“An art process in not essentially a natural process; it is an invented one. It can take actions of organization from the way nature functions, but essentially man invents the process. And from or for that process he derives a discipline to make and keep the process functioning. That discipline too is not a natural process. The daily discipline, the continued keeping of the elasticity of the muscles, the continued control of the mind over the body’s actions, the constant hoped-for flow of the spirit into physical movement, both new and renewed, is not a natural way. It is unnatural in its demands on all the sources of energy. But the final synthesis can be a natural one, natural in the sense that the mind, body and spirit function as one.”—Merce Cunningham, who passed away three days ago at the age of ninety.
As a child I was on the verge of obsession with various interests including, but not limited to, origami, sign language, arts and crafts, reading, pretending all my dolls and stuffed animals were real and tending to their every need, Oregon Trail, memorizing poems/speeches/books, and making up songs/stories/lies.
How did my mother ever survive summer vacation?
And, NO, tumblr, I do NOT want to let people answer this!
I accidentally got a man kicked out of Pavilions earlier this evening for public intoxication. Oops!
But seriously, he was VERY angry at me for not taking his <expletive> <expletive> free Starbucks sample. He did not work for the Starbucks there. He did not work at Pavilions or any of the businesses affilated with that location. It was like being badgered by a man to let him buy you a drink. Except he already had the drink in hand and it was not even something he purchased. Also, it was daylight hours and we were in a grocery store. But the him being drunk part was the same.
I’m going to need someone to shake me awake when the apocalypse comes, otherwise, I’ma gonna sleep right through it. And it should only take a few solid minutes of attempting to rouse me before I respond. This means that if the end of the world as we know it comes when I am asleep, I WILL DIE.
attempting to clean the kitchen after my sad sad baking attempt earlier today. Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT attempt to put a strawberry filling in between two round cakes to make a layer cake when the cake is too moist. Unless you are HIGHLY skilled, you will be left with a heaping mound of cake bits, berries, glaze, and chocolate frosting. Which is of course DELICIOUS but messy and impossible to serve. I now have a five inch high cake pile nine inches in diameter sitting in my fridge. That’s a whole lot of cake-type dessert that I’m going to have to eat myself. Just one of the many things I’ve done today that begs the question: WHAT WAS I THINKING?
I have OCD when it comes to my toenails. I cannot stand the thought of them being dirty. Or the idea of them being too long. I trim them probably more often than any other human being and keep them as short as possible. Also, they are currently well-manicured with a sparkly, summery gold polish. Except for the one toe that I whacked on the leg of the couch oneday prior to having my coffee. But only because part of that toenail is about to fall off as a consequence of the whacking. Congratulations, internet! You now know far too much about the state of my feet. Woo-Hoo!
I am obsessed with having well-shaped, well-groomed eyebrows. If you see me with stray hairs up there, this can only mean one thing: my life is undeniably OUT OF CONTROL. The chaos/depression caused by that is the only thing that can come between me and the perfect brow.
baking a chocolate cake. and attempting to make a strawberry filling for it. so far I have been successful in coating the front of my shirt and the kitchen floor and counters with various baking ingredients. this is highly normal.
that I am slowly losing my mind because I have started talking to the bf’s rocking sheep that is on my balcony. Carl (the rocking sheep) is a good listener, but has a distinctly shifty look, as if he’s plotting something mildly sinister. If I die in the night, blame Carl.
(Yes, I know there are so many things about this post that need explaining. But I’m not gonna just yet. Keeps me mysterious. And makes me sound wonderfully crazy.)
Big whoop when someone I’m seeing can tell me things I already know about myself. I want someone who can tell me things I don’t know about myself. Like the fact that because I renamed all the neighborhood cats and hold conversations with them, I am a crazy cat lady. See, due to my unique upbringing I somehow thought this was normal behavior until a recent boyfriend pointed it out to me. Because of him, I now know that my mother feeding the neighbor’s cat and letting it roam free in our house is not normal. Nor is it normal that she holds regular conversations with it and speaks to you on its behalf. It is actually rather strange. Because of him I have also learned that it is a little weird that a mangy cat belonging to my landlady, whom I’ve rechristened Ralph, comes every time I call him. I have also learned that this particular boy finds this eccentricity of mine completely adorable. And I think that right there might be something a little like love. Being around to observe what others don’t see, and finding those secret, strange habits utterly endearing just might be a little piece of what love is.
I have just heard a loud clunk type sound coming from the kitchen, since you are running I can only assume it came from you. I am about to go check. Please, please, please do not have spat out water and suds or have caused the garbage disposal to burp up gross water again. YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE FIXED. Please act accordingly.
There’s this cat I know named Ripley with whom I used to be mildly obsessed, and with good reason. Aside from the fact that she is beautiful and adorable, I saw her pretty much every day, was lucky enough to have her choose my lap to curl up in on occasion, and even took her to the vet on behalf of her owner when she was sick. So as not to overly annoy the rest of humanity, I would share my “Ripley-is-so-cute” stories with my mother. Who in turn would tell me stories about the neighbor’s cat that she feeds and has essentially stolen from them. Which is a whole other story. After hearing a particularly endearing story about Ripley one day my mother sighed and said, “I miss Ripley.”
To which I replied, “You don’t even KNOW Ripley.”
She responded with, “No, but I just miss her. That’s all.”
Now if the fact that this woman is my mother does not explain some of my weird cat tendencies, then I don’t think anything ever will.
I used to work at a movie theater in Hollywood. Once, one of the patrons referred to me as “M’Lady.” I would have assumed he had a Renaissance Fair to attend later that day, then I remembered I was in Hollywood and people are weird. The End.
What if I post a picture of adorable animals and a ton of tumblrs hit the “like” button but then I edit it and change it to a picture of some type of carnage or make the caption say something like PUPPIES MUST DIE! will the “likes” still be there and will tons of people be listed as “liking” carnage or threats to puppies? Just a thought.
4th of July has never been as grand for me as it was between the ages of 6 and 16. I lived on a cul-de-sac and every year we threw a block party, getting permission from the city to barricade off our street and go to town with festivities galore. There was a neighborhood potluck to which my mother always contributed her famous Old Settler’s Baked Beans and a giant bowl of potato salad. There was face painting, which I started helping out with around the age of twelve, and organized games and activities for the oodles of kids. Swimming, a pie eating contest, a game of twister on a giant homemade board. One year there was karaoke, another we weeded yards and saved money for a bounce house, another year it was a cotton candy machine. And once it was dark everyone sat out in there lawn chairs around the circle of the cul-de-sac and families would set off firework after firework. Then, we’d all watch the aerial show put on in the high school stadium just behind our street. We’d finish up with sparklers and an always epic water balloon fight at midnight. It was everything you ever thought a family/neighborhood 4th of July party could be.