Carpet Shenanigans

Our dog Marcus has been slow in recovering from a recent visit to the vet. For one thing, they shaved him, so he looks totally different. It also appears that he has gone deaf. Poor baby! He's so nervous and confused. But he still enjoys cuddling.

Tangled Leaves

My uncertainty comes with a plethora of options. It's a fully stocked-up future, displaying more possibilities than I want to choose from. Patches in clear focus and intriguing blur around the edges.



I resort to bitterness when I write about myself. It's easier. Holding myself in the space of optimism requires more resolve than I can dedicate to my fingers. Does that make sense?

I've been writing every day, 200 to 400 words, expanding my projects piece by piece. It doesn't feel like enough. I have a romantic idea(l) of myself drinking watered-down orange juice and loving the heat that comes through the window, pounding my dreams into a Word doc. I can imagine keeping this up for hours, pouring out my history and poring over my present, for an entire arc of sunshine, not noticing how the Earth is circumscribed by light.

I think I just accidentally took the Catholic Church's position regarding Copernicus.

Self-Esteem Mosquitoes

I don't have it all figured out. They keep telling me that it's okay to be unsure of the future. It's okay to be confused, and to mess up. I'm learning to believe; I'm trying to believe.

My therapist tells me, "When you were a little baby, you deserved love, simply because all little babies deserve love. If a person learns self-worth from early childhood care, it makes a tremendous difference." Well, I must not have learned. I wasn't paying attention in class. She presents the paradigm now and I like it, but it doesn't feel true. My therapist is so kind and earnest. I wish she could pass her faith to me, the way she passes me the tissues when I do a bad job of suppressing tears.

I have bug bites on my forearms and lower legs, from Oregonian mosquitoes. I can't stop scratching them, so they're getting hot and swollen. Of course, the bites don't itch less. Intuitive logic says, scratch the itch and it will go away. In reality, irritated skin gets more irritated when you drag your fingernails over it. The poison is massaged into a greater area.

Curling Succulent Against White Wall

A trio of (conceptual) self-portraits featuring the pretty weeds that grow on the periphery of a neighbor's garden:



The artist's shadow is always visible. (Yeah, I think I leveled up in terms of pretension.)

Quality Of Life

I've seen these glasses a few times while walking the dog. They've been lying on the concrete, crushed, for a week or two. I assume that a car rolled over them. The driver probably flinched at the bump. Now they're useless, except as snapshot fodder. When I get depressed, I'm like those glasses: misshapen but recognizable. Anyway...



Quote from Working by Studs Terkel. I believe the interviewee who voiced these insights was a baker at an organic co-op, but I'm not 100% on that. Regardless of the person's profession, their sentiment strikes a chord with me. Although maybe it's not true for everybody?

Blemished Pink Flowers // Pretty Hurts

Are the flowers sick? Is this an affliction? The effect is visually striking.

You can be sick and still pretty. You can be sick and very pretty. You can be sick in such a way that "pretty" is what keeps you standing up.



"Ain't got no doctor or pill that can take the pain away. The pain's inside and nobody frees you from your body." Quote from "Pretty Hurts" by Beyonce. (Also here's the music video.)

I don't know why this resonates with me so much right now. I'm in a decent place with my self-image, as well as with my mood. I think I look good, generally speaking, and I feel good. Yes, generally speaking.

I was at X's place on Friday and he mentioned offhand that I wasn't wearing makeup. His comment didn't sound critical, but I felt disconcerted nonetheless. "Best I Ever Had" was playing. When Drake sang the line, "Sweatpants, hair tie, chillin' with no makeup on," X nodded at me and said something. I don't remember the exact words. Obviously I was wearing sweatpants and no makeup. Chillin'--we were both working on our laptops.

Most of the time I pretend to myself that X doesn't notice whether I'm wearing makeup. Of course, he does: he looks at my face and naturally it's easy to tell. I'm too chicken to ask him if he still thinks I'm cute without makeup. I know he'd say yes, but I also know that he'd be honest. I wouldn't put it past him to say, "Yes, but..." X is the definition of honest to a fault.

I guess I do know why this resonates with me.

Dog Dog Dog

This is Button, my neighbor's dog who I've been walking. I imagine that her inner monologue goes, "Dog. Dog dog dog. Dogdogdogdogdog." She loves to get tummy scritches, but she also won't turn her nose up at under-the-chin scritches. Er, wait, I mean...



Button's silly grin truly conveys canine enthusiasm, the quality that makes dogs so easy to adore. They are wholehearted in every moment. A dog's hyper-positive attitude is funny*, but it's also inspirational. Dogs (at least the well-treated ones) show me how I want to relate to the world: with eagerness and delight. Sure, my life is more complex than what a dog deals with, simply because I am a more complex creature. But still, pets provide a perspective that promotes optimism. Maybe there's food in my bowl right now!

*Original "pet diary" idea by Dan Piraro, author of the Bizarro comics. Feel free to buy his books.