Throw your body against the floor of the sky

You will run the world, uncaged and unfettered but still feel as trapped, so long as your heart is still an angry , hungry, young thing.

I would know.

My temples have gone shock-white  from fighting my own child-self, with her broad, stubborn shoulders and skinned knees.

We have sat in the ruins of temples and on mounds of ancient bones, but felt as trapped as canaries in the mouths of temple cats.


Beeph jerky 

I just finished meeting my in-laws for the first time via  Skype. I was quite nervous: Sweat and overhydrate kind of nervous, which yes, was largely unnecessary but still happened.

I’ve known Alvin for 4 years, and other than writing his mother a letter a year into our relationship and sending her the odd postcard or whatever, she and I have not spoken. I feel like if one abides by standard Conventional relationship logic, that’s a long time for things to go without meeting parents. 

We are however, unconventional,and I love us for that. 

In December, Alvin and I are going to Malaysia to get married in the church and officially meet the parents. By “the church”, I mean the Catholic Church . I’m  not Catholic: I’m a vaguely Pagan agnostic jew who is low-key tolerant of religion as long as it’s not oppressing anyone. (it’s usually oppressing someone) Alvin is his own  thing,but was raised Catholic. I’m perfectly willing to do this because I believe people need those little rituals to tie us together in a world that tries to tear us down. If this is how his folks want to watch their one son get married, then that’s what we’ll do.

Now, The petite  Panther of a cat that we live with has beautifully and elegantly draped himself across me, as if settling for me somewhat begrudgingly. It’s nice to have a soft Kitty tummy to rub as I watch Grace and Franky and miss the boy in Malaysia tonight, while burning as much incense as I want.
Goodnight, lovelies.. And goodnight to you, loveliest: every single day I get to hear that voice of yours, (like chocolate covered coffee beans)  I know I am somehow blessed by gods I still may not believe in. 

After sleeping on beds that weren’t my bed for two weeks while out out of the country and having some back pain (that’s normal) but nothing near the bone-smelting level I’d been experiencing prior to our trip, I now know the issue is our bed. Logically , this led to me feeling actual hate towards the bed, as if it was a human  who is intentionally crushing my little bird bones into dust. So, we bought a mattress topper.  From Mancini’s sleep-world.

Mancini’s is one of those places that has loud-talking car-salesmen types who are likely all named something like “Chad” or “Stan” and  exude weird, old-school douchebag out of their ugly poly-blend polo-shirts while sweatily stare-smiling you into a more expensive purchase than you want to make. Or, they’re trying to ask questions I’ve already asked Alvin and myself, because I’m not about to be sold some bullshit I don’t want. I was prepared for this, because I know mattress store are hellscapes. I managed to not get bullied into buying more than what I wanted and we bought an under $400 mattress topper to be shipped to our house by this Monday. On Monday the fucker had not been delivered and I’m tired of waking up every morning feeling like a package of kale chips in the bottom of a bag filled with pickle-jars. So, we ordered one on Amazon on Tuesday, and at the moment, it’s laying on our apartment floor, uncompressing.

That may or may not have been a good Idea, seeing as I locked my cat in the closet while at my appointment today, and he may or may not shit on it/eat it/murder it.

I’ll know soon.

There’s no moral here other that Amazon is terrific and I hate mattress stores because they’re terrible.

VHS Emoji,


Back in the USA

How’s that for a creative title?

We got home last night. Thankfully, we didn’t need to use Lyft because the one of the two wonderful humans who cat-sat for us came and got us from the SFO, thus reducing any chance of my maiming a Lyft driver because they talked too much.

When did we decide that using Puddle-jumpers for continental flights was wise, btw? You know what I mean, right? The small planes  with the terribad concave seats made of cardboard and shame? Fortunately even though that’s what I flew from Montreal to SFO in, there was no one in my  isle, so I just slept across all three seats.

Theres an epic amount of laundry and unpacking to do, I have to work at 11 and I have a ton of writing to do, but at the moment I’m doing nothing but drinking coffee and compulsively lotioning myself while smiling at the California sun I haven’t seen in 2 weeks.

Life’s alright.


don’t tell my cat i miss him

Myself and the Alvin arrived in Sweden on Saturday evening. I know this is true because I had every electronic device available to tell me so, but I’m moderately  sure I was on that plane for at least a week. I don’t fly badly, per se. I know what to expect, how long it takes me to be  blessed with the gift of extreme back pain and how long it’ll take that to make me mean AF.

Five hours, if you’re curious. It takes 5 hours for me to hit maximum back pain, and maybe another two hours for that to turn to a delicately seething rage. This flight, it wasn’t the back pain that really got me, it was the air. I picked up a cold or something similar on the flight. I swear, I felt it settle into my nose like a stray cat settles into your couch after crawling through the open window. It’s not terrible, just couldn’t  fucking breathe quite right. Colds infuriate me on my best day, much more when I’m in a country that doesn’t have actual non-homeopathic cold medicine. This is me, side-eyeing you, Sweden.

It’s now Wednesday and I’m mostly a human again. A friend who’s down with his husband for the same meetings Alvin’s in brought me expectorant and I’ll likely survive.


I am now in the village of Brest, in France:and it’s gloomy and lovely.We’re staying with Alvin’s dear friends. I’ll update this later with more information about the trip in general, but I’ve let this post languish for days, because I’m busy and lazy.

Chai and cat-tails, for now.


Rain’s pouring out of the sky and reminding me of gray cities with bridges for backbones. I’m at work, sitting at the little square table 5 rows from the door that I occupy when there’s nothing to do and no one to serve: There’s  a cornucopia of things I want to do for the enrichment of my own personal brain, but I keep getting distracted.


I came to some realizations about things and myself this past month, so here they are in no real order or importance.


1.I’d like to genuinely be all the good things I aspire  eventually to be, rather than just be perceived as being them. I’m far being the full person I’d like to grow into, in experience and spirituality. I’m hungry and ready to be filled.  When I was younger, I spent time planning out what I’d like to do and be. Time goes so much faster now.

3. My heart is soft and uncallused somehow, but nothing horrifies me anymore.Nothing human feels alien.

4. I need the frivolous things that bring me joy when the world shows more of its dark side. I’m not ashamed of my frou-frou. I like fashion and makeup and weird architecture and being in places that are beautiful to me.I despise “common” and I plan to continue to rebel against it in the most beautiful way I can think of.


I know this is disjointed. I started writing yesterday and got busy half-way through because life interrupted. I’m publishing the shit I write even if it’s terriblah , because that’s the deal I made with myself. Sorry about yer eyeballs, friend.




The moon drips down into my soul and her light illuminates places and moments  I’ve tucked away for my own protection. In the easy plateau between asleep and fully awake there are memories that can be accessed by my nearly-conscious mind.( or is it my soul, because I believe that’s both a time as well as a place)When I fully wake I am so heavy with the knowledge of my life, dear and bad, I am sure for a minute that I glow, pregnant with silver-blue light.

I’m waking up with my coffee and the moonlight’s fading away, but some little thoughts stick to me.


~i am not made for suburbia

~have I been so many different people, so many times that when I sleep my soul splits its self into pieces, only to  reconvene in the morning?

~ i remember where I lost a doll under a couch , a tan/brown overstuffed one in a living room long dismantled, but the moment is forever preserved, screenshotted.


February 14th

There’s decent artwork on the walls of  the Red Rock coffee shop, this rotation. I’m sitting across from a canvas bearing a painting of a rather interpretive bobcat and baroque doorways in blues and burn umber. It works, wether or not it should. There’s a Meetup of Hebrew-speaking people behind Alvin and I and  as we have computers  out working on various projects.

Yesterday, Alvin and I got married. We’d talked about it for some time now: I don’t have people, per se. No family to speak of , and my friends are spread out all over the world. His friends and family are in Malaysia. It would’ve taken a bit of effort and so so much time to have a wedding , and it wasn’t important to either of us.We might do something bigger later, but we’re married now. Just like when I got my cat, I committed to feeding his dumb little cat face for the rest of his life, I’ve committed to loving this person and sharing our responsibilities and becoming the best versions of ourselves together, and I’m blissful in this choice.

 This isn’t my first marriage: If you know me, you know this. I got married too young to someone who was and currently IS lovely, but because of failings on both of our parts and some general un-ready-ness on my end things didn’t work out. That’s all I’ll really say about that union.While things didn’t explode, but it wasn’t a good match and it didn’t end easily. I’m a very different human now than I was then.(Something that thanks to Faceboook, I’m reminded of on the daily.  years ago me was occasionally cringeworthy, fuck) I’ve changed and  steered and danced off into the mountains and moved and survived a thousand times since then. There was Jeff, also. How do you talk with any comfort about getting married after a divorce and the death of a partner? It’s not like I’m 40 or something, thats low-key a LOT of baggage for our age.  I felt anxiety about announcing anything until afterwards, and perhaps I shouldn’t have felt any. I don’t know. Life is delicate, and i was too indelicate when I was in my twenties not to learn from my many mistakes.

Here we are, though. My husband is a wonderful man.  I look at him often and see every facet and am amazed at how  how much we both contain. This is the beginning. Here we go, Love.

Blog at

Up ↑