Monthly Archives: February 2014

Week 5: Gender

He/Him/His, She/Her/Her’s, They/Them/Their……what is your pronoun, and what does it mean to you? Can you be a masculine feminist? Is it OK to take pride in bring masculine without showing masculine privilege? Do you understand the difference between sex, and gender? How do you define those words? Can you grasp the concept of one being capable of exuding both roles…either at separate times, or simultaneously?

I challenge you all to define your gender identity. Explain why you connect to the pronoun you use in reference to yourself, and exactly what you wish that identity to mean to other people.

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It’s all just a little bit of history repeating…constantly.

I write this entry for “cycling”, still having not done a piece for last weeks theme, because I am COMPLETELY stumped on what I perceive a “grown up” to be, let alone how to represent it in some form of art. THIS is one of the many cycles in my life, and unfortunately it is one of the many more negative ones. This is my cycle: a simple introspective moment can send me off into a rather intense series of tangents, questioning everything about what makes me up as a being, doubting myself intensely, moving on with a new project, and forgetting the one that sent me on my path until something makes me deeply introspective again, and that swept over project adds to all the other ones that get’s me doubting myself all over again.

But I do have several other types of cycling ciphers, cylinders, and circles in my life to put into projects(…and soon I will finish last week’s theme too)…there are SEVERAL so it may take me a minute to get them finished, but if they come late, I’ll retroactively post them for convenience and continuity.

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2014, Week 4: Cycling

Unravveling Fire

There is a woman who I know whom I love who is close to me in ways I cannot possibly define. Oh, how I wanted to become her, to be as brave and as fearless, to be as shocking and clever and wily. Flames kindled on her red tongue. She chomped at the bit and crashed into lovers and drank long and belched hard. A million friends, every one of them in rapture. She told me secrets and I worshiped and I worshiped her. Embers rose into the air and she always jumped she always caught them she always fell.

She is cycling again, he says. Scraping knees, mystery bruises. Hospital visits, therapists, psychiatrists all lining up to douse this rogue fire, swiping at a chance maybe even to catch it to study it. Pills line the bathroom sink. It has been years. There is a woman who I know whom I’ve tried to love who is so close to me that I can no longer untangle her breath her thoughts from my own.  She is burdened and ashamed and heavy and her fire is old, old, no hearth fire, no bobbling lantern in dark night. Just a weak candle, sputter, reaching, reaching for air, waiting, thinking this is my time. Thinking this is it, this is it and then the fall.

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When I Grow Up….

I did a lot of thinking about what I wanted to do for this theme, and I felt stuck. I couldn’t settle on one thing. I think this is because I’m going through a time of transition and haven’t been able to focus many of the ideas on my head. This song always brings me back to my childhood. It brings to me the hope I had as a kid. We used to spend weekends in the Poconos; the house was surrounded by woods. They were frightening and beautiful, and we used to run through them, breathless and dizzy. When I listen to this song, I feel like I’m running through those woods, looking for deer and magic, breathing in the scents of earth and animal. I would spend so much time in the loft of the house where we would stay and read magazines and books, dreaming of becoming a writer, a fashion designer, a pretty girl.

Even now, a married woman with a steady career, I feel like that child, running, searching for the extraordinary. A fairy, a blessing, a sign. I find myself writing more. Not just fiction, but pouring myself onto the pages of my journal in an attempt to hold on to myself. Writing feels like both the most adult thing to do and the most childlike. When I write, I am running. I am discovering. I am free.

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by | February 17, 2014 · 3:16 pm

My creativity tends to run in cycles.  Whenever I get frustrated with one medium, I always have an old favorite to fall back on.  This week, I’ve really been struggling with my novel because I’m coming up on the climax and all the heavy stuff that’s going to be tough to write.  So, yesterday I gave myself some space and took to my camera for creative outlet.  Here are a few photos I took without even leaving the house:



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by | February 17, 2014 · 12:06 pm

2014, Week 4: Cycle



Bicycle tires going ’round, the medicine wheel, seasons turning, compass spinning. The wheel of fortune, mine or yours. Menstrual cycle, moons waxing and waning, lemniscates looping endlessly, ouroboros tucking into his own tail. What goes around comes around. The ring on my finger. The orbit in your eyes. Last year, the years before, the years after.

Have at it, darlings.

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the sick foodie’s lament.

Pardon this post, it’s early and I’m running on the fuel of bad dreams and stomach pains. I couldn’t write this before today because I could not stand the thought of food for most of our “foodie” theme. I don’t know why I’m sick. I don’t know what food is causing my pain, but I know something in my diet is off. I am a lover of food. Pasta cloaked in silky sauce or even a slick of butter and olive oil can set my heart atwitter. Pizza is a slice of mozzarella-coated heaven. Pad see ew and coconut rice were once staples of my diet, back when going for Thai food didn’t require a walk of well over a mile. I love treating myself to writer dates where I buy myself a fancy drink and order delicious food while getting as much writing done as possible. I take these dates seriously. Just look at these pictures.


Foam makes me so happy.

Chicken sandwich

A carnivorous moment: perfectly grilled chicken breast sandwich.

An airy gougere.

Food as muse.

A nectarine bellini with fresh fruit puree. Pretty sure this is what gods drink.

The perfect little round of bread pudding with pumpkin puree.

There is absinthe in this drink. Green fairy inspiration.

Perfectly cooked broccoli rabe tops local mushrooms for an amazing vegetarian treat. Also, those fries are perfect.

I recently tried a gluten free diet because I was told it would cure my stomach, and for two weeks, after the shock of beautiful, pillowy bread and my beloved pasta leaving my system, I actually began to feel so, so much better. The blistering heartburn? Gone without even a single dose of Pepcid or Zantac. I felt free. I became seduced by simpler food: brown rice topped with a heap of sauteed Swiss chard and avocado, lox and rice cakes with hummus, sweet potatoes and lentils.

Mango almond butter smoothies are delicious. You know what’s even better? Solid food. Trust me on this. (I’d still drink that smoothie in a heartbeat, I just want some soft boiled eggs to go with it.)

Then, the stomach bug hit.

For days, I could eat nothing at all. When my body did begin craving food again, it was also for simple things, but the pendulum swung the other way. Now, all I could stand to eat were Cup of Noodles and toast. The mere sight of vegetables and rice made me shudder and gag. I drank coconut water and Gatorade to hydrate, ginger ale to soothe. My body is still not where it needs to be. I can often go hours without eating anything. I try to get back on track with this whole Gluten Free thing, but my sensitive stomach is still very discerning. I don’t know which way to go. I have been what my husband calls a “cyclical vegetarian” (mostly vegetarian with brief periods of carnivorous behavior) for years, so I’m usually okay forgoing most meat, though I still eat fish. Lately, however, I want to tuck into a turkey burger covered in feta cheese and a big fat bowl of matzoh ball soup with glorious shreds of chicken and delightfully dense, chewy matzoh balls. I am confused. In the worst part of my illness, I trusted my gut. Now that I’m still experiencing aftershocks, I am trying to follow my intuition to choose what to eat, but it’s difficult. I crave salad, but it actually makes me feel like crap afterwards. I don’t want my body getting used to meat. I felt so bad when I cooked a Thanksgiving turkey, I apologized to the fucking bird as I was cleaning it. And as I was seasoning it. And when I put it in the oven. This is what happens when you’ve been a big girl all your life and advertisements and family and friends and assholes who bully you all tell you different things about what to eat. So much shame in just eating what feels right or good. There must be a reason you eat fried calzones. Merely tasting good is not a good enough answer.

So, I sit here now, not wanting to get up and look in the fridge, not wanting to make myself a cuppa tea (mostly because I’m limited to a selection of black teas and I’m mad at myself for letting my stock go this low), not wanting to think about food. But I must. I know I need food if I’m to find strength again and get back to living a healthy life.

And now I’m kind of craving a calzone. Good going, self.


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