:Naiahdot

Sometimes, I like to stand around naked. On a rare occasion, I even like to stand around naked when I’m not alone. (Clearly, I’ve been reading too much Heinlein lately.) Now and then, I get paid to stand around naked in a room full of people. I’m like the wallflower in the middle of the room. Tonight was one of my favorite gigs along those lines. The group I modeled for tonight are really sweet and laid back folks, several of whom are some serious talent. When I say serious, I’m talking so serious that I’m almost intimidated to pose for them again next month. Playing “peek-a-boo” at the end of the session is often my favorite part, but, man, tonight several of the pieces I saw were not just life drawing sketches, they were ready-to-frame pieces. Sell me, baby.

It’s humbling to see your own physical form translated into lines so pleasing to the eye. Conversely, it can also make you feel wonderful about yourself. As a model, I have to be careful with that, though, because I don’t always end up with a roomful like I had tonight. There have been sessions where I had to smile and be encouraging, as opposed to the dumfounded blushing I did tonight.

It’s funny on a chaos butterfly level to think about what kind of passive influence I would have on art if I modeled around enough. I did get a referral for another figure drawing class, as well as a portaiture one. Bwahahaha, just dare me to flap my wing. I’ll do it.

If anybody local would like to know about the group at this studio, email me, and I’ll get you the details. There were people of all skill and experience levels in the room, and everyone was supportive and positive. We had a quality session, and everyone had a good time to boot. If you’d like to see a couple more of the drawings that I managed to snap quick photos of tonight, click the photo above. (I am so bringing the good camera next month!)

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Mind you, the question is rhetorical, and blatantly keifed from Pink Floyd. Don’t take it too seriously.

This is the first, and certainly hoped to be the last, blog entry that I ever have or ever will make along these lines. I might link it permanently to the front page, should the topic ever arise again. It has come to my attention that I have been misreading the hit stats for naiahdot for sometime. When my mistake was cleared, I went into what could only be described as a chocolate/vanilla twist cone of shock and amazement. I was proud of myself, and I was terrified.

When I say that I’m “just a grown-up geekgirl trying to make sense of it all and slay a few teenage demons along the way,” I’m not kidding. I’ve never been comfortable with any sort of spotlight, unless it was on my terms. I need to keep reminding myself that everything on naiahdot is on my terms. Only, I’ve just found out there’s a hell of a lot more of you out in the audience than I thought. As of my last check, which I’m not making anymore, unique IP hits were running over 550/day not counting my own clicking around, editing, & maintenance. I’ve had a serious case of stage fright for the last week (since that last check).

It’s not as if I did not know that this was a public forum. Knowing that strangers could and might see it, keeps me from spewing useless, mindless, nonsense. It gives me some standards to keep. Unlike a lot of bloggers, I am not an actor, an author, a politician, a musician, or other person seeking spotlight in another arena; I have no claim to or hope of notoriety or fame of any sort. So far, I *just* blog. I blog because it works for me. When I take my experiences and observations and distill them to text, it gives me a better handle on things. THAT is why I do this.

I’ve had a lot of rejection in my life, and that all culminates in a serious weakness for and wariness of any sort of acceptance or popularity. I’m having a hard time getting your eyes out of my head. A new, but nonetheless valued, friend had some really wise words for me on this score, and I haven’t forgotten them. I just needed to shake this off. In the end, it IS my website, and I will continue to write it just to write it. Every blog I’ve started, I always begin with the line “Welcome to my world.”

This is my world, or rather a peek on it through my unique window. All of you are welcome to stay, link, comment, or go, as you will. This is not meant as a discouragement at all–just a lot of pennies in the coffee can, and they were getting so noisy that I couldn’t think through anything else to write.

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Everyone has a favorite pair of jeans. Y’know, it’s that one you’ve had forever, that feels oh-so-comfy, and happens to look pretty daarn good on you, too. That last one’s important. After all, if it were just comfort you were after, why not go for sweats, or just romp around in a pair of boxers? Home is like that pair of jeans. The comfort, the familiarity, and if you’ve been careful to land yourself in the right nest, a place that helps you make more of yourself.

New jeans are stiff just out of the wash, but those old ones that somehow have never managed to fall apart, they always go on *just right.* That’s what my homecoming from my random retreat has been like, slipping right back in to role and rhythm. The space gained gave me the perspective for what was wrong to get called out, and like most abstract problems in life, once you name it, you gain a level of conscious awareness of it, and you have some power over it. You can keep an eye on it, and hop on it if it gets out of line. Coming back to my life with these new awarenesses, it’s like going back to those old jeans to find that everything I love about them, the fit, the feel, the look is just the same, but that they’ve been made anew. They’re just as soft, fit just as well, but somehow, in that renewal, they look even better.

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Three hours just went *poof*–like that. I was emailing back and forth with someone at like 2:30-2:45 a.m., and that’s my last memory of the clock. (Before that, I hadn’t managed to glance at it since 11:18.) It was fantastic. Clearly, I’d finally found my way through the cobwebs. I was writing introspective stuff, stuff for synthian, and, of course a very, very long letter to Sheraton hotels’ management with suggestions for policies to help prevent any future guests from a situation like mine. Very long. Oh yeah, long long long.

I tell you, though, whatever I was working on in the moment (I ended up with close to a dozen different AppleWorks windows open), it was just flowing from my fingers. I *really* needed this vacation. I am home now, writing this entry in retrospect, and not only do I feel “better,” I feel downright resurrected. It’s not just my words that’re back. I found my Balance again, and, on top of that, I even figred out what I had been doing wrong that was throwing it off. I’ve fortified a few of my own personal boundaries, and now that I know what’s at stake when I go ahead and cave just a little too much just a little too often, yeah, no more.

In that poem that I wrote, where I finally made it clear that I needed a break, there were a few lines that went something like “I’m dying to grow, not just as a mother, not just as a wife. I’m dying to grow in myself and my life.” Before this trip, I couldn’t have found that Self with a GPS and three sherpas to carry the baggage. I knew who I had been before, but, honestly, I have not been anything but a wife and mother for too, too long now.

It’s amazing how context affects us. So much of our action, everyday, is really reaction to our surroundings and our habits. Like our own individual points of view when looking at the world are invisible in that looking, so are our daily surroundings, to a degree. In removing myself from my usual conext, and stripping away all the reactions I have to make every day as a mother and wife and friend, all I was left with was myself. I didn’t quite know what to do with her, at first, but at the end of the 10 days, we became damn tight.

And, yes, some of that LA spark has flavored me, too, and I’m grateful for the addition. While I didn’t do anything to rock the world, and my why the hell not shot at the moon never wrote me back, it was, hands down, one of the best experiences of my life. I spent the first few days stomping off cobwebs, and once I had that done, I was able to turn outward and have some great experiences, and even then I had a couple days left and was able to sit down and have some really great quiet time. It was the *perfect* vacation.

I got in last night, but I tell you I was ready to jump right back into the game. This morning when my husband left at 5:45, and I hopped through my day, never missing a beat. It’s been a long, long time since I kept my stride like that. It feels great. Having missed that night of sleep left me a little tired today, but another good night under my belt and I’ll be fine. It’s a miniscule price in comparison to getting to spend a whole night in the Zone. That is better than that unending, unsatiable all-night sex the first time with a new lover. It felt great. I feel great, and life is good. (Text of this entry written 6/14/05, 8:30 p.m.)

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Making it real. That was the theme that unexpectedly evolved from my various wanderings in and around Los Angeles. I have mentioned before that all of these places are so keenly familiar to all of us, and not just their storefronts, but even their accompanying cultures, even to those of us who have never been here before. I realized that it was in reconciling my knowledge in the abstract of these places and an actual experience of them that really resonated for me.

As my meanderings led me all over the city, I quickly learned that the events and places that really interested me were not the contrived “attractions” that I was told again and again I just had to visit. I did not like those places at all really. I blame cultural homogenization. If you’ve seen one outdoor mall (excuse me, should I say “lifestyle center”), then you’ve seen them all.

Tromping aimlessly around Hollywood/WeHo with a friend for hours and hours on end, it made “Hollywood” itself & the “Sunset Strip” into real places. He even took me to his film school, where I saw something of how films are made.

I have often railed against the entertainment industry (simply “the industry” in LA-speak, I have noticed), while at the same time defending Microsoft. My common rant runs something along the lines of how sick I am of people trashing Microsoft. They make it out like it’s just Bill Gates sitting around in a bathtub full of money, when, in actuality it is hard working devs like my husband working countless hours to produce the absolute best code that they can. I am such a hypocrite.

While here, I met several people who work in the industry, and it really brought home that there is no ‘Hollywood’ at the heart of it all here, just as there is no ‘Microsoft’ at the heart of it all in Redmond. These films are the culmination of thousands of people’s efforts, just like Windows. There may actually be some immoral producer calling the shots, but there are also actors who work incredibly hard not just to make that film, but to even get the part and a script reader who, after reading countless other scripts for hours a day actually suggested it should be made. There was some poor editor in a room full of 8 different takes, all from different angles piecing each scene together.

People here work HARD. Just as the clichés say, everyone has a day job, too–well except an express few. So often your waiter or the concierge has a great story about juggling acting and job, and I’m a listener so I got many of these stories while I was here. Even the hardest ones were beautiful. This entire city is fueled on dreams.

Those “day jobs” are not plentiful. So many people want to make it here, and so few can support themselves doing it that you get a good one and you hold on to it. This had the very nice cultural spillover of having fairly impressive service everywhere you go. While a certain diner may not be fast, you can be certain that your waiter or waitress will meet you poised and professionally. It’s a fringe benefit, but a nice one for the area.

So, one abstract that became real to me was the industry side of the entertainment industry. A lot of man-hours at all sorts of levels go into those productions–the old blood, sweat, and tears. Mind you, I’m not about to go get my tv hooked up again, but I’ll probably lay off the rants a little.

Some of my more real experiences did not involve any cinema-induced foreknowledge at all. People-watching from any of my various haunts made the people, as in the people of Los Angeles, real. Like anywhere, there are innumerably different kinds of people, and yet, every place has a flavor, some overarching commonality that you can just barely perceive in its residents. You can’t say where it starts or how it gets perpetuated, but it’s there. It’s the people who create the flavor, but in turn it flavors them as individuals. Mannerisms, modes of interaction & discourse, posture, body language, all of it.

I combed the crowds, looking for the little spark in their eyes that would show me what it was like to be of this place. I mentioned above that this place is fueled by dreams. They give it a light, effervescent mania that’s everywhere reflected. Someone mentioned to me that it was in some cases pathetic that so many actors who have not made it stay here and keep slugging it out.

I disagree. I looked long enough to find that spark, and now that I’ve seen it, I get it. They may be waiting tables, or washing windows between auditions. They may not get a single gig a year or even for years at a stretch, and still they stick it out. You know why? Because They. Get. To. Be. Here. I can see it; I can taste it. It’s worse than the lottery, but in some ways maybe healthier. They stay because being here means that they’re here, and here is where it might happen. It’s a beautiful madness.

There’s all sorts of madnesses floating around, like there are in any city. Some were sorrowful, piteous. Others were just as beautiful as the preoccupation with the brass ring. That mania just sizzles with energy that spills out over everyone here. Inspiration is unavoidable. Now, what people do with it, well, that’s for every man to decide for himself, but it’s there.

There’s art; there’s music. With the recording industry here, you have everyone who’s not too busy being ‘indie’ in Seattle down here vying for their brass ring of a recording contract. There is so much talent here that you can choose just about any venue just about any night of the week and while it may not be your type of music, it’ll be good, amazingly good for its genre, even from an “unknown”.

There were also little things that really could have been anywhere that just made me happy, such as the Buddha in Topanga canyon. There’s something real and alive about it. Yes, the Buddha is a specific religious iconic figure, but the fact that someone thought to paint it in that out-of-the-way, forgotten concrete whatever-it-had-been, it’s just that touch of Beauty that tickles the heart.

That reminds me, the Pacific Ocean is now, well, as real as it can be to me in as much as I was not feeling up to going out and getting my feet wet in it. I sat and stared at the waves, entranced by their rhythms. There’s something about the pounding water; there’s so much of it, you really can feel it in the ground even hundreds of feet from the coast. Up on Santa Monica pier, I could feel it when the tide really started to pound its way up the shore.

That was a day where it was the company that counted. The pier is yet another contrived amusement. Luckily, I had a great companion that day (also vacationing here a few days from Seattleland) and we soon abandoned it for what one could say were more frivolous yet, to me, infinitely more real pursuits. He had rented a fairly delicious cherry-red convertible, and so, in true California fashion we set out with the mission in mind to cruise down palm tree lined streets with the top down. Even that whisper of an abstract was made real. Very California, and very fun.

We also made an event out of Los Angeles’s famous rush hour traffic. I swear we were the only ones happy to be sitting in that backup. Those are the abstract adventures that make a vacation fun, and LA and its environs were a particularly ripe collection of them just waiting to be found.

The friend who is here for film school and I spent an evening walking up and down the famous Sunset strip, and for all that we never did go into any club on there, or actually do anything really, I had a fantastic time just soaking the place up from the near-teenie-boppers outside the Viper room to the exceptionally polishedly posh older set dining on the sidewalks of the more upscale restaurants.

In any place, it’s the people that matter, all of them, the whole spectrum. They and their ways and words are the real attraction. The places were fun to stand in and pull from 2D to 3D in my memories, but the people, the people held my fascination. I have moved from state to state several times in the last decade, and every time I love to taste the new flavor. In moving somwhere, though, you become accustomed to it, and it flavors you in return until you can no longer taste it for it has become part of your own point of view.

A visit like this, though, was just enough to get that taste, savor it, and copy down as much as I could of the recipe. I grew up somehow with the belief that all of California was weird, that nothing good came out of it. I honestly do not know where along the way I picked it up, and it doesn’t matter as it is time to discard it. It’s a different place, more different than anywhere I’ve been and countlessly different within itself, and it has a beauty all its own. Yeah there’s a level of showmanship in everything from movie hype to plastic surgery, but there’s still a common spark. I no longer wonder why or how one place can carry so much cultural impact.

Tomorrow afternoon I fly home to my family. I have missed them so much–my husband, my children, even my silly little fairy hut of a house. That’s the true test of a vacation–if it leaves you not only longing for home, but ready to jump back in with both feet. I am so ready. Vacation has been great and, undoubtedly, very good for me, but it is not home. I miss our spark. That’s what’s real.

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So, I’m about to go have lunch at a Hooters. Now, I like hot chicks in skimpy shirts as much as the next person who likes hot chicks in skimpy shirts, but Hooters itself has never been my thing. So, why am I going? It’s all part of the mission of my trip–making stuff real. One of my favorite writers has a couple scenes take place at this particular Hooters in the second of what I hope to be many more books. So, yeah, I’m exactly the kind of geek girl that’d go eat at a restaurant I’d probably not look twice at (despite its easy eye candy) just for the sake of the experience.

It reminds me of the time I called up William Goldman. Yup, just looked him up in the phone book and called him. All just to tell him that I loved the voice in which he wrote this silly little piece at the beginning of the Princess Bride. I’m not even talking about the Princess Bride itself, but the introduction; it’s written in this wild, real, almost manic voice, and I loved it. So, I called him. Yeah, our conversation was about all of 12 seconds, and in the end I talked to his housekeeper more than to him. I suppose I should be embarassed, and for years I was. Fact is good words will do that to me. For some girls pop stars or models or movie stars can make them scream, and, y’know, they just don’t do that much for me.

The real poets, though, that’s what’ll bring me down every time. I’ve often said that the central tennet of my sexuality is that there’s nothing sexier than competence. I’ll take good conversation over flash, fame, or even beauty on any occasion. Make me reel. WW’s writing can do that sometimes, but a lot of the time he’s such a fucking good storyteller that I’m just pulled along for the tale.

So, I’m going to make it real, as real as I can get it. All because I can sometimes be a silly little fangirl that way.

Eh, it’s made for fun diversions on my vacation.

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Per usual m.o., we hit Buster’s this morning. After some good chat, Heather went for a walk and I pulled out my iBook. I’m having a hard time stomping off the cobwebs from the last year or so. With all my computer troubles and such, I have lost all my personal and philosophical writings from the last 3 years. When it started to become apparent that major surgery was going to be needed on the iBook, I found myself at peace with the data loss. Along with all the good stuff that I lost, there was a lot of crap on there, and it was crap that I’d never choose to delete, but that I’m glad to be rid of anyway. So, there was a little chathartic release, and I really thought that I was “okay” with losing the good stuff, too. It seemed at the time like a great excuse to force myself to rethink it and rewrite it.

Well, last night and this morning I set to, in hopes of culling forth something worthwhile. Cobwebs. It’s all cobwebs. There is so much static between me and my inner writer that I find myself writing pages and pages and pages of near nonsense. It’s a process that I use to pare away the mundane concerns so that I can get to the good stuff. Only, it’s been so long, and so much Life has happened since I last did it that rather than a page or two, I find myself shaking off a veritable volume. I’ll ride it out, and it’s not all for naught.

Some very interesting things have been rising to the surface. They’re too personal to post here, but suffice it to say there’s been some good insight. Though I fear I may be more neurotic than I’ve given myself credit for in the past. All great artists are madmen, aren’t they? I’m hardly mad, but either I need a day at the spa and a serious rubdown or two, or I’ve become a much more wound individual. Eh, maybe once I push through the static and clear out all the cobwebs it’ll all make sense again.

In the meantime, I am perturbed. My mind is turbid!!!

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I must be better; my head is clearing. I can think. I want to write. So, I’ll get these sundries out of the way, and set the day aside. My visit to the seaside was apparently good for me after all. We went to Venice Beach as planned, and I sat on the beach itself for a while, and then we took a gentle stroll on down the boardwalk, got some lunch, and camped out under the big sculpture. Heather did some photography, and I just sat. I people-watched, from a distance, but mostly I just sat. I was thinking about how, with the ocean to my back, I was facing the way the world was spinning, as if riding it like a cart on a rollercoaster. Every time the strong wind off the ocean would still for a second, I could fool myself into thinking that I could feel the earth moving underneath me. Yeah, yeah, I know it was my own muscles that had been fighting the wind. Still, I enjoyed the sensation.

I met a true genius-in-kook’s clothing today. Arhata, he is the author & creator of what he calls the world’s largest free speech exhibit. At first glance, passers-by might mistake him and his words for nonsensical rantings, like those that crazy dude down the way is screaming at everyone. Not so. Not so at all. If you ever find yourself in the area, stop and read. There’s a lot of wisdom in those rainbow colored rants. He has many of them on paper to take with you. Unfortunately, the one that really got me hasn’t been printed up yet. It’s called “dirty parts.” He has another one debunking the Yoga industry. As I always say, “truth is truth, wherever you find it,” and it appears that this guy got more than the usual share. Go give it a read, it’ll make you think.

We had a brief, friendly conversation, and he was happy to pose when I asked “Can I take your picture for my website?” I felt so corny asking that, but he was super mellow, and genuinely nice. I thanked him for what he was doing, and told him to “keep speaking.” It was nice. I have experienced so much of LA and it’s environs like such a spectator. It felt so good to connect with someone, albeit briefly.

I find myself again and again, experiencing my surroundings as if there were a layer of glass between me and the city around me. It reminds me of how I feel in a museum. I am looking at it, taking it in, but finding no way through that glass to really connect with it. Tourism clearly does not suit me. I’m finding that again and again. Perhaps it is just tourism in LA. When someone and I happen to look at each other, my ‘natural’ response is to flash a small smile and a quick nod. This seems to unnerve or even upset people here. I mean nothing more by it than a quick “Hey I’m a human; you’re a human–Namaste!” Oddly enough, my favorite area hasn’t been Hollywood, or Santa Monica, or any of the places that people told me I had to see. It’s been South Pasadena.

My friends’ neighborhood doesn’t have any shops, etc, and so we have to go down there for groceries, coffee, etc, and people really seem more down to earth there. My smiles still catch poeple off guard, but, about 4 times out of 5, instead of a dirty look or a huff, I get something surprisedly polite in return. I have often claimed that my Ohio birthright is that I am from the “anti-california,” and have often railed against this place, saying that nothing good comes from it and that I’d never bother to visit. Obviously, that’s changing. If I found myself in a situation that I had to live here, I actually could live in South Pasadena. I’m pretty sure Uncle Bill‘s doing fine, and so no worries of a relocation anytime soon, but I am happy to say that my opinion of the area has changed, somewhat.

We also took a drive up the coast highway, and cut back across via Topanga canyon. It was very lovely. Just about halfway along the canyon, heading east, on the right hand side of the road was an improvised grotto. Some old 10′ high+ concrete whatever-it-was has been painted to include a huge buddha, holding the earth in his hand. It’s the kind of thing you’d have to be in the passenger’s seat to catch, as there are concrete walls on either side tapering out to the road from it, but I was happy that I saw it.

Thats’ the kind of stuff I like to see, not the artificial, contrived entertainments. For dinner, because traffic was making getting home somewhat unreasonable and we were on Ventura, we detoured to Universal Studio’s “City Walk.” Wow. Um. It was big. It was bright. It was loud. Yeah, not for me, though there were a couple good things that happened there. I was mistaken for some unknown celebrity. I really don’t know who. I just heard a conversation behind me: “It’s her!” “Ooooh! Go ask her!” “I don’t know…” “C’mon!” “Wait.” I could hear them getting close to me, and so I turned around, realizing that it was me that they were talking about, and one of them yelped a little and the other said something akin to “nope” They quickly turned around as I smiled and shaked my head no as well.

I’m not sure, but I think it happened a couple more times. Some random people took my picture without asking a couple times, and after seeing the flash, when I glanced at them, they quickly put their cameras down. Heather said it must have been the jean jacket and sunglasses; they were making me look like a celebrity trying not to be recognized. Go figure. Any ideas on who I might have been mistaken for? Heh, maybe it was Carrie Ann Moss–these sunglasses are just way too Trinity, but I like them. The other good thing was crepes. I don’t know when or how they became fast food, but there’s this place in there, and the crepes are actually quite yummy.

After the tourist trap, we just came back here. So, that’s my day. I’ll go write now.

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After a delightful stop this morning at Buster’s in South Pasadena, Heather and I are planning a trip to the seaside. That’s what you do with sick people, right? Send them to the seaside? I am going to be taken to Venice Beach today. I plan to find a cozy space with a nice view of that biggest of the waters and read, write, and rest. I have been informed that I have recovered enough that I, and I quote, “have a personality again.” My near-zombihood of the last few days is beginning to lift, but I am still quite tired and plan to give my body its due rest.

I am somewhat childishly excited to see the Pacific. I lived not quite three blocks form the Sound in Bellingham. (Actually up there I think it may not even technically be the sound, but I forget what it is.) It’s not the same. You have the ghostly islands floating out there, feeling like a safe barrier from that endless spread of sea. I’m anxious to see it. It’s the biggest puddle on the globe, and I’ll go stick my toe in it.

I may be aware enough to look less like a zombie, but my stamina is far from par. If anyone wants to join me, they’re welcome. I’ve been blown away by how many Seattle and other friends I’m running into and making plans with down here. So, if any of you want to kick around the nature of life, cosmos, minds, hearts, or spades, gimme a call.

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Written today at the Arboretum.

Somtimes I feel as if I, myself, am on backorder. I have obligations in my life that I have chosen, but I have several friends and past loves who have made clear that they would want more of me if I were somehow without those obligations. Mind you, I’ve no intention of escaping my obligations. I assumed them by choice, and renew those choices every day, with every breath, and I am grateful for them. I am bothered, though, that so many of my associations feel to me like people wanting something from be, be it my companionship or a permanent place in their life.

In too many of them I serve without being served in return or to equal degree. Thomas Moore says that we stick to ‘bad habits’ because we actually do get something from them, and so we need to find a new way to meet that need, and then when the proper replacement is set, we can leave off the bad habit. I really wonder what it is that I get from these associations.

I am always flattered when people say and show that they like having me around, but I need to learn to not allow that flattery to lock me into associations that are not good for me. I have a big heart, and I never want to cause anyone else to feel rejected. It’s a piercing jab that I go out of my way to avoid delivering, but, and we’re back to the well analogy, if everybody takes their share of my water and none is left for me, then I’m no good to myself or anyone else.

So, that’s it; that’s what I get. I get the validation and flattery of feeling accepted–unfortunately even if it not a place in which I need to or should want to be accepted. I also have the relief of sparing someone rejection, but rejection is a part of life and it is not my responsibility to guard the hearts of every person who crosses my path.

I am coming to this same realization again and again from different angles. I need to be, and am already working on, being more careful and more selective in those with whom I choose to spend what of my life is at my disposal. My social time should be something that refreshes and renews me, not something that drains me further leaving me more directly behind the eightball when I get back to my private life.

And so, I continue to seek associations that have value for me, as well. The best friendships are those that inspire both parties to be better, to think and feel and create more of themselves than they would without–mutual muses, if you will. I am currently doing some ghost writing work for one such muse in my life, and the material that I am reviewing dovetails so nicely with my own scribblings that it’s been incredibly exhilerating and inspiring. I need more friendships, more correspondances, like this.

I’m not keeping track of backorders anymore.

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