but was waiting for. and i want the new house to take out every impractical cupboard, dark corner, mildewed bathroom and stinky carpet. i want my life to feel brand new to me in the best way. highlight the things that made it through the fire. smoothly incorporate the new acquisitions. and make piece with the things i lost.

dear mom, #1.

dear mom,

i stayed home today, after a week of pretty much constant activity.

even yesterday, the day after your triumphant memorial party, i was so giddy and insane with relief over the weight of that responsibility being lifted that i still ran around like a crazy person. it was wonderful to be running around doing mostly things that i *wanted* to do, but it was a long day of no rest.

so, today i stayed home.

i went into town to find a breakfast place. we have some left over pizza, the remains of shannon's lonely pizza dinner last night while i gadded about, but the single piece i ate last night when i got home at 10:00pm left me nervous. i woke up at 3am with cramps like i had never experienced, so intense i couldn't tell if i was going to vomit or not from the pain and the just patently new quality of pain. it was terrible. given that i hadn't eaten anything since my lunch with keith and ginny and the ladies at 11:30am, i felt like the pizza had to be to blame, so i was understandably reluctant to roll the dice on that again.

so, i wandered into my newly adopted downtown. i was aiming for a particular breakfast place that i had seen, but, having forgotten my book, i asked a woman in the nearby grocery store if there was a bookstore within easy walking distance. she was very nice, and gave me good directions to a street that i have never been on before, despite it being one of maybe 5 main streets in petaluma. there, directly across from me, lay copperfield's books. it was glorious. a huge independent book store, right in my downtown! i can ride my bike there!! ohman, i am still a-flutter from the excitement of it. the rest of that street's offerings were mixed. a couple of 'nyeh' clothing stores, a bompin' looking antiques store, a nice looking art supply store, and i finally found aram's after michael klein hyped it so much! i ended up eating there. the mediterranean plate was so-so. pita too doughy, hummus too salty, way too much tabouleh (maybe add another thing, guys), but the mediterranean chicken soup was really good. i'll definitely go back again. mike was scared he'd overhyped it, but i felt like it was a really good find. i read a new book i was unable to resist buying at the book store, which is so far not great, but we'll see. it's still early.

came home to a mailbox full of stuff and a package for shannon, from one of his canoe buddies. finally got my new check card. thank heavens. i felt naked without it. i haven't written so many checks in years.

my deal with myself about staying home today was that i'd get some real business taken care of. but upon entering me and shannon's shared office, i realized that my desk was useful only as fuel for a mighty bonfire in its then-state. so, i dragged out the boxes of office stuff that were waiting patiently for me in the spare room, and i started digging through my desk piles. it's absolutely not done, but it's so much better now. as i went through my piles, i came across so much stuff about you that i ended up having to start a big pile in the middle of the floor. cards to reply to, the binder i used to organize business stuff for you, the expandy file thingie holding your medical bill info, the death certificates that the county of mendocino sent... i'm not sure what to do with those things yet, so i'll just leave them. i unearthed a hip-high stack of cds that i have been listening to, to decide whether or not to keep them or sell them. i got stopped on that project, so i guess i should start it up again. i found my student loan paperwork and, seeing that i was already a few payments behind, i decided to just pay them off, which i can do now, thanks to the money you left me. i was lucky that my loans were weeny, as far as student loans go (huzzah to grants and public colleges!) but that was still $7k more than i'd have had anyway.

thanks for leaving me that money, mom. i'd rather spend the rest of my life struggling with bills than have this money, if it meant that you'd live to be 105, but i am appreciative of this gift and trying to find things to feel glad about. so, i am glad i can pay off my student loans, or pay for my car insurance for the next few months in one shot. and i really miss you and i'm sorry that *this* is how this came about.

mom, your party was so fucking amazing. i feel a little self-conscious telling you, because so many people felt like you were 'there' during the party, so maybe i'm boring you by telling you what you already know. but still. you would have loved it, ma. you would have been so damn proud. it was like a birthday party for you, where people from all areas of your life came to celebrate you, only you weren't able to come, so we had to just do it without you. if one's ears can burn in the Beyond, yours might have melted off your spirit-head, because we all just talked and talked and talked about you. if you weren't already dead, you might have died of bliss. there was the requisite crazy guy, a friend of al's who freaked everyone out. there were platters of sandwich fixings and chinese chicken salad from comfort's and wine (that annie brought) and beer (from dr. baeza) and balloons EVERYWHERE. (ben brought those.) we hung huge glittery fish in the trees in the little garden, and you would have wanted to keep the fish, and i would have let you, thought i'd also have fretted about what you'd do with them. we created an altar for you in one corner of the room, with pictures and crystals all sorts of odds and ends. so many pictures of you, mom. from elodie (you with your shaved head and yarn braids, riding the elephant with elodie) and suzanne (from every era of your life, and some of mine i'd rather not have recalled.) cards from well-wishers and all my ladies brought candles. holly went to the flower mart to get fresh flowers, and they were in vases all over. linda strung christmas lights over the raised end of the room (what's it called? where the pastor would do her speaking or whatever?) and with the lights down for the ceremony, they twinkled and shimmered. the whole space was just packed with people. mom, so many people showed up to help. it was just like at the hospital, where we were totally knocked on our asses by all the people in the waiting room - like you were a rock star. i started crying, i was just so overwhelmed by the support. i really barely did anything to set up, i was just wandering around, answering questions and saying 'hi' to people. i worked on the altar, mostly. but mom, tab was the real star. she just did it ALL. every question, tab knew what she wanted and who to speak to. she was everywhere, doing everything. as if we didn't have enough reasons to be thankful for her, this was sort of like the biggest, best reason ever. the whole thing was her creation, and it was so YOU. god, it was all so you. daddy made a spiral out of river rocks, and everyone took one into the sanctuary for the service.

oh, and the service! so, the pastor, who is our newest addition to the tribe, basically, spoke, called in the four corners (less wicca 'hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the west' and more relaxed), read some lovely stuff and then invited people to come up to speak about you, then put their stone in the big bowl of water and GLITTER!!! in the center of the room. i had been nervous about not enough people wanting to speak, because that's how i roll, but mom, people couldn't say enough about you. seriously. tab and daddy had the most to say (of course) and tab blew everyone's hair back with her singing for you. marissa came from tahoe and played a gorgeous song on the piano that made me cry. people were so funny, so loving, so generous and openly effusive about you. (i guess there's no better time to gush than a memorial, but i was still really pleasantly surprised.) i felt so shy and nervous and worried about speaking. my outfit wasn't exactly what i wanted to wear (though i wore the bottle green silk top you gave me and a white skirt that belonged to tab's grandma, so that was nice) and i felt like i'd get up there and my skirt would probably be stuck in my undies, or i'd trip, or i'd just cry and cry and make everyone really uncomfortable. but i thought about you and how little time you wasted on shyness, and i thought about how much everyone's contributions to the party would have meant to you, so i felt like i could stand and say something about that. so i did. i thanked everyone for their support and love this year, and at the party, and i thanked tab especially, and i put my rock in the bowl with the others and i didn't throw up or fall. so, that was successful.

at the end, we played 'i'll fly away' from the 'oh brother' soundtrack, and then everyone went out to eat and mingle. i got LOTS of hugs. sososo many hugs. people came from every aspect of my life, too. old friends, new friends, friends of friends. mom, our people are so amazing. for someone who considered herself a lone wolf, you sure did build bonds with people, and you sure did raise a daughter who craves community. and mom, our community it just the best thing about this year, and really this lifetime. i think a lot of people feel like their friends are great, but i also feel like our friendfamily, with everyone's parents and friends and partners and babies....it's just so beautiful and precious. and while you might not really feel like that's you, it totally is.

i miss you, ma. i bought an amber scented candle and i'm burning it. i took one of your pashminas (i gave one to lu and tab, too) and it smells like you still and i'm afraid to wear it and make it smell like me, so i just keep snuffling it and putting it down. i know i already said this, but it was so hard to really take in that you were dead, at the party. the pictures of you, from a few years ago, looked so much like you. so much the mom i know. so while i can believe that cancer mom is dead, because she was new to me anyway, the older, healthy mom is the one who i keep on getting jolted by. i am still struggling to believe that she's gone.

okay, i have to call mendocino county and deal with the property taxes that i've been avoiding. owning a house is a lot to deal with.

i love you so much, and i miss you, and i wish i was able to feel you nearer to me. everyone talks about you visiting, or you being here, and i am still not feeling it. i feel your influences inside me, so maybe that's what they mean. i just don't feel a sense of you, external to me, and that's what i am yearning for. maybe i need to experiment more with hallucinogens, or open myself to things i find a little silly or hard to believe in. maybe i just need to choose to believe, to make myself feel better. maybe. but i'm not there yet. so far, i do feel you strongly, and i can feel what you'd do, or what you'd think or want, and that's pretty nice, too.

talk to you soon,
kira

sleep.

sleep makes certain things feel better.
at least you have some hours of not being inside your head.
house is still messy, still being buried under the stuff i need to do, mom's still dead, but i'm not sleepy anymore, so that's something.
i woke up this morning from the middle of a dream about getting busy, in a three way, with barack obama. umm....whoa.
where'd that come from?
ran errands today with tab, working on the party.
seems like it'll be fine.
it's hard getting out of the mindset of this being a party of the traditional kind.
i keep getting scared no one will come, or they'll come and won't think it's "fun."
fun? as if that's the point.
okay.
usually i'd stay here and blog my face off, then poke around on the internet, then do some myspace snooping, but instead i'm going to go deal with some stuff in my life that needs dealing with.
step 1) unload car
step 2) unpack refrigerator-sized suitcase from new york
step 3) (which i might not get to tonight) unpack boxes from mom's
step 4) (on-going) work on unpacking from the move
step 5) (on-going) take breaks when i feel i must
right before i got out of the car, my book-on-cd of 'the prisoner from azkaban' got to a point where harry and professor dumbledore are talking about harry's dad.
professor dumbledore tells harry that the people that we really love are never really dead to us, because they live forever, inside of us - more strongly during times of trouble.
i cried a little bit.
i hope that's true.
i hope that my skepticism about spirituality isn't blocking mom from coming to talk to me, or visit.

albert hammond, jr.

i haven't been very inspired by music lately.
with all my driving, and all my not-rad-stuff-happening, i've been listening to books on cd while i do my 2hr drive to/fro mom's.
i have listened to some good stuff.
'black swan green', by david mitchell was fucking fantastic. exactly what i wanted. funny, charming, heartfelt, gorgeous, sweet. wish i could hear it again for the first time.
'all creatures great and small,' by james herriott is a classic. a light trifle, with plenty of english humor and lots of stories about soulful animals. nice.
i just bought 'harry potter and the chamber of secrets' today. reading the end was just too much for me and i was moved to start all over again, from the beginning. i am yearning for a life filled with warm fires, butterbeer with true friends and things covered in purple velvet. cozy and squashy.
i decided that tonight i would look up the music i have been meaning to check out, but haven't.
admittedly, i didn't listen to whole albums, just what myspace or itunes would let me hear, but i have made some decisions.
-razorlight - violently, no. well, i bought one song and barfed in my mouth over the other ones.
-kings of leon - no, but less so.
-silversun pick ups - undecided. one of the songs made my heart hurt, but the others left me unmoved.
-albert hammond, jr. - brilliant. loving it. i have always been sad for him, because he's the least cute of the guys in the strokes, but he doesn't need me to feel sad for him because he's got some sweet-ass songwriting skillz. i mean, nothing revolutionary, but catchy, non-cloying, mellow but not sleepy. it's thee goodz.
-lily allen - nyeh.
-amy winehouse - yeah, alright. i'll bite. i like my some soulful lady singers, even if her 'look' is pretty repellent. also, that not-so-blind item about her smoking crack in the ladies' bathroom at lollapalooza was gnarls. sad times, amy. love thyself.

i spent some time decorating the hidey hole today. it's musty and spidery and gives me a rash, but it's MY rash-inducing hidey-hole and i am grateful for it. so, in an effort to give myself more ways to take care of myself, i am making the hole more comfy cozers. also, i brought up my paint-by-numbers and some stuff for collaging. i am looking for good ways to step away from the bone-deep sadness of spending so much time with my vegged out dying mom, and reading and computering are both really head-y. i am trying to find ways to get out of my head, so tab suggested art.

i wish the showers at my mom's were better. taking showers up here sucks. the hot water doesn't last for shit. i just end up saving up my dirty until i head home for a shower. groders, but who cares, right? it's fucking redwood valley. being in redwood valley washes away all the low self esteem of living in la. going from an sf 8 to an la 5 to an rv 155 is gratifying. it's like i'm a brazilian supermodel or something.

tomorrow some visitors will come up here and i am looking forward to it. having people visit me is awesome. i am sure mom enjoys visitors some, too, but i am the one who needs them the most.

the morning after.

i talked to mom this morning.
she was MUCH more alert.
she doesn't remember anything about yesterday, which is not cool, but at least she's up and about today.
she was up, out of bed, taking a shower when i called again a little bit ago.
i spoke to her nurse at ucsf.
they're going to put her on more steroids, to help with swelling.
this nurse is the first person to cut the crap and tell me honestly that this might just be my mom dying, basically.
she said, very gently, that the survival rate is usually around 12 to 16 months after diagnosis.
i really appreciated her honesty. i don't need false hopes, i need to have an idea of what to expect.
i think the 'roids will help a lot. they certainly did last time.
i'm looking into support groups for all of us (me, mom, jerr-bear), occupational therapy for mom, maybe even neuropsychology, if she's up for it.
now, i am off to pick up HARRY POTTER!!!!!!!!!!, grab some food for the day, and head over to sit on little mykkie for the rest of the day.
um...kids? they are a lot of work. had you heard? because they really, really are.
i am happy to spend time with mykkie, AND this couldn't possibly be a worse time for me to have to be taking care of someone else. i really need to be focusing on my mom right now.
um, did i mention i am going to start reading HARRY POTTER!!!!!!!?
because i am...

harry freaking potter!!!

holy quidditch, you guys!!
it's gonna be here in, like, 1.5 hrs!
people in england ALREADY KNOW THE SECRET ENDING!!
i am freaking out.
oh, also, can we talk about how much this sucks?
i pre-ordered, 'cuz duh, like i always do, but this time they had a delux edition available, with a special cover and special art, for roughly $1,000,000, so i totally bought that one because it's the LAST book in the series.
and then i got a call from my local independent book seller that my DELUX, $1,000,000 version wasn't coming until....wait for it....wait for it....TUESDAY.
sha-ZAM.
totally bammer.
i am basically going to be a one woman media black-out zone until next friday or something.
it's like i am a fan of a popular show, whose season finale i missed, and i have to avoid anyone ruining the surprises for me.
except instead of some dumb show that sucks, it's an entire book series that was awesome.
still, i'm brimming with excitement, trepidation, anticipation, etc.
VERY EXCITED.
don't tell me what happens.
it's going to be amazing, though, probably.

also, this weekend at my mom's was fucking difficult, but i am not in the mood to go into it. suffice it to say, it was tuff, and i was sad and mad and tired and embarassed and frustrated, all at the same time.
and, eventually, i left feeling marginally more positive than i thought i would.
i have to keep the hope alive, perhaps in spite of medical evidence to the contrary, that the mom i love and miss might be hiding beneath this old lady-smelling, pajamas-all-the-time- wearing, forgetting what she's saying mid-sentence, visitor from another planet/century whose home i am staying at as my part-time job.
i connected with jerr-bear in a really great, positive way today, and that felt good.
all the errands i tried to run with her ended in annoyance, none ended in success except getting my poor filthy car washed. (seriously, if my car was a person, she'd have been a normal classy lady, dressed in a business suit made of bird poop, pee, mud and...um...sunscreen. (lotsa greasy sunscreen fingerprints on my little lady.)
she's clean as a whistle now, though. ukiah pricing is brilliantly affordable. $17 for the carwash i usually pay $30 for in san rafael. i guess it pays to get my carwashing done in the poorest county in california.
tomorrow, we babysit the little tater tot, starting at 8:15am. anyone want to hang out with maybe the cutest baby ever borned?