I made dinner tonight, and it was awful. Like, really awful. But I ate it anyway and pretended it wasn't.

Oh well. It was an experiment. You win some, you lose some, and some you drown out with pepper.

~

I disconnected the cable to my TV today. I've been bugging my roommate to cancel the cable, because he never watches it and I don't WANT to watch it, but I know if it's there, I will, and I don't want to.

So I disconnected the cable.

We'll see how long that lasts.

~

I was camping with friends this weekend. Lots of friends. Medieval thing, you see.

It was in the boonies, deep in the heart of farm country. It was first harvest, so despite our beautiful medieval atmosphere, trucks thundered by all day pulling in the first harvest from the surrounding fields.

I had a good time, I suppose.

I flirted with one of the boys. I don't even know his name, but I always have an easy time talking to him. Plus he's got this shaved head and little elfen ears that makes me want to squeal and squish his face.

But I usually feel that way around bald men.

The designer for our play right now, he is one of my favorites. Fabulous, he is, and the only man I've ever met who can wear a ruffled pink disco shirt well. I want to hug him and squish him and call him mine (and I have an enormous crush on him, even though I know the thought of my genetalia makes him squick). He's got the same bald head and elf ears.

There's also a guy who helps run the building my theatre is in. He's short and has no hair at all (he has that condition...you know the one...where there's no hair anywhere). He's a lovely man, and I always suspect he has magic keys that lets him in to mysterious places. I also want to hug him and squish him.

~

I've been thinking a lot about words and art and being an adult and surviving and living.

I lay on my couch the other day, all but swallowed by my innumerable fish pillows, and thought: I should be cleaning my work table. I should be doing my laundry and not laying here doing nothing.

But I couldn't work up the momentum, so I just continued to lay there.

A lot of my artist friends are the same way. They don't have immaculate houses, and the closer you get to their studios, the messier and wilder it gets.

I have often felt that words do not come easily to me. I mean, sometimes it's nothing, it's pouring thoughts onto the page.

But sometimes...when I'm trying to find that perfect phrasing, rolling the feeling around in my mouth and trying to convey exactly what it feels like.

Exactly what having your heart broken feels like.

Exactly how the grass feels on bare ankles, prickly and damp with tiny crawling things that jump onto your calves.

Exactly how kissing a stranger, or seeing the milky way blossom, feels.

Finding the words is like carving words out of my flesh, and dropping the raw chunks onto the page.

And then there's the creation, the making of things.

There are times when I am making things when I hit perfection, and a piece of my soul goes into it.

My soul will heal, as will my body, but it takes so long, so long, and I want to create faster than that.

As I lay on the couch and stared at the drop cieling tiles I thought, I thought I was nothing more than a skeleton with a shredded handkerchief soul, and nobody can see it but me.

Three more chunks on the page tonight.

And now I must sleep.

.

Rosie.

Before&After