Profess(or)ing my Love

Here’s how I feel about today.

I am positively glowing with inspiration after the performance workshop in class today. My professor manipulated my tense shoulders like a puppet master, working my nervous frame and putting the memory into my body of what it feels like to move organically to the music I can create with my hands. I closed my eyes as she moved my body to the rhythm–but after a moment it started to feel too intimate as we sat together closely at the front of the classroom sharing the piano bench. I opened my eyes and the ability to surrender to the bubbling pleasure of what was happening popped out of existence, like someone hitting a light switch. Something deep inside me is convinced my desire is in some way indecent, but that’s another blog post. Part of the trials of being bisexual in a world that doesn’t respect hyphenated identities (are you gay or are you straight? I’m gay-straight. I’m neither).

Performing for other musicians can feel so scary. All the judgements you have for yourself are projected onto the audience—you expect everyone to focus on your missed pitch, your rhythmic defect, the way your fingers tremble and trip. In reality, everyone is looking for the beauty in what each individual presents. What a lovely reminder that is to check my perspective. Herein lies my “permission” to judge myself and my creations less harshly, to look for the strengths and embolden them rather than lament the fact that I will never be perfect.

I always have a least small crushes on my teachers, if they are genuinely passionate about what they’re sharing with the class. It literally does not matter at all how they present themselves, their sex, their quirks—whatever makes them them and excited to be that way gets me excited; like, really excited. And here I am, in class again…fat crushes blooming into existence…

For me, it really boils down to the thrill of exploring an idea and having someone else lead me through their thought process. Seeing other perspectives (namely when the other party has an intimate relationship with their subject) literally turns me on. For some reason, I also tend to fantasize about older people. I don’t really know why. I want to see myself reflected through the eyes of someone wiser than me. I want to expand in the presence of a mentor. I want to build a bridge to the future while balancing on the shoulders of the past. I want to touch someone else’s reality like a leaf dropping into still water. And I want a lover who can conduct the orchestra of my lust with confidence. I think I would have done well in ancient Greece. 

I’ve been told before that I am very “responsive” to external stimulus. I think this is why it really doesn’t take anyone terribly specific to light my heart on fire—just an average-but-passionate human, perhaps past their prime or perhaps living in it. Does this make me a whore? In some translations, “whore” means “one who desires”. I pass through many fleeting desires, but do not give them life.

If it does make me a whore to harbor crushes, do I care? My grandfather once called me “easy” and, while I am still trying to figure out what that means, I also don’t give a flying fuck what that means. I carry that lust with me, because to me it is a lust for all the different ways of living on the planet. It is lust for life and growth and learning.

I don’t feel as though I’ve entered my sexual prime. According to the internet, this should happen for me sometime in my 28th year, coming up. (Time’s a-ticking!!) Strangely, it seems a lot of the work to get there involves relaxing into the body, finding pleasure in the mundane. As someone who’s been deemed hyper-responsive to my environment, this tends to be very hard for me to do. For a while I was practicing breath work and meditation; we’ll see how it all unfolds…

Alright, enough about teacher crushes. I have work to do. Hope everybody’s having a sexy, inspiring time out there! Don’t forget to tip your hat to the older warriors out there! Experience and mastery are way sexy.

Patron Saint Hekate?

liminal: (adj) 1) relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process, 2) occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

I drew a bath today when I got home from class. I lit two votive candles and sank into the steaming water, thinking of the goddess Hekate.

Fall is a liminal season—sloughing off the warm sheen of summer and dipping leafy toes into winter. It exists in between worlds, entering its transition in unique grace every year.

Imposter Syndrome, simply put, can be described as the overwhelming sense that one does not belong. It is like watching the world play out from under water. Ironically, this feeling of disconnect with others is born out of a disconnect with the self. It is to exist between the world and the ego, shapeless, anxious, directionless. It comes and goes in waves, a liquid paralysis emphasizing feelings of inadequacy and inferiority.

Consider, then, the goddess Hekate, sometimes called “the virgin goddess” in Greek mythology. Known as the goddess of crossroads, Hekate is associated with witchcraft, torches, a black dog, a black cat, entranceways, ghosts, necromancy, and herbal knowledge, to name a few. She exists on the periphery of the world of Greek gods and goddesses, quietly worshipped as a provider of prosperity and as a protective force.

 She is a liminal being: not quite Olympus-worthy, but respected and revered by humans. Exploring the relationship between life and death, magic and the mundane, she is literally the goddess of thresholds.

Do gods ever feel out of place? It seems Hekate made a home out of that feeling, created magic in that darkness, torches blazing as she forged a new path. I think this is why she is so beloved and continues to have a following today.

Tomorrow, I will enter the fall day and observe the world at the threshold of winter. I will smell the crisp air as leaves ruffle my feet and feel the thin blanket of autumn sun on my shoulders as I drift to class.

The truth is, we are all—every organism, at any given moment—on the threshold of something, or at least have the potential to be. Every moment is a doorway, apt for whatever turn we feel compelled (or are fated) to make. Sometimes this knowledge overwhelms me, sometimes it inspires. This all depends on where I am in the ocean of myself in that precise instant.

At a low moment in my life, I left little offerings to Hekate, praying to the goddess to guide me. It is my belief that she showered me in gifts and brought me to many mentors on this path I tread. The point is, she is a goddess I can relate to, whose miracles I can see around me. Zeus’ power feels very foreign to me in its centrality.

If you have the inclination, I recommend starting your own altar. And consider Hekate, goddess of all liminal beings, bearer of light in the dark.

Word Power

“For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action.” -Audre Lorde, (1985)

I went to a poetry reading tonight based on this single quote from Audre Lorde. I knew the faculty at my school were talented and creative and supportive and highly educated individuals, but I was stunned by how some of the poems literally knocked me back in my chair or elicited an insuppressible “Fuck!” from my lips despite the hand I was using to prop up my mouth.

Words are such a playground. I revel in their juicy elasticity and yet, it often takes hearing someone else read their work aloud to be reminded of how powerful words are. Tonight was full of social commentary, observations of beauty, reminders of what it means to be queer, Latinx, Native American, disabled, immigrants, Jewish, American, lucky and unlucky. Words brought me to the precipice of desire and simultaneously nailed me to the wall. Words dusted off a part of me which had gone to sleep and roused me to action. Words balmed all over my brain and healed me in places I forgot to acknowledge. Primarily, words humbled me tonight.

Something we’ve been talking about in class lately—leaving “breath” in your artwork (Impressionism painting, Symbolist poetry, the space “between notes” in music) for the observer to develop their own relationship with the truth presented by the artist: that in the merging of the two realities, you must build a bridge to reach someone.

As an artistic person, I am constantly wrestling with egocentricity. (How can I write what I know and avoid being self-obsessed?) Sometimes, it can be so simple as taking a vulnerable breath before jumping into a song to allow the audience to breathe with you. Other times, it’s not so simple. And still other times, there’s a sacred magic in a particular song or poem or painting, that magic we are always striving to channel, which transcends anything else you are humanly able to do—that no matter of introduction or context or backstory will effect, and will stand the test of time (I cite Mozart, for one of many possible examples).

More likely, though, we will die in relative anonymity, known and remembered only by those we connected with and loved well. One of the readers tonight knocked my socks clean off with her work, and has only gotten one poem published in a magazine not known for its poetry. 

Why, as a society, do we value the things we value? Why do we live in a world were Justin Bieber is given an enormous platform when there are incredibly talented (and kind, and nurturing, and humble, etc) humans among us? I guess it just goes back to the imperative that we must assume everyone we meet holds the divine, and could be a god in disguise…

I need to get up early and so will have to wrap this up. Hopefully tomorrow I will blog earlier in the day and have more content to share. Until then, read a poem, learn a word, make a list—however you interact with words, do it and enjoy it! We really are lucky to have the unimaginably powerful tool of language at our disposal. Sweet dreams, world.

Flirting with Raison D’Être

Wow, today really got away from me.

From the moment my alarm went off, it’s been a barrage of music, metaphorical thinking, running errands, arguing with the insurance company, doing homework, and brainstorming ways to make the community safer and more just.

I don’t have a lot of “juice” left for the blog tonight. This is what sweatpants and doggie snuggles are for.

I will say that I am working on a project I’m quite excited about, aimed at supporting victims of sexual assault and helping them to approach “closure,” whatever the fuck that might mean. I am still working on how to make these goals measurable and quantifiable. (One won’t get far in the business world without numbers.) It’s crazy to think that, if you have an idea and tenacity, you can pursue social change by filling out a few forms and creating either a board of directors or a membership program. I am eternally appreciative of my professor and his gentle guidance into the world of non-profit organizations, and what this means holistically in the capitalist landscape.

Most people want to make the world a better place—we just have different means of getting there. For so long, I saw capitalism as the root of many evils, and here I am, learning business vernacular and reaching for those legally ambiguous words one can hang their moral objectives on. We live in a world of hypocrisy and perceived duality, alright? Like Walt Whitman said, “I am large, I contain multitudes.” Some of these multitudes happen to cause me significant cognitive dissonance. C’est la vie.

Truth is, I’m still looking for my raison d’être, while I’m in French Mode. It’s possible—and I’d go so far as to say probable, given my track record—that the places where I find the most meaning and growth are the places I initially resist entering upon principle. I wrote off my current college as being a “stoner school” and, after years of philandering at other educational institutions, I find myself currently soaking up its unique educational model and adoring my professors. 

Anyway, perhaps as things develop (considerably further down the road) I will post more on the matter. For now, I hope everyone reading this as at least flirting with their raison d’être, circling around truth and love and the pursuit of goodness and glowing that feeling outwards like a Fibonacci spiral. I hope you can feel my excitement. Goodnight, world!

Ode to Shamhat

Debussy twinkles through my ear

Preserved like champagne

like the epic of birds courting each other

like sunlight sifting through virga

descending soft and true and timeless 

upon whatever dares grow upon this shifting planet

I haven’t read much poetry lately

But have made efforts to listen to opera

In my mind this is a fair trade

Like Wagner will lift me and nail me

Crucify and resurrect me

Like a good poem

will do

God grant me the strength of Ishtar,

The “fear me” sexuality of a goddess who is twins only

With Death.

I have no great fame

No stone walls, statues, or shrines dedicated

to the hearts of men I have claimed

No, I am not carved in clay and stolen

From my homeland during war,

Only to be recovered, broken into fourteen immaculate pieces

In the trunk of some thief’s car.

Please don’t put me in a museum.

Bear me away in a casket of lapis lazuli

Float me downriver on a bed of woven reeds, adorned

in golden jewelry, naked but for the skin of a lion

(just one of my previous brushes with death)

Rub oils into my hair and whisper words into my ear

Until a maggot crawls out of my nose:

Then you will know that I am dead.

When I am dead, let there be poetry

And Debussy, and Wagner

And most of all, let them eat cake

To remember a time when the animal in man could be abandoned 

Only at the loins of a woman

A harlot, voluptuous virgin

Who knows what she is, and takes it

Who knows how the world moves, and spins it

Who knows her place, and tastes it

Let me know a time like that

Even if only

In death.

Halloween Tradition

Today, the boyfriend and I went to a Halloween themed store, to buy a decoration for my dad. 

This is his favorite holiday, and he loves fussing around the house, puttering over projects like making a lightbulb flicker, and arranging plastic skeletons just so. 

Every year we carve pumpkins, there inevitably comes the joke of the pumpkin “puking its guts out” as my dad takes on his gourd like Michaelangelo romancing his marble. Mom always makes homemade chili with soaked beans, not beans out of a can, and stovetop-warmed fresh-pressed apple cider with whole cinnamon sticks. 

Though we only ever get six or seven trick-or-treaters in my parents’ little neighborhood, my family truly pulls out all the stops and decorates the driveway to the porch with a collection of oddities we’ve been gathering for years. The newest edition to the ensemble is a remote-controlled fog machine, courtesy of my boyfriend (who really scored some points with my dad for this contribution). 

My sister and I hung purple twinkle lights and smeared fake spiderwebs everywhere, debating over the best placement of the three-inch, hairy spiders purchased today at the store. 

When mom got home from yoga, it was time for the annual feast. No pumpkin carving tonight, as it’s not quite close enough to Halloween proper and we are experienced enough in the autumnal festivities to know that carved pumpkins rot in a hurry in the Pacific Northwest. 

After chili, salad, tri tip beef, pasta salad, and fresh fruit came the challah-cognac bread pudding I made this afternoon with French vanilla ice cream. It was glorious, and made me think about how important traditions are in a family.

I wouldn’t by any means consider myself hyper-traditional. In a lot of ways, I have striven to break the mold painstakingly crafted and handed down through the generations. If I think about my last name long enough, I tend to get weepy—decades of my kin working their way up the social stratosphere, coming from countries running low on hope and opportunity and seeking a better life in the United States; these were people who worked until their fingers bled so that I could sit around a table with my family, enjoying a bountiful meal garnished with seasonal kitsch from China.

Celebrating Halloween with plastics and one-time costumes might be horrendously detrimental to the environment, but I consciously allowed myself to soak up the time with my family without framing myself as single-handedly bringing the world to an end. We can always be better towards the earth, but sometimes you just need a fog machine. 

Ironically, I’ve been thinking of dressing as Greta Thunberg for Halloween. I don’t have her iconic yellow raincoat, but I figure I can find a replica of her hot pink top from addressing the U.N. and wear my hair in plaits.

Maybe the point is, in this confusing age we’ve entered, to create traditions which honor the old ways, but welcome the new. I guess that’s kind of the point.

Thank you, family, for bringing forward what you’ve brought forward for me to experience. Let me see what I can do with it from here.

Belief in Dog

It is quiet in this apartment but for the fridge buzzing in the kitchen and the little dog, gently snoozing next to me.

I am dogsitting for a few days while Pippin’s owners are on a mountain biking trip. We went for a short run together this morning (my first run in nearly five months, truly a testament to the power of Dog) which I never would have done if Pip didn’t need the exercise to clear his genetically-wired-to-herd-things-all-day brain. The fall air was crisp and clear and my lungs burned like all hell, but I spent most of our time together looking up—at leaves changing, at the wispy clouds in the mostly-clear blue sky, at the debris caught in the gutters of the houses we ran by…these things I never would’ve noticed if I weren’t trying so hard to distract myself from the physical torment.

I don’t love running, but I forget how good it feels to be done. At various points in my life, I’ve been in shape enough that I’m grouchy if I don’t get my run in for the day, or have actually managed to get into a rhythm and find the somewhat pleasant homeostasis in running longish distances (that is, between 5-10 miles). I ran my first ever half marathon this year before succumbing, again, to the lure of nicotine. I’ve been struggling with this for nearly four years since I dated a dirtbag who liked to smoke and was grabbed by the seemingly seductive hand-rolled cigarette. (Let me clarify, he was not a dirtbag because he smoked. He was a dirtbag because he was a dirtbag.)

Needless to say, this has made jumping back into physical fitness relatively daunting—but after my run, the thought of nicotine was borderline repulsive to me. It was just out of the question. I wanted a smoothie and kale, to keep the good thing going. I think I need a dog like Pippin in my life.

Every now and then I muse on those bumperstickers advocating for rescuing animals from animal shelters, asking “Who saved who?” And that really is the crux of it. Pip can be very anxious and neurotic, but I find myself in total compassion for his state. He is a rescue, and lord only knows what he went through before landing in the capable and loving hands of his current owners. I find myself asking why I can treat his neuroses with such gentleness and determination, while my own special blend of mental strife is a constant source of angst and misdirection. If it exists in me to treat this little creature with guidance and love confronting his demons, why can’t I face my own with tenderness and resolve? He doesn’t know it, but this little dude inspires the hell out of me. Plus he’s cute as all get out.

When I lived in Portland, whenever I had a bad day, I would go to the humane society just to look at all the dogs. It was a good perspective shift, a reminder of how lucky I truly am in circumstance by birth, and that good energy and instant unconditional love do exist in the universe. It was always very hard to leave without a friend, but what can I say, I’m a believer in planned parenthood. When it’s not the time, it’s not the time.

But I am approaching a stage in my life where I’m ending my time as a student and preparing to enter the workforce. Like, getting a “real job” with a “real boyfriend” and looking for a “real house”. The time of Dog is nigh. And while I adore my boyfriend’s golden retriever, I think I am best suited to some strange rescue, maybe one who’s afraid of certain sounds or textures or people or dogs, who needs a strict schedule, exercise, and a safe place to hide when stressed out. These are essentially qualities we would share. And if I can provide an ounce of understanding and hold space for an animal’s recovery, maybe I can recover myself.

I’m not sure when it all started (if I had to guess, it would be in January of 2014) but I have been quite lost for some time now—not knowing what I want to study, what I want in a relationship, how to draw boundaries with loved ones, what social circle I want to exist in, what I truly enjoy versus what I wish I enjoyed, what career I may want to someday have, and most of all, how to love myself. Recently, this has manifested as an obsession with connection with others and demonstrating love for everyone I come into contact with. It’s almost like I’m trying to prove to myself that, if I can create relationship where none was before, I can discover how to love Me with full commitment. I’m not sure how or if that makes sense at all, but it seems on some level to be true.

As this little dog snores next to me, I am watching his lips move with breath and his paws twitch in dreamland, and am simply amazed at his power—without even trying—to get me to encounter myself, in whatever messy form I may be in.

I haven’t picked my presidential candidate for 2020 and I don’t know where I’ll end up working someday, but I do know that tomorrow, Pip and I are going for a run in the park. We’ll snuggle as I do homework, chase the green ball, and play Find The Cheese. And maybe, for now, all those big questions don’t matter. Maybe, for now, it is just about going outside on a nice fall day and enjoying the feeling of running for the sake of running.

“I Am a Killer”

After binge watching a show on murderers with the boyfriend (and the dog), I find myself a little more paranoid walking around at night alone. I can’t help but think that by investing my time taking in morbid material and thinking morbid thoughts, I will somehow attract that energy to me. Almost every case the Netflix series investigates on death row inmates involves drugs, and drug-related crimes somehow spinning out of control. It really does seem that you are who you surround yourself with; that being said, of course we go through chapters in life, change, and grow out of old relationships and habits. It’s hard not to feel for some of these inmates, crazy as that might sound. Getting involved in drugs when you’re twelve, growing into a life of petty crime, and getting sentenced with the death penalty when you’re 17 for killing someone out of cowardice and desperation is just a sad story all around.

That being said, murder is considered the worst of human crimes. (Do I hear a case for torture—psychological or physical—or rape? I could be convinced those are just as bad, in some scenarios. Though it is pretty hard to trump death.) This heinous deed obviously needs to incur repercussions. Those who are guilty need to be charged and held accountable. But is anyone truly evil? Is rehabilitation a possibility?

These are questions put to the jury in any such court case. The jury’s main duty is to determine if the suspect/defendant is a continued threat to society. 

If, at 17, your track record for crime is not so great, I can understand why someone might think you’re up to no good. That being said, did anyone really have it together at age 17? I mean, some of us chose to rebel in slightly more tempered ways than breaking into homes and snorting coke, but still. There’s so much life left to be lived after those horrible teenage years…but maybe I’m just a sunshiney optimist that has a hard time believe anyone is truly “evil”. 

And I understand the concept that, once you rob someone else of their life, it’s ridiculous to expect you might still get a chance at one. But some of the most powerful role models I know are folks who have turned their lives around, pulled themselves out of the proverbial gutter and focused in on love. As one of the inmates from the show pointed out, and I’m paraphrasing, not even taking his own life can undo the life he took, can give that family their loved one back. But can you imagine the humility and potential for social good someone might have if, even if only on parole, they were allowed to mentor at risk youth? What if we gave inmates some fraction of meaning, and an opportunity to contribute?

I’m just dreaming. I know I’m only dreaming. But I truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and I also believe that we are all products of our relationships. Some people are born into dire situations—like the inmate who was born with a drug addict father and a prostitute mother. We do what we know, because it is familiar. Imagining life outside the confines of our perceived reality takes a lot of imagination, and courage, and tenacity. Sometimes it is hard not to look at life as fixed or fated, that we might be able to rise above or move out of the circumstances we were born into. And what it really comes down to is our ability to make friends with the right people. That and recognizing the potential divine in everyone we meet. That goes for people up and down the socioeconomic, racial, gender, or ability spectrum, and all the other measures of human “difference” I have left out.

So this inmate, who has an I.Q. of approximately 69 (legally considered mentally retarded at the time of his trial)—is he really a villain? Is he really incompetent? Or was he born into a world in circumstances which did not recognize or build on his strengths? Is he capable of remorse? Of rehabilitation? Can he be repurposed, salvaged, dusted off and welcomed into love?

What I like most about this show, called “I am a Killer,” is that it forces you to look at the inmate as a person with a backstory. We might not get the full truth, or receive only fractions of the truth from different perspectives which might throw off any neat conclusions we might possibly gather—and let’s face it, as humans, we like having boxes and categories to put people in. I’m just suggesting, that maybe, just maybe, Truth is as multifaceted as there are brains on the planet. 

Murder is wrong. That is true. But what’s also true is we’re all just profoundly, embarrassingly, beautifully human and trying to do the best we can. Everyone has a language unique to their circumstance. It’s a miracle we ever come to an understanding about anything, if you ask me. Even if you don’t ask me, I’m going to think human dialogue is a fucking miracle until the day I die. Probably. Or maybe that’s just this chapter.


It’s raining. 

I sit in bed, candles burning, heating pad turned on, thinking about Oliver Sacks and distortions in the brain. 

It took me until approximately 5:30 pm to feel awake today. I wonder where this lethargy is coming from—do I need iron supplements? Am I anemic? Have I somehow acquired mono? I sleep 6-10 hours a night, generally. Am I not eating right? I try to eat a variety of fruits and veggies and local meats. What the heck gives?

I tried swapping my 20 ounces of black coffee for 16 ounces of black tea today. Needless to say, this did not really work for me.

So I guess I’ll go back to sipping my light roast coffee, my cold brew, my multiple cups a day. I’ve only been a student for three days, so it looks like I’m not going to be lowering my coffee tolerance any time soon.

Today in class, we read the first book of The Odyssey out loud. I was surprised by how accessible it is as a work. I was anticipating Shakespearean convolution, more rhyme, more…Beowolf-ian lineage. Some of the language was downright modern, and most characters refer to the others by addressing them as “father” or “mother”, which made keeping track of everyone’s relationship fairly straightforward. 

My teacher told me something about the text which arrested me—she said to pay attention to “the space” in the writing, what Homer leaves out and what that means. I was captivated with this idea, which we tied together to the space (rests, sustained notes, etc) in music. It gives the work breath, and gives the listener access to deeper potential than simply a timeline of events. Imagining The Odyssey being sung by a bard seems nothing short of a small miracle. A tale so long, so epic, so nuanced…almost makes me wish I’d been around in ancient Greece. 

Besides that, I think the Greeks were really on to something with how they viewed divinity. Personifying their gods and goddesses with human qualities creates a more neighborly relationship with the divine. Knowing a god could show up on your doorstep in disguise would mean one really should treat everyone as if they harbor divinity. I see you, ancient Greece. Not a bad modus operandi.

We are entering fall—the season when the proverbial veil between light and dark, life and death, growth and withdrawal is at its thinnest. Last year around this time, I was leaving offerings to the goddess Hecate (or Hekate, depending on where you look) and praying to the goddess of crossroads. This year, I will be looking for a goddess with a closer proximity to Olympus. I hope to channel my inner Athena going into winter—lord knows weathering the dull grey December in the Pacific Northwest requires at least a little nudge from the divine.

So for tonight, I will read about entrepeneurs and so-called “change makers” who took a look around their community and strove to implement change. This is a Homerian journey in and of itself, right? Wanting to come back home to beloved Ithica amidst the throes of an angry ocean (the hero’s trials). So maybe these classes aren’t as terribly different as I previously believed. 

More thoughts on the hero’s journey to come…

Hurrian Hymns and Murder Flicks

After nearly five hours of homework, I don’t have a lot of mental stamina for a blog post tonight.

I spent the day going to class, grocery shopping, grocery organizing and unpacking, completing my assignments, and listening to Hurrian Hymn No. 6, written in 1400 B.C and dedicated to the goddess of fertility and bounty named Nikkal. 

Now I am zoning out with the boyfriend and the dog after wolfing down some leftover phò, watching a Netflix series on death row inmates. I’m an odd duck with odd pastimes, what can I say.

Serial killers have always fascinated me. I remember researching murderers at a friend’s house for a full day and being too scared to walk to the end of their driveway to my car in the dark. Many of the United States’ serial killers seem to operate in Washington. Rumor has it this is because bodies decompose so much faster in our temperate rainforest environment, making nefarious acts easier to conceal. I have oft been wandering about in the woods, seen an odd bundle of trash, and immediately assumed I was about to uncover a body. I am beyond thrilled to report this has never actually been the case.

I am falling asleep, but will write more tomorrow. I hope everyone is safe and warm and not thinking too hard about murder. 😀