Budding

A tiny new beginning on a branch. I'm restarting an old relationship at the moment. It's scary, but I'm excited.

Purple Morning

Is it really still February? The garden seems to disagree...

Toes & Teens

Photo by Flickr user bruno. (71). This monkey is examining its own foot. Sometimes I do that too. Not very often. I'm not big on foot care. I do have a dedicated foot cream by Burt's Bees but I've used it like three times, because, c'mon, I don't lotion my feet that often. I guess maybe some people do?

Totally unrelated note, I'm watching a movie with my parents: 17 Again. Zac Efron is very cute in this movie, but desperately needs his hair messed up a little.

Bruises

I'm tired and sluggish and I don't want to work. I thought about so many things yesterday, but I didn't write most of them down. I suppose this is what happens when I read a sad book by someone who committed suicide. And then I look him up to find out why, and it turns out that several of his too-numerous children brought serious abuse charges against him.

House & Home

Lush Abandonment by Zach Frailey. Found on Flickr but also posted on Forgotten NC.

"Somewhere between Trenton and Kinston, NC, I came across this gem of a house. Set back about 250 feet from the intersection of the main road and a dirt road, I almost missed it because of the green growth around it, but turned around to get some shots. I like how hidden some of these old places are in the summer, they almost completely blend in as the trees reclaim them."

Narcosis

Finally we're getting weather that resembles winter. California has been too dry this year.

So last night I wrote an impassioned (but not post-worthy) rant about drugs prompted by a question from Miss Miggums. But that's not actually the point. Sitting down with the intention of spilling words reminded me that I want to be writing stuff that's more in-depth than vapid social media captions (my job) or silly reflections on daily style (my hobby). I want to be deep, which is pathetic because you're not supposed to want that; it's supposed to just happen. One day you wake up and your angst is poetic, right? But all the writing books say you have to practice.

I want to bring the focus, organization, and length of an academic essay to my personal writing. And I want to be doing personal writing regularly. I used to fantasize about a hypothetical novel; I'm not sure I'm into that idea anymore. But of course I want to be famous! I want to be goddam Cat Marnell (xoJane and VICE) minus the dysfunction. Sometimes it seems like I only look up to girls who are disasters--see also Sylvia Plath--because I'm a fuckin' cliche.

Aforementioned focus/organization/length: not in evidence at the moment. Sorry.

I was also thinking about this because, as you may have seen in 24324 Facebook statuses, Philip Seymour Hoffman overdosed on heroin, which is sad. But it made me remember watching Capote in an English class that I dropped out of, and how I was offended against my better judgment that the teacher didn't give me automatic A+s. Don't you know that all of my relatives think I'm brilliant?