Blob

I jogged to the cemetery today, truly the perfect picture of an old and creepy one--headstones illegible with moss and erosion, broken and falling over--perfect except for the busy road that runs past it, the living whizzing by the long dead, and a lone lady standing sweaty, squinting, looking for the edge of the world.

A rainy day, with no reason not to finger paint. 

Keep thinking about how skin is always dying, we are always growing, wiggly little proteins are unfurling inside us, and it'll all probably work itself out.

I am trying: to focus, to be kind, to keep myself from picking at the horrible mutant zit to the left of my nose.

Today it rained, and I watched a loop of jellyfish footage my friend took at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, over and over.

Our baby has learned to hug, or sort of, intentionally lean, in an affectionate way, and we are over the moon.

Sometimes a good friend comes around and makes you feel at home and inspired, and then, monklike, you sweep the basement floor.

Does it count to write a sentence in my head? (No.)

Instead of getting ready for bed, I just watched a video I have seen at least thrice today, of my baby pretending to eat a kleenex and laughing at my exaggerated disgust.

I thought I would commit to writing one sentence here each day, and I am having the hardest time with it.

I am trying to write a simple sentence and I hate it--I want to hide behind my purpleness and meanderings and dependent clauses. 

Learning is hard.