Saturday, July 30, 2011

“A ‘No’ uttered from the deepest conviction is better than a ‘Yes’ merely uttered to please.” --Gandhi

“All the mistakes I ever made were when I wanted to say 'No' and said 'Yes'.” --Moss Hart

“Unless someone truly has the power to say no, they never truly have the power to say yes.” --Dan Millman, world champion trampolinist

I've lived on Yes. I'm writing this blog as a practice of saying Yes. But if I keep saying yes as a compulsion, I stop having a sense of integrity, I stop knowing who I am. Saying No means saying yes to myself, to maintaining space in my life, so when the right offer comes along, I can say yes to it.

I've said no a lot this week--there's been offers. One came with lots of bells and whistles, was flashy and full of possible fame and fortune. I went deep into my gut and heard, "No," but because I'm not used to saying those types of no's –- out of fear of what I might lose -- I only said, "I'll sleep on it." Anything that will disappear on a good night's sleep is a fiction, anyways. It disappeared. The person wasn't willing to wait for my answer.

I need to value myself enough, after years of trying to please others, and operating out of fear, to take the time--which may be a lot of time--as to whether the offer meets my needs for integrity, safety, growth, and pleasure.

So, I'm saying no again and again, so that I can say yes to the joy living in my heart, so I can say yes to fearless choices when they arise, so I can clear out space so I can be a street performer in Prague--if even for a season, so I can love fiercely and without reservation or guilt, so I can continue to play in the world to the utmost, so I can use the money I might have spent on dinner to pay for a night out dancing, so I can grow into the body, mind, and spirit I see but do not yet inhabit. I'm saying yes to a vision of myself that is close but not quite in reach. I'm doing this one day at a time.

I'm doing this on the wings of a thousand birds. I'm doing this with the help of many wonderful friends and mentors. I'm doing this with the gift of you, reader, bearing witness to the process.

I'm saying no to the distractions of the world, to the countless choices, so my yesses become more particular. I'm saying yes to the small voice of 'no' without question, even if the offer makes sense. I'm saying yes to the small voice in myself that knows what's good for me, so I'm saying no. And, in a kind of reversal of James Joyce's Molly Bloom soliloquy at the end of Ulysess, "No, I said no, no." It's a beautiful song. And gifts of yes enter the space of 'no' manifold:

"I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes."

--e. e. cummings

Thursday, July 28, 2011


Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace. --May Sarton

To build may have to be the slow and laborious task of years. To destroy can be the thoughtless act of a single day.--Winston Churchill

I used to believe in the single, quick leap of faith more than the slow building of something with a solid foundation. In fact, in my leaps of faith, I would knock down anything I'd built in a single bound. Many of my moves were like that--I'd lived in far West Texas for four years, loved my work as a baker, had some other odd jobs, some good friends, a life I was building, when, within three weeks of deciding to move, I moved to San Francisco. It wasn't the worst decision of my life, as it turned out I had some severe health problems that were helped by the resources available in San Francisco, but it certainly undermined all I'd built in those four years. Every time I move, I'm curious about the new place, but within a couple years, I'm curious about the old place, the life I could've had.

Right now, I stand at a crossroads. I want to leave the city where I live. I would like to experience living in a foreign country. I've decided I'm not going to have a family, so I now I'm really taking stock of what I want to do. I want to live in beautiful places and experience unusual adventures. I want to perform on the streets of Europe and jump out of airplanes all over the world. I want to kayak on still waters, discovering birds among the reeds. However, I want to do this in a way that is planned, sane, and sustainable. I have the steps in place, it's a matter of taking them.

Today, I realized that I often thought that something was a God-thing, if it came to me unawares. For instance, I've been recently thinking about moving out of my house and someone called saying they were looking for a roommate, even though I'd never told the person I was thinking of moving. Even though the situation raised several red flags, I thought, wow, this must be a God-thing because I'm thinking about moving and so-and-so has a room for rent. My normal way of doing things is, oh, someone's offering me something, maybe I should take it. It could even be that I wasn't thinking about the thing I've been offered, and boom, I twist my thinking, "I never thought about doing that, maybe it's a God-thing."

Yesterday, I decided I was a person who took things slowly. Taking things quickly has not worked out for me in the past. I wasn't thinking about getting involved in a romance, and I certainly wasn't thinking of getting involved with the future X-man, and I used the not thinking about those things as evidence to make the argument, "Oh, it's not me, it must be God." God gets blamed for a whole lot of damage in my life.

I need to make careful choices based on my values and my integrity and the way I want to feel while I'm in the action of those choices. It's okay to want to feel a certain way.

Though I have desperately romanticized the leap of faith concept, I am now cherishing, the tilling and turning the soil concept. I'm researching, adding fertilizer, and planting what I will work for me--whether it's flowers or tomatoes, a parachute fund or a new luxury item--I will turn and consider and wait. And wait. And wait.

"The world is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper."

Bertrand Russell

"It is strange that the years teach us patience; that the shorter our time, the greater our capacity for waiting."
Elizabeth Taylor

Tuesday, July 26, 2011


The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings." --J.M. Barrie

For many years now, I've thought about the wings I have--thought about them as tucked behind my shoulder blades, hidden and out of the way.

I've tried to be the right person, the good girl, to stay inside the lines. Taking off in flight on a moment's notice might look irrational or irresponsible.

Where do I want to fly? I want to fly to Prague and never come back. I want to fly to Prague and be a street performer and open an American bakery with sticky sweet chocolate cake and apple pies and milkshakes. I want to fly to Prague and teach two-year olds, I want to work at the children's school and lead after school programs where the boys and girls sing Simon and Garfunkel songs and act out the words with their bodies. I want to climb three flights of stairs to a tiny apartment with a buckled wooden floor and a hotplate and a single bed. I want to fashion art-pinatas and display them on the streets of Prague. I want to get away from it all. I want to get away to someplace. I want to get away to Prague.

I am sorry if you will miss me, but I have wings I can't keep them in any longer. It's like there's a thousand birds in my body clamoring to be released. Each bird a time I wanted to do something but I held my body still, each bird a word, a kick, a run, a falling-in-love I resisted.

I have wings and I can't not use them. I have wings and I'm flying over the United States. I can see the mountains and the Mississippi. I'm nearing the Atlantic--I'm migrating, and with every mile, my wings and heart grow stronger, as the work of flight turns my body into a body new and finally mine.

Sunday, July 24, 2011


After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
Aldous Huxley

Silence is the source of great strength. Lao Tzu

Saying nothing . . . sometimes says the most. Emily Dickinson

Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves. Thomas Carlyle

It's time to shut the door on all the talking about what happened and what should've happened and why I'm upset about what happened and to simply keep my mouth shut on the subject, the subject that jumpstarted this blog.

So, I sit now, day one, in spaces of silence on the matter, hoping that the burning in my heart and the chatter in my mind will follow in the footsteps of the physical silence I've been able to muster.

I'm staying in Alameda for the night, and it's very quiet here. I think I hear a fog horn or a train far off in the distance from time to time, but there are no dogs, no cars, no people laughing, no music, no telephones ringing. I'm curled in a corner of a room on a small bed, a bed made for a child to sleep in, asking for quiet to hit me like a wave--knocking me to my knees, if necessary, pushing through me like music, but absent of notes.

Today, as I move into silence, I feel afraid of uncertainty. Though I know, intellectually, that there are no certainties in life, I'd lived in some delusion about some small regular occurrences I'd come to rely upon. Something as simple as a phone call from a particular person before bedtime or the mockingbird at 11:20 PM, scraping its song like metal against metal. Here I am, in a different city, moving out of certainty. Where there was noise, there's silence. Where there's silence, I face off fear before I can find the strength in this new place.

In the new place, I might hear the wings of birds but not their song. In the new place, the sky shines sundrops, glowing but soundless. In the new place, there's not his reassuring voice after dark, but the vast possibility of God--a presence so awesome it sometimes scares me.

In the new place I wait for silence to have the heft and solidity I'm searching for as resting place.

Saturday, July 23, 2011


"Are they ashamed of their detestable conduct?
No, they have no shame at all;
they do not even know how to blush.
So they will fall among the fallen;
they will be brought down when they are punished,
says the LORD." Jeremiah 8:12

"Vengeance is just:
Justly we rid the earth of human fiends
Who carry hell for pattern in their souls.
But in high vengeance there is noble scorn:
It tortures not the torturer, nor gives
Iniquitous payment for iniquity.
The great avenging angel does not crawl
To kill the serpent with a mimic fang;
He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge
That slays like lightning."

--George Eliot

I want to be a good, kind person, but sometimes the feeling of vengeance rises up in me like an animal. As much as I can, I put judgement in God's hands, but the past few days, I've been paralyzed with the desire for bad things to happen to a person who I feel wronged me. After these imaginings, I experience remorse, and then, I want to hurt myself. Some human being's always taking a beating as I grapple with fear in the face of perceived injustice.

If I can, I want to stand up with dignity, turn the resolution over to God. I love the idea of slaying the serpent swiftly and elegantly. However, in this case, I've come to the conclusion that the monster that needs killing is my own pride and ego. That desperate need to be right needs to die. I need to douse out the fire of self-righteous anger--the fantasies of harm coming upon the one who hurt me, the mean-spirited text messages, the gossip, the drafting of long hateful letters that I later tear up--all these need to melt away until there's room in me again, room again for God, room again for shine.

"O LORD, the God who avenges, O God who avenges, shine forth."
Psalm 94:1

Tuesday, July 19, 2011


"Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art."
Charles Baudelaire

"Confidence in the goodness of another is good proof of one's own goodness."
Michel de Montaigne

For the past few weeks, I've wondered where I went wrong to succumb to the recent betrayal. I wondered, if it was the result of my historically foolish belief in the goodness and honesty of my fellow humans. What point is there to go around not trusting people until one gives you reason not to be trusted. Even then, when my temptation is to want to turn the other to pure evil, doesn't it feel better in my heart if I hold onto, if at all possible, one small shard of true goodness I can muster in my recollected experience relating to the other person. At times, not only can't I hold that shard, I cannot even see a speck.

I myself, am not a model of goodness. I fail often and widely to live up to my own standards of goodness. Lately, I'm failing miserably based on de Montaigne's account of goodness. I've mostly protected my grief and heartbreak by feeling anger and hate, by telling stories that make X-man evil. Of course, in doing so, I become evil myself.

So, here's my pledge for the day: I will take a 24-hour reprieve from any negative words about X-man. Additionally, if any negative thoughts about him arise, I will invite them to leave. I will focus on replacing the thoughts with a yellow swallowtail, full-winged, finding its footing on a leaf near the table at the outdoor cafe where I'm drinking iced tea. If I'm not yet good enough to make a list of X-man's 'good' attributes, I will at least focus on goodness in the world in other places.

My friends, in fact, have been so incredibly kind, so incredibly good people through all this--setting aside their own life worries to take my phone calls and field my text messages, telling me how good I am. So maybe before I can really get generous enough to see the good in X-man, I can begin to acknowledge the goodness in myself, that others seem to appreciate. I can even celebrate by sending myself bouquets of flowers, to celebrate who I am and to offer condolences to the recent hard loss I've survived.

Monday, July 18, 2011


I do not believe in using women in combat, because females are too fierce” --Margaret Mead

I'm working in my acting class on ferocity. At first, it was incredibly uncomfortable to live in the fierce body. I felt myself lifting out of myself or "checking out" continually, letting the scenes meander and grow dull. Or, when the scene was over, I'd feel relieved and if my acting coach asked to try a bit of it again, it was as if my consciousness had left the building. Once he had to ask me three times to re-enter the scene.

Afraid of my own fierceness in my day to day life, and the damage it might do to others and then to myself through backlash or remorse, I've overcompensated by staying weak and moving into a default position of victim. Certainly, bad things have happened to me, but not everyone who experiences hard luck or betrayal responds with weakness. Some use these trials to strengthen themselves. Some fight back. I admire these people, even if it wasn't, I suppose, the woman I'd been raised into.

However, with practice, I'm starting to quite enjoy the physical experience of ferocity. I can scream and swear, go on the attack, but I can also stand up straight, with a fire running up through my body, grounded from a place down at the core of the Earth, and look at my scene partner or towards the audience while I'm listening and responding to the situation of the scene.

As Maxwell suggests above, the only response to fully accepting and owning the events of one's life, is fierceness. Not one person can live in the reality of existing in a human body without understanding that we are each survivors--from the violent entrance into the world from the comfort of our mothers' wombs, to the first time we understand our fathers aren't God, to our first heartbreak, our body, mind, emotions, and spirit are shaken down again and again. It is the animal in us that wants to continue even as our feeling beings are beaten up by a hard-edged world. The deer in us gallops on beyond our grief, the bird in us soars above the smallness of our problems, the turtle in us trudges forward in the face of health crisis. There's a solid center inside me that will not give up, that will not give in, that will muster and nurture ferocity, and mix it with the relief of stepping into even the hardness of reality and the joy of living on this small planet just another day.

Every day, I face the sun--an enormous fire and force--and I am not afraid.

Sunday, July 17, 2011


"Curiosity doesn't matter any more. These days people don't want to be transported to emotional territories where they don't know how to react." --Hector Babenco, filmmaker

"Curiosity endows the people who have it with a generosity in argument and a serenity in their own mode of life which springs from their cheerful willingness to let life take the form it will." --Alistair Cooke

I'm taking myself out of the driver's seat today. I'll start by not thinking what the next word or idea might be in this piece of writing. This might mean sitting in quiet for long stretches of time.

My mother said the new bakery in the Outer Sunset of San Francisco is hiring a baker. I am a baker. It's true I have a job, I have a decent job, one with health insurance. I have what some might call a grown up job. Sometimes people are impressed when I tell them what my job is.

When I wore my hair blonde, I felt like I was wearing an itchy sweater. I sort of feel that way with my job, like the season necessitates the discomfort and I'm waiting for summer. But it is summer.

There were times I worked as a baker and I always felt like a real person when I was asked what I did for a living and could answer, "I'm a baker." This is no offense to those who do what I currently do. They work hard and change people's lives. Some have told me, in the job I have now, that I have inspired them. I have no reason to doubt these individuals. I can see the truth in their postures. I've never inspired anyone as a baker.

However, when I'm a baker, two things happen: 1) I feel like going to work is like going to church & 2) I feel like I never put myself above or below anyone by claiming the title of baker.

I suppose this posting has nothing to do with curiosity.

It has to do everything with me having an attitude about what I am or am not supposed to do. What if I stopped categorizing everybody and everything and putting them on my complicated ladders in my mind. What If I bashed the ladders to the ground and put each splinter-piece into the sand, sticking straight up and there were hundreds of even-ish sticks in the sand and I wandered around them like some kind of obstacle course and I was so confused because I didn't know which of the stakes was mine for that time of my life. And, I was so confused that I realized, now, I'm right where I'm supposed to be, knowing nothing and living in wonder.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

The Truth

“An honest man is always a child.”—Socrates

“Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it.”—Emily Dickinson

Having recently been lied to, I’ve been working back over my history, to clean out any lies. Tonight, I went and told someone I’d lied to him and what the truth was.

If someone is in love with me, but I lie to that person about who I am, allow him to think something about me because I don’t fill in the blanks, he’s in love with a lie or a half-truth (one of the more devious forms of lies).

So, I told an ex-boyfriend tonight something I’d kept from him, so he’d know who he was with when he was with me.

There are some who say—even fine books that advise—not to tell, for instance, an unsuspecting spouse about affairs. I’ve always felt that sometimes my urge to tell the truth is to relieve myself of guilt rather than to do the right thing, so I really have to check my motives when I am honest. Am I purging because I want to be relieved of my guilt? Before I tell the truth, I need to think about my motives behind the confession for a little while.

There have been times in my life where I just open my mouths without thinking—I feel out the truth by saying whatever's in my mind out loud. But is what I am saying out loud a lasting truth, a real honest thing, one that will honor a relationship? If I tell someone, for example, “I never loved you,” is that something that could be backed up in a court of law? or is it me having a spell of doubt about my feelings for my partner, and wondering if I became involved on false pretenses. If I weather the storm, will it, like most of my thoughts, pass as a passing fancy?

If, when I told my partner I was grocery shopping, I was at the coffee shop enjoy the flirtations of a man who’d invited me to have coffee with him, and my partner continues to love me for who I am, does he even know who I am? Am I giving him a fair shake at living in reality?

I’m not going to live in secret any more from those who I've agreed a certain level of intimacy. And I’m going to do my best not to be a secret in someone else’s relationship, help fuel a bed of lies that acts like an intimate relationship.

Sometimes, when a child opens his or her mouth, he might say things that seem almost unkind. As adults, we hopefully have more facility with language and can maneuver the way we formulate our sentences, so that the truth can be a gift, not a dagger. If I tell you what I did that you didn’t know about me before, it is because I want to give you a chance to live in reality just a little more today, or to give you back your intuition. (What partner doesn’t, in some way, have a sense of when his or her loved one is being untrue?)

Living in fantasy or delusion is exhausting. The truth sets everyone free.

Friday, July 15, 2011


This used to sound stupid to me, but I’m a child of God.

I’m feeling lousy about myself today—I don’t know why. I feel lower than low.

Today, I’m desperate to feel that childlike spirit I felt continually so recently.

Today, I feel stunned into a late adulthood, one in which people aren’t trustworthy. The worst thing is, I’ve woken up to the fact that many of the people in my life were never trustworthy. However, I’m unwilling to let the trusting child within me die. I’m grabbing onto the small light of the little Dawn that will not dim, no matter what happens to me, no matter what storms I weather, walk into. The winds have blown heartily, and yet, there’s a piece of me that will always shine.

Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. –Matthew 18

Today, I sat by a small quick creek peopled with small children and a couple with fishing poles in their hands. I walked down to a place on the bank where all the people were out of sight and I watched the water run over stones, and I watched the trees. I just looked at the trees and noticed the pieces of creek I could see through the branches. I picked up a giant pine cone and I wondered where it came from. On the path to the creek, there were many very small pine cones, miniature ones, and I remembered when I was young—maybe ten years old—and I’d stand in the center of these three deodar cedar trees that somehow landed in our front lawn in Southern California, and I made up songs on the spot and I sang them—and they were lousy, trite and repetitive. But they made me happy, and I was singing for no one, I was singing for God. And I watched the rose-shaped cones from the cedar tree fall from the tree and I collected them. And I did this later when I was a grown up and lived in far West Texas, in a small town called Marfa. I collected rose pine cones and I lined my windowsills with them and I filled vases with them. And I displayed them in a kind of grand thanks—and this is how I enter heaven.

Today, I write these words, and I write myself out of this temporary hell, and I write myself into the light, and I write myself into heaven.

Thursday, July 14, 2011


Simplicity and repose are the qualities that measure the true value of any work of art.”--Frank Lloyd Wright

Whether it's each of my footfalls as I jog the path around the creek or the paddle hitting the water as I row a kayak, or the pace at which I set these words down on the page, I'm determined to switch off the frenzy of the last three years and live in the quiet--to rest in the spaces between words, in the sound of my breath when I exercise, or--like today--in the long stretch of a stolen day that I've taken off work after even a few days of exciting but tiring travel.

Over the last three years, I've been working hard, doing tons, trying to make up for lost time after some health battles that preceded this period. Now, it's time to find a balance, to never be in a hurry, to have time to enjoy the things I used to enjoy--simple pleasures, like curling up with a book, cooking a nice meal, taking a nap. I want to live slow as molasses, and just as dense, so that every action counts, every spoonful's filled with flavor, weight, and nutrients.

My friend Erik used to take me to an giant abandoned molasses storage tank, the lid or roof no longer on it, and the church-like cylindrical space seemed to collect sunlight along with small pieces of trash/treasures. As I stood within it, or took steps across it, lines of poetry collected carefully like beautiful, delicate spider webs in my mind, and when I returned home, I'd try to remember them and write them in notebooks, or type them on my old manual typewriter. The tank tended to collect curious objects such as dolls' heads, a white ceramic piece stamped with initials and a year, a crumpled up brown lunch sack, showing off its shadow patterns in the light.

There's so much that goes unnoticed when I'm racing around, trying to do so many things, trying to please so many people--and I miss the way my heart pops when I see a short fat dandelion giving itself to the day or when I find a marble in the gutter to add to my found marble collection.

I think if I can count my breaths and keep trying to remember to go back to that task, that I will never fall in love with my eyes closed again and I'll never end up in the black hole of what-just-happened-heartbreak like I did a few weeks ago. That may be wishful thinking--and, it is, of course, beside the point. The point being that I'm missing everything that really matters. And I've been moving so fast that no one can see me, or really get to know me over a long cup of afternoon tea and molasses cake.

"Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future." ~Thich Nat Hahn

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


"Sleep is the best meditation." --Dalai Lama

Saying yes to sleep, that deep peace. Goodnight.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Honesty & Daydreams

Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark. ~Rabindranath Tagore

I just woke up from a nap and am crawling to the keyboard, a bit empty of hope and inspiration, but, like putting one foot in front of another, I'm setting one word in front of another, with the thought it may dawn by the end of this writing. I'm acting as if. My whole self craves to curl up in a bed with the blankets pulled over my head, to turn off the phone--and when I have this desire, I'm never quite sure when it's right to honor it and when it's better to play against it.

There are times one must say yes to grief, even if one doesn't know exactly what's being grieved. We live in a culture that says, "get over it," and "put on a happy face." Certainly, I can do that. I can grin and bear it. I can be useful. I can take contrary action. I use these tools all the time, every day. However, another tool I use is honesty. Where do I honestly stand now?

After writing two paragraphs, I can honestly say the bird in my heart is waking up. I'm no longer sitting in the darkness waiting for the song. The song begins, and it's a quiet song, with a beautiful melody, a voice of water, of a glass pipe.

I'm as honest as I can be with myself and with a trusted confidant throughout the day. The problem is, I've spent most of my life trying to figure out how to be who someone else wants me to be, so many times, I don't even know when I'm hungry or what I prefer for dinner. So, last night, when my acting teacher said, "afford yourself the luxury of knowing what you like and don't like," I realized I had my work cut out for me. My favorite color is clearly green, a medium color green, like a blouse I tried on this morning, like the wall in the spare bedroom. I can't stand it when the bedsheets are buckled or the blankets are askew. I go crazy when they aren't just so. If I don't put something in my stomach every three hours, I become incredibly cranky. I used to love cherries more than anything else in the world--I was known for my devotion to them, and I used to wait anxiously for their brief appearance in late spring and early summer. Now, for whatever reason, my love of them has waned. I don't hate them, but I can take them or leave them.

We worked last night in acting on revealing ourselves in auditions, in narratives and emotionally. The guest teacher, Sarah Kliban, used some questions from Marcel Proust's questionnaire as icebreakers when we each stood up in front of her. Here's some of my answers to the questions she asked throughout the night as well as some answers to questions I thought to ask myself:

A perfect date to me is a picnic on a blanket in the grass and a barefoot dance to music we sing to each other.

The quality I hate most about myself is I believe everything people tell me--I cannot understand that sometimes people speak without meaning what they say.

If I could live anywhere in the world, it would be Paris, where I would be a street performer and a children's book author.

My favorite journey happens every time I watch the movie, "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." It's at the very end, when Wonka takes Charley and Grandpa Joe up in the Great Glass Elevator. It crashes through the glass roof and they look down at the small town identifying places. Then Wonka tells Charley he's giving him the factory. The movie ends with these beautiful lines,

"And Charly, don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he ever wanted."
"What happened?"
"He lived happily ever after."

So, I'm living by Paris, playing upright bass on the streets and singing "No regrets" in French, with the love of my life beside me on piano. And I'm 30 years old, a baby in my belly kicking.

And even though this never happened, and never will happen, as I'm just shy of 45, I'm delighted to be a writer and actor, and to be able to make my living as a professional daydreamer, the hobby I loved most as a child which allows me to live every life I ever wanted to live (and even many I didn't) without having to close the door on other possibilities.

Back to honesty--I like my quiet simple life in the Central Valley, the ridiculous heat of the summer, the small creeks that weave their way through the center of town, the sounds of my footfalls as I run along them on the paved trails each morning, the silly little health club I belong to, mostly for the sauna and jacuzzi, and fielding phone calls to those I serve as confidant too, who tell me their fears and resentments, unravel their truths in words over the phone or over coffee each day.

Daydreams aren't lies, they're just little films I write and watch to keep myself entertained. However, untangling them from my honest hopes takes a certain amount of patience and determination.