*tiny tornadoes near turquoise mason jars
*coconut milk and honey dripping down the side of a white bone china teacup
*a murder of crows roosting and rustling in a tree that’s dripping with pale purple wisteria
(one of them flies past your head, you can hear its inky black wings flapping and shaking up air molecules)
*more days of bi-polar spring: calm and blue in the morning, by the time I get out of yoga the sky is charcoal and the car is covered in a cottonwood seed blanket
*the nagging need to dig through the things I’ve written already and polish them up with a red rag and Brasso and finish them – no matter if the fumes make me dizzy. Editing is a different game than creating, but it’s an art, all the same.
*overwhelming admiration for my dear Katie, who is boldly publishing groin-stirring sex and flesh on her site. Her articulate honesty has opened the dripping doors for me – am thinking of unearthing secret notebooks and spilling various bodily fluids on this website as well. What is writing if it doesn’t have a bit of salty sweaty heat?
*what I like: galvanized steel, black and white, green in all its incarnations
*what I love: my husband, my son, Buddha and birds, nature, you