tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35493719591439096982024-03-21T05:45:03.954-07:00Experimental OptimistAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-53361176738544915902016-07-07T22:27:00.002-07:002017-07-30T07:03:18.233-07:00Flower Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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When the kids started to lose their shit this afternoon I shooed them outside to forage for flowers, then told them to fashion something museum-worthy out of their findings. I love watching them concentrate on art. It makes me feel like it's important to them, which has got to be a good indication of something to come in teenagedom and adulthood.<br />
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The baby (in black and white to disguise his stained bib and the blueberries smeared around his mouth from breakfast), always wanting to be part of the action.</div>
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My son's creation <3<br />
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My daughter's creation <3<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-71016009417798057692016-07-07T22:03:00.000-07:002017-07-30T07:02:56.591-07:00Blanco, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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The first stop on our Texas Hill Country itinerary.<br />
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Two of my kids at the old courthouse</div>
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Climbing the rickety stairs</div>
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Iconic artwork in the old courthouse: "There Once Was A Cowboy"</div>
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Someone else who maybe once was a cowboy standing in a totally Texas throwback setting underneath a nest full of baby birds (see it?) We even saw the mama go back and forth a couple times to give them food. It nearly made me cry and think of all the times when I've gotten frustrated when one of my own kids tells me they're hungry or thirsty (thirty minutes after they've already eaten - or refused to eat - and two seconds after they've spilt their milk/juice/water)… Why does fulfilling my children's basic needs feel so annoying sometimes? It's because I'm not as good of a mother as this bird. She was so sweet to them and it made me feel like such a bitch. </div>
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The surprisingly amazing hodgepodge boutique that the awesome bird-mom built her babies' nest outside of. She's even fucking cooler than me. I mean, look back up at the precarious place she made their home. It's like how I want a tiny home out in the desert mountains, but still want it to be near shopping places and the town center and everything. It'll never happen for me, probably, but this bird-mama made it happen for herself and her kids. Like a boss. </div>
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From the town brewery.</div>
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My daughter at the Old 300 bbq joint<br />
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The delightful "signed" One Direction poster inexplicably hanging in the bbq restaurant's bathroom, betwixt the denim fabric stall dividers, cowhide curtains, and lavender paraphernalia (homage to the nearby lavender farm which we will have to hit next time).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsFamYi_iKclKUNYtkYdyecvWj6qpRQaLieKih6AW9mrbkyUNRQWcaA9pF2-XPi4r-kjpghk2T6r9j_9nSP2xsGc2cZoR0NsLScMpNwriciTyi4txPLS5N80EWWH-rqdFma8yHj2BPJDp/s1600/blogger-image--988795287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;">Not pictured: the multi-level (slippery) swimming hole, with walls of little raging waterfalls, on the Blanco River that we spent all afternoon in on the Fourth of July. (Also not pictured is me shaking the computer screen because I can't get the gap at the beginning of this post to close no matter what.)</span></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-14083364533637014532016-07-01T22:59:00.006-07:002016-07-01T23:04:29.437-07:00Marfa (with kids!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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We took the trip over Mother's Day weekend, and I was afraid it would disappoint. Not the being with my family part, of course. The "famous tiny art town in the Texas desert" part. </div>
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But it did not.</div>
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It was actually way better than I expected. So good that I'm writing a book about it. A children's book. Yeah. I've got an illustrator lined up and everything. And I wrote it on the drive back to San Antonio. That's why it took me so long to do this post. I wasn't sure I had anything to say about the place that I wasn't already saying in some form or another in the book. But I couldn't resist having some Marfa pictures to scroll through on here. So I'll keep you posted on the children's book project. Until then, here are a bunch of pictures.</div>
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My spirit landscape. Iconic desertry.</div>
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My daughter searching for the entrance to the Ballroom Marfa museum. She was determined to prove to me that it really would be a real, elegant dance hall inside.<br />
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My son inside Ballroom Marfa</div>
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Pic my oldest son took at of the work at Marfa Contemporary</div>
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Another pic by my oldest son at Marfa Contemporary</div>
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Ah, the Marfa lights. The whole family sat under the stars in our truck bed out at the viewing area and watched the jumping dots, speculating with other onlookers as to what could be causing them; then we sat some more at my son's request to see if any spaceships would fly by.</div>
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At Donald Judd's famous cement cube structures out at the Chinati Foundation. Son's not impressed. And I literally only just now noticed my husband creeping behind the block.</div>
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More cube boredom. "Ugh. Why can't I dance in them, Mom?"<br />
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Dirty, filthy Prada Marfa</div>
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They remove all the vandalism but none of the spiderwebs and dead bugs</div>
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Breastfeeding my son at the art installation that had been on the top of my "to see" list for nearly ten years.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-24842825436086218642016-06-11T11:34:00.000-07:002017-07-30T07:16:07.221-07:00<div>
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It used to be safe to say you wouldn't get shot if you hadn't pissed someone off, or if you made sure not to roll with the wrong crowd. <br />
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I suffer pretty badly from paranoia. Have ever since I was a child. I went to school with gang members; some of them even used to tell me hi. My grandma's neighbor's house used to get shot at while my cousins and I were sleeping over. The people who lived there used to tell us hi too. But since I wasn't affiliated with any gangs, and I wasn't involved with drugs (which I assume the neighbor was), my mom always told me I'd be fine. <br />
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But I can't really reassure my own kids the same way in this day and age.<br />
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I will be at the DMV and one of the universities tomorrow requesting transcripts with my six year old, two and a half year old, and eight month old, and I can't be certain that some dumb fuck who can't figure out life isn't going to come in and start shooting the places up simply because he's frustrated about something. <br />
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That's a real fucking problem. This shouldn't be our reality.<br />
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Needless to say, I know. <br />
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Never mind the gun control. Although that shit needs to advance. But, anyway, what ever happened to just punching a fucker in the face? If your boss is being a meanie, if he/she fired you, even if he/she is fucking your wife, what ever happened to marching into the person's office like a bad ass and just punching him or her in the face? <br />
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Go on a mass punching spree for all anyone cares.<br />
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I would love to be punched in the face rather than shot and killed. I won't even get into the heaviness of how badly I'd love for my children not to be shot and killed... And I guarantee you, all you sad bored sociopaths out there, that punching someone will still get your point across. Killing tons of people instead is worse than dumb at this point.<br />
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It's pretty basic.<br />
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You're a basic bitch now. And isn't that what you were trying to avoid by shooting that place up to begin with?</div>
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*Editor's note. 6/12/16. Woke up to news of the worst mass shooting in American history today. I originally wrote this post in November, after the mass shooting in San Bernardino (I think; who can keep track? Smh). I noticed yesterday when starting another post that this one had somehow ended up in a "draft" queue. It had somehow become un-published. Weird. So I pressed publish and that turned it into the newest post on my blog. I was annoyed because it wasn't relevant at the time - I had been trying to write a post about my book and sexual assault on the heels of this Brock Turner bullshit. But I sarcastically said to myself, "Leave it on top. There will probably be another mass shooting tomorrow anyway." And there fucking has been.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-74514437514214721922016-05-27T09:55:00.001-07:002016-05-27T21:17:44.552-07:00HeadSo I've finally published the novel I've been writing on and off for the past ten years. It will go live on Amazon in about an hour and be available on Kindle. I'll have the paperback version out later this summer. I feel just a very solemn, tepid sense of relief about this, not any downright excitement yet, which I guess makes sense when something you've essentially been holding inside for so long is suddenly out in the world in front of everyone's judgement-eager eyes.<br />
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Will readers see the deeper message of the work? About how real the problem of child sexual abuse is? Or will they be too fixated on and horrified at the fact that Michael is a rapist and Claire throws kitchen knives at her wannabe suitors to think past any of that, to think: they weren't born like this; babies don't aspire to be this way; where could someone have stepped in to veer Claire and Michael away from perpetuating the abusive behaviors they endured as children - and, as a society, as parents, teachers, school counselors, police, journalists, writers, could we cut down on the tragically high number of sexual abuse incidents by investing more time and resources into the "trouble-maker" kids, instead of writing them off, sending them to special schools where all the other kids we've given up on go?<br />
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What if it were mandatory for children of abuse to be given free mental health services until they're, like, 25? Or for the rest of their lives? That would probably be a deterrent to them committing abuse themselves. Because we all know who abusers are, right? They are people who were abused as kids and weren't helped through it. Most abusers don't even know why they're doing it, or why they feel like doing it. Therapy will uncover why. And if the potential abusers know why, maybe it will appall them, and change something in their brain. What if there were some sort of audacious campaign, with billboards and stuff, even, that advertised: Feeling like touching a child? Call us instead! Just throwing that out there. Sure, it would need to be more eloquently worded, not quite so off-putting. But, you guys, half or more of all the children in America are sexually abused. When we consider all other types of child abuse - physical, verbal, emotional - the number rises even higher. That's fucking <i>ridiculous</i>. Are we a civilized, first world country? Because it feels like we're a country of fucking barbarians, actually. Why, why, why have we not come up with an at least half-way decent solution to making this go away? Of course, it's because we're a society that blames victims and doesn't want to falsely accuse our neighbor even if we sense he's looking at the little kid across the street kind of inappropriately.<br />
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Here's another idea, going back to the "what ifs" of solving this problem: What if, say, those mental health services an abused kid received throughout his or her childhood made them comfortable enough that when they're, say, a 21-year-old college student (still struggling from the trauma, as is the nature of these things), they can go into the campus counselor's office and admit, "I had thoughts of raping this girl at a party last night." Or, "When I'm student-teaching at the elementary school, I find myself wondering what it would be like to touch one of them. Can you help me sort through this?" And then the counselor just DOES. And of course removes the student from his or her elementary school duties. But there has to be somewhere would-be abusers can go before they offend. Once they offend, it's off with their heads. But, like I said, they aren't born wanting to be abusers, or abused. We, as a society, need to beat them to the punch. And, yes, it is a societal problem, even if it began in the privacy of a child's own home. Because the behaviors spillover on to us. It puts our kids in danger, costs us money, and negatively effects our quality of life.<br />
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So keep this in mind as you read my book, if you do. But even if you don't, keep this in mind anyway, then go out and call the cops for that child you know who coils at their father's touch.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-29478571209307042312016-04-16T18:04:00.001-07:002016-04-16T18:04:33.029-07:00Mixed Media: chalk, rainwater, & concrete<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJ937Ojdk4Fs-5BRWy1Ys2JENJORIivKwO0QjH-Tf-QeRf-vIJngC3WoJL6fbqgvGyFP8k3N_7FqJcLqxILe_xhyphenhyphenNUdN6lDLOAcMTBD63hnG6NQeEHB2h-iWVDFadtMKiyD4oVY9ZDIxt/s640/blogger-image--234239235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJ937Ojdk4Fs-5BRWy1Ys2JENJORIivKwO0QjH-Tf-QeRf-vIJngC3WoJL6fbqgvGyFP8k3N_7FqJcLqxILe_xhyphenhyphenNUdN6lDLOAcMTBD63hnG6NQeEHB2h-iWVDFadtMKiyD4oVY9ZDIxt/s640/blogger-image--234239235.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9smZ-GYKAhqzoMQTU1B2bh7BL1AeqjnzzNNWCyxEFcF6UxxJUKYW4OCwcYJbwcoIevlsZ-KeGUzw4N8nMBUkjKF_cLTBDG1BHxvkK6p3xKCZKCERukIONg3vfFv2YPOeRjqyZ4enFUKoS/s640/blogger-image--1605137384.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9smZ-GYKAhqzoMQTU1B2bh7BL1AeqjnzzNNWCyxEFcF6UxxJUKYW4OCwcYJbwcoIevlsZ-KeGUzw4N8nMBUkjKF_cLTBDG1BHxvkK6p3xKCZKCERukIONg3vfFv2YPOeRjqyZ4enFUKoS/s640/blogger-image--1605137384.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCOb1aCsGyQHMPTmN4i3CmZSPTpHgNvvvi2gTuuCunpIq2PY5WkIPs4uT5_WVVCn5hWgQKsuxYrcJS8bPxmLqccyhvr__i16itEMfdouii9V20H1mqom_sR-q1tVLXnBiHa78vNmLW4Jq/s640/blogger-image--1471919406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCOb1aCsGyQHMPTmN4i3CmZSPTpHgNvvvi2gTuuCunpIq2PY5WkIPs4uT5_WVVCn5hWgQKsuxYrcJS8bPxmLqccyhvr__i16itEMfdouii9V20H1mqom_sR-q1tVLXnBiHa78vNmLW4Jq/s640/blogger-image--1471919406.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvBNSuHXvZP88oK_HOYnDhiXZ2unTjRRwwasCA-yWV-V_S2-Dt4vMdIPz_NMK_vGGivAM2BxmsHTsja2iWq0fzTsqmFj4zFkKYeMedqBjK_gf3tL8Vs37gApiz8jnTBAlfwmqLYpFJzMG/s640/blogger-image-1265224175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvBNSuHXvZP88oK_HOYnDhiXZ2unTjRRwwasCA-yWV-V_S2-Dt4vMdIPz_NMK_vGGivAM2BxmsHTsja2iWq0fzTsqmFj4zFkKYeMedqBjK_gf3tL8Vs37gApiz8jnTBAlfwmqLYpFJzMG/s640/blogger-image-1265224175.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-87440358873402165472015-12-29T19:40:00.001-08:002015-12-29T19:41:39.125-08:00The calm before the storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrv4cyqF3PK0y4kg7PJp6YGGLyvRPmo559HW6f1ib6I09527lHMXrRiJuHT79HnylL-rNqldcLdV3QslgV1TsC40Mi0gZX_y8EjhZlslzRtC2HfIrtCOxxhlFGfucy_27Y_pa0RHLAypV/s640/blogger-image-1161910290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrv4cyqF3PK0y4kg7PJp6YGGLyvRPmo559HW6f1ib6I09527lHMXrRiJuHT79HnylL-rNqldcLdV3QslgV1TsC40Mi0gZX_y8EjhZlslzRtC2HfIrtCOxxhlFGfucy_27Y_pa0RHLAypV/s640/blogger-image-1161910290.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Serene storytime and a snack with my littlest love about 24 hours from the time we'll be starting the transition into our new home in San Antonio. If you've been following along, my family of five and our dog have been living in an Airbnb 1 bedroom studio apartment for the past 2 months. It was cute for a bit. I've always thought the whole tiny living trend was intriguing. And while we DID survive without 8500 pounds of our belongings (the moving company weighs it), we didn't exactly THRIVE. I'd love this place if I were living alone (and the bathroom construction wasn't so shoddy, and if it were in the arts district), as a mother of 3, I'm completely over it. I have once again failed at being a minimalist - which sucks also because becoming more minimalistic was going to be one of my New Year's resolutions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Anyway, now on to the next phase of moving life, the "storm" I refer to in the title: the painting, the minor renovations, the setting up of routines, settling in, making the place feel like it's really ours... Then dance classes and yoga sessions can resume. I'll start my MFA. I'll start freelancing again. I'll publish my novel. And everything will feel right in the world again.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-61818738912263136762015-11-24T15:14:00.001-08:002015-11-25T07:07:49.690-08:00Oddities at my abuelita's house<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXE2j2uavfyDasYwqHjB_XLW9QAdTcvkhGnImCALxdnlySKpnBWAcdwNC8hbpAN94YhfV6Q9pO7438JF4QJI5ktW-f8il7wankd2KY1f6Zs-3ZzRebXv2AbXrNv5NW80_dJ9IPnjTBET5/s640/blogger-image-67626855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXE2j2uavfyDasYwqHjB_XLW9QAdTcvkhGnImCALxdnlySKpnBWAcdwNC8hbpAN94YhfV6Q9pO7438JF4QJI5ktW-f8il7wankd2KY1f6Zs-3ZzRebXv2AbXrNv5NW80_dJ9IPnjTBET5/s640/blogger-image-67626855.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The pope greeting some chickens.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHuaQhXZorxumRfegeD-0HlvWiu9eJKtY1KWA_RhPB1sFSguqVNW4z2PA3XClhWThLi5JSPxFjt5Hn8hpAhC0kSmwgYZ41713dNcWf7QiM9RsUZxvciMR0AgZtydFB4Yl1_pJLx5UCXa6/s640/blogger-image--1802779235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHuaQhXZorxumRfegeD-0HlvWiu9eJKtY1KWA_RhPB1sFSguqVNW4z2PA3XClhWThLi5JSPxFjt5Hn8hpAhC0kSmwgYZ41713dNcWf7QiM9RsUZxvciMR0AgZtydFB4Yl1_pJLx5UCXa6/s640/blogger-image--1802779235.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The requisite new TV on top of the really, really old one; the latter serving double duty as a gallery wall, with Rudolph standing docent over it all year long.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vKxTK6w3CSg51eOGxQ7xl8EtLLnS3q2Jj4obrQnzE0fI5DiSSOKuOJJqzBX93zgUAbnzMh937Z0YBVoW56SZa4sPpH18oc5jATzgkhhqR0u7jHGDxmGa801voHlM08tPZyFNrd4WJWfQ/s640/blogger-image--434271509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vKxTK6w3CSg51eOGxQ7xl8EtLLnS3q2Jj4obrQnzE0fI5DiSSOKuOJJqzBX93zgUAbnzMh937Z0YBVoW56SZa4sPpH18oc5jATzgkhhqR0u7jHGDxmGa801voHlM08tPZyFNrd4WJWfQ/s640/blogger-image--434271509.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">An antique lamp fitted with a bulb from the future, illuminating a painting of peacock feathers and a panoramic picture of people I don't even know.</div><br></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-34316891050178597402015-11-22T09:33:00.001-08:002015-12-01T20:39:32.904-08:00<div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-56216001377022537572015-11-22T08:33:00.001-08:002015-12-01T20:39:50.583-08:00<b>Poetry and Collage Collaboration </b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpPuC_eGxOO8YOfqaKOOUdV7OXTOJkdvA08lGO24EIPEtLKl1tv-Ecw4QGAeJNm9xjHzzzrNDc6jJH7bV-XPkj_BowZy91WGBRAoEzbZX-139b-wMM9UJ6U5oF2HIwmKY4rFtR3v1bqpg/s640/blogger-image--2080608523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpPuC_eGxOO8YOfqaKOOUdV7OXTOJkdvA08lGO24EIPEtLKl1tv-Ecw4QGAeJNm9xjHzzzrNDc6jJH7bV-XPkj_BowZy91WGBRAoEzbZX-139b-wMM9UJ6U5oF2HIwmKY4rFtR3v1bqpg/s640/blogger-image--2080608523.jpg" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-21765092608299005792015-11-08T19:39:00.001-08:002015-11-08T19:39:59.716-08:00The best thing about aquariums, if there's anything good at all, is the psychedelic fish.<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5CdYasbu16UBu7zv4BmrX4NhyphenhyphenCm_5V2MCF_kufRwfseA4zmc_ZE-A4oksR2npGm1x2dqt_GsyAE8FPHZsHUIoFESEvATF4mSqJqDjYz3r3f0cjgeaDZAIy5jYJ9zZwZdOXAylyRbksL7/s640/blogger-image-2132813780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5CdYasbu16UBu7zv4BmrX4NhyphenhyphenCm_5V2MCF_kufRwfseA4zmc_ZE-A4oksR2npGm1x2dqt_GsyAE8FPHZsHUIoFESEvATF4mSqJqDjYz3r3f0cjgeaDZAIy5jYJ9zZwZdOXAylyRbksL7/s640/blogger-image-2132813780.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Perfect for a hypnotic meditation.</div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-48460472527278181932015-11-06T09:46:00.001-08:002015-11-06T22:39:55.273-08:00Making smiley faces into ghosts<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Because that's the kind of inspiration a fever brings.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKU7f1MOt_N_-VzgEFyu-wpy3s2I3OVusHINt7QWZpL-eO67D2GHlZxor_xAb-pVWkpwKBcLPcXThJJgE74YtBn2Mfg10J6sHwZFo7ttHI0pAxZTVQIBtV827Oyman8raUrN3qC0JDNNh/s640/blogger-image-1089072155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKU7f1MOt_N_-VzgEFyu-wpy3s2I3OVusHINt7QWZpL-eO67D2GHlZxor_xAb-pVWkpwKBcLPcXThJJgE74YtBn2Mfg10J6sHwZFo7ttHI0pAxZTVQIBtV827Oyman8raUrN3qC0JDNNh/s640/blogger-image-1089072155.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Also, let's get real. #brelfie of how I spend our wind down time before naps; after daughter is dropped off at school and errands/playdates are through. Don't be alarmed, that dark line on my stomach goes away about six months after a woman has a baby.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9bX4ptI9z5Zq9jngb2wq-iIXgHcKJVcV74n4rxUBVGnHQ5V1pNdf7od3sN-8MikR0Dydaz2j3FyTMG_srBvj1tqJMvywBlx75r9A5uQ6p2oV47Krm1eYmSn9ojDuJ4Zkzs1v1DoQ4cJ2/s640/blogger-image--434202229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9bX4ptI9z5Zq9jngb2wq-iIXgHcKJVcV74n4rxUBVGnHQ5V1pNdf7od3sN-8MikR0Dydaz2j3FyTMG_srBvj1tqJMvywBlx75r9A5uQ6p2oV47Krm1eYmSn9ojDuJ4Zkzs1v1DoQ4cJ2/s640/blogger-image--434202229.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-73635695136064247662015-11-05T22:12:00.001-08:002016-06-11T11:37:24.476-07:00Just here at midnight thinking, and all the important stuff in my mind just keeps being interrupted by The Weeknd. Like, I just can't help but visually erase the other two e's in his name as well to make it The Wknd. It still reads the same, I feel. And if you're gonna go all modern text speak for your stage name, then seriously go all the way. Fuck ALL the e's. Every single one. Right? Be Tha Wknd. THA WKND. There's nothing clever about leaving out that one e. No one's like: I see what you did there, and it's magical. It's like when I'm filling out an electronic form too fast and don't press the e hard enough on one part of my name and then I'm forever Chairz at that place. It's not cute or funny or cutting edge. It's just <i>fuuuck.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-24311533433948968082015-11-02T12:48:00.001-08:002015-11-14T13:28:30.714-08:00Currently<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-61706451113228630782015-10-16T21:59:00.001-07:002015-10-22T22:30:01.047-07:00Ft. Lauderdale[Facing me, his legs are crisscrossed. Mine are draped over his thighs as I'm lying back, my head resting on the ledge of the tub.] <div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">You're blocking the hot water from flowing to me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">[But I don't move. Frustratingly, neither does he. But I knew he wouldn't. That's his way.]</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">No I don't. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">That doesn't change how the temperature feels.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">[He smiles.]</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">You look like, "Yup, I just had a baby: Here's my belly and my wine in a disposable cup."</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">And what?</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">You can't be tired. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">[I decide to stay in.]</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">You're leaving me alone to soak in your dirty bath water? </font></div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">That's an oxymoron. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">[And he proceeds.]</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Regardless, this water is beige. </font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">That's a pretty color.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">(<i>Reading this draft a week later, I'm confused, but these seem to be quotes from that night put on the page in a way that suggests I was going to expand upon them, like this was meant to be an outline for a broader idea; but I can't for the life of me remember or figure out what the end result of this was supposed to be so I have no choice but to publish it like this.)</i></font></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-53329610528602518142015-10-10T20:48:00.006-07:002015-10-10T20:48:56.141-07:00Does this look like the face of a man who may one day cure cancer?<br />
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My newborn son usually has no interest in what's going on on TV when I'm nursing him. He has no interest whatsoever in what any of us are saying or doing while he's eating. He is always fully focused on eating. But, today, when a calm and collected commercial for a nearby cancer research center came on, my son stopped nursing and slowly turned towards the television. </div>
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Like it was speaking to him. Like it had called his name. Like that was his calling. </div>
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My daughter saved me from being an alcoholic. </div>
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My oldest son saved my sanity. </div>
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My youngest son is going to save me from cancer.</div>
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[Disclaimer: My mom died from cancer.]</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-37018465686226265882015-10-02T11:17:00.001-07:002015-10-02T11:17:40.307-07:00Back on the grind alreadySo my youngest son arrived Saturday afternoon. I woke up feeling strange that morning. By 10:30 am I realized I was having contractions. But the doctor told me to stay home because having contractions six minutes apart wasn't close enough. Two hours later, the contractions were already two minutes apart and we couldn't get a hold of the doctor again, so the hubby and I were like fuck this and headed to the hospital where they informed us I was already eight centimeters dilated and would need to start pushing the moment my room was prepped and my IV was in. And, oh, there wouldn't be enough time for an epidural, either. In the time it would take for the on-call anesthesiologist to arrive and for the medicine to kick in, the baby would already be born. So I gave birth naturally. And it was one of the best experiences of my life. I've already pretty much forgotten the pain. <div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtMDGYHdlI5-BszlaVK1NCmtroguFGVyILbhaSjLj4fS0P2UVD6ZOFuBKYCh4cqJWNjSNO5KLZsgwlFMhit3QQhg7eDGnYiv6pFIPgrA7gh1Spltw2dU5NiaPiItt25ppxQU2oP_ov9Z6/s640/blogger-image--545782963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtMDGYHdlI5-BszlaVK1NCmtroguFGVyILbhaSjLj4fS0P2UVD6ZOFuBKYCh4cqJWNjSNO5KLZsgwlFMhit3QQhg7eDGnYiv6pFIPgrA7gh1Spltw2dU5NiaPiItt25ppxQU2oP_ov9Z6/s640/blogger-image--545782963.jpg"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And now here he is and here we are, tweeting together, writing blog posts, doing little sofa-friendly tasks for our upcoming move, and brainstorming Hellbent issue 2 <3</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-39487858188479969892015-09-19T20:20:00.001-07:002015-09-20T20:32:49.420-07:00<b>Saturday Night at 39 Weeks Pregnant</b><br />
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<b><br /></b></div>
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• watching The Great Gatsby</div>
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• opened my novel like I'm really going to eventually edit this scene</div>
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• joined a barre fitness group in San Antonio</div>
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• for postpartum, bought a girdle, irredescent loafers, overalls, and a high-waisted pair of ironically ill-fitted jeans in a purposely terrible shade of blue</div>
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• started the process of applying to grad school by sending an inquiry to the dean of the English department</div>
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• created a new, ongoing list of things we need before the baby gets here</div>
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• about to create a list of Hellbent Issue 2 ideas</div>
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• writing this</div>
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• doing anything to keep busy and not speculate/fret about when this little guy's going to come into our world</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-14530761723364048312015-09-02T06:39:00.000-07:002015-09-02T06:39:29.856-07:00<div>
Hellbent Magazine had such a great inauguration yesterday. I'm not good at gushing (Alyssa does it better <a href="http://alyssagoesbang.blogspot.com/2015/09/big-day.html">here</a>), but for anyone reading this who also <a href="http://www.hellbentmag.com/p/current-issue.html">downloaded</a> the magazine yesterday: thank you, and I hope you thoroughly enjoyed it. Or were at least mildly amused by it, if that's more your reaction style. </div>
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Our next issue is scheduled for release December 1st. That's a while away, but it gives you plenty of time to submit your literary fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, or art. And until then, we will be updating the <a href="http://hellbentmag.com/">Hellbent site</a> with news about our contributors (most have books out or forthcoming!), interviews with them too, and there's a possible podcast in the works... So we've got y'all covered until winter, promise. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-19148648705950407312015-08-28T21:17:00.000-07:002015-09-10T19:53:19.481-07:00Marital SextsFrom me to my husband:<b> </b><br />
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<b>We need toilet paper!!</b><br />
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Milk<br />
Bread<br />
Chalupa shells<br />
Tortillas<br />
Avocado<br />
Salsa<br />
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<b>We're here in a booth to the left</b><br />
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Whatever<br />
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<b> </b><br />
<b>We're still here. Just started actually, if you want to join us.</b><br />
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One of us needs to stop by Publix on our way home. Should it be me or you?<br />
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<b> </b><br />
<b>Lazy ass workers</b><br />
<br />
Milk<br />
Bread<br />
Eggs<br />
Chocolate cake<b> </b><br />
Huggies Little Movers size 4<br />
Pampers Sensitive wipes.<br />
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<b>Like I'm not fucking busy??</b> <br />
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I'll suggest it<br />
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<b>That's gross babe</b><br />
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<b> </b><br />
<b> </b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-40763491905617601692015-08-26T21:36:00.000-07:002015-08-28T21:15:01.175-07:00Humanity and its Peculiarities <br />
I used to have bad dreams all the time when I was pregnant with my daughter. Bad graphic nightmares in which neither of us usually survived, and stuff like that. Every night. With my son, I dreamt a lot about Bruno Mars and sex. Never were the two in the same dream, though. This pregnancy has brought me pretty much no dreams whatsoever. So imagine my surprise, as I nodded off while my son "read" me a book, to see some guy running up to my car window with a gun shouting about how I cut him off, how I'm always cutting him off; and then he killed me. I was somehow at the court proceedings later. Didn't seem to be in spirit. And the guy saw that I was pregnant and he started to cry and said, "I'm sorry, I never would have killed her if I'd known she was pregnant! My wife's pregnant too! I'd never do that to a woman!"<br />
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This dream presents a remarkable lesson in kindness. I'm not the ideal person to present it, but I'm working on that, and the lesson is this: No one knows what anyone is going through, so we should chill the fuck out and be considerate, not maniacs. Simple. I remember when I found out I was miscarrying my second child, the drive home was excruciating. To the best of my knowledge, I wasn't doing anything stupid or reckless - I had my two and a half year old daughter in the backseat, after all. But during that numb, dreary drive I was harassed by no less than three West coast road ragers and collectively those incidents turned out to be one of the stupidest experiences with humanity I've ever had. Had they known what I was going through, would they have been more likely to excuse my perceived driving infractions? Actually, probably not. It was Vegas. Vegas = self-centered douchebags all around. But in friendlier parts of the world? Maybe. <br />
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The dream can also be applied to our current racial climate. The man killed me because he felt I was in his way. Or because I wasn't driving like him. He didn't stop to think about how I'm human too, regardless; and that we had something in common despite our different practices and points of view on driving.<br />
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Or, there's the feminist angle too: Women are seen as disposable; our only use is for having babies. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-64039413717428695232015-08-25T19:37:00.001-07:002015-08-25T22:41:39.420-07:00<div>You know how when something awful happens one night, and you cried yourself to sleep about it, and then you wake up the next day looking like shit, and you have to walk around all day at work with a stupid lump in your throat, burning eyes, and this great fear that if one more motherfucker so much as passes by you you're going to swear to god burst into tears (and then kill him)? </div><div><br></div><div>That's how I've been feeling! For far too many days already. I am admittedly overwhelmed at the moment. But everything Im overwhelmed about is going to turn out awesome once everything gets in order - having my baby, moving to San Antonio, and buying a house in San Antonio all in the same month. I feel that terrible up-all-night crying hangover for no reason. And I can't get it to go away. It's obviously just pregnancy hormones, but I can't be having that. It needs to stop. I figured the only way to make it is to cry it away. Have a good, worthless cry to extinguish it. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm not a crier, so when I sat down and took a deep breath and told myself to cry, I didn't. My husband offered to help me cry. I said, "If you don't mind, can you make sure they're happy tears?" He said never mind, so I was on my own again. </div><div><br></div><div>But he did comeback with some valuable insight. "Champagne always makes you cry," he said, and offered to go get some for me.</div><div><br></div><div>So I did what any pregnant woman in America shouldn't do: I had half a glass of champagne. </div><div><br></div><div>Go ahead and judge me if you're a mom. Shut the fuck up if you're not. I have two other kids, a husband, and a dog who depend on me. I need to be feeling my best, not feeling like I don't have the emotional capacity to get us all (minus the hubby and dog) dressed and brushed and off to school in the morning. </div><div><br></div><div>I don't know if it was the champagne itself or the guilt from drinking the champagne that made it happen, but I cried. Right in the middle of the season premiere of Tosh.0, I cried. And laughed as I did. And now my head doesn't feel so red and squished. I'm thinking a bit more clearly; my brain doesn't feel so shrouded. Which maybe isn't such a good thing... I now have more space to fret and obsess about all the upcoming life changes my family will be going </div><div>through.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-88079357872297542372015-08-22T11:34:00.000-07:002015-08-22T21:27:39.367-07:00Yesterday, I was all about Banksy's "bemusement park," called Dismaland, a riff on all amusement parks in general, but Disneyland/world more specifically.<br />
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I am super gungho about creative visions coming to life. And for the world's most famous street artist and 50 of his street/performance/installation art friends, I just can't even fathom how magnificent it must feel to see such a grand scale vision come alive.<br />
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I pored over pictures of the distorted little mermaid, the park workers with dutiful scowls wearing mouse ear hats, the crumbling royal castle, and this picture of a Cinderella figure succumbing to a Princess Diana style death: <br />
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<img alt="A Cinderella piece by Banksy during the press view for the artist&acirc;s biggest show to date, entitled 'Dismaland', at Tropicana in Western-super-Mare, Somerset." class="img hero" src="http://cdn.thedailybeast.com/content/dailybeast/articles/2015/08/21/princess-diana-s-death-and-other-nightmares-inside-banky-s-dark-theme-park/jcr:content/image.crop.800.500.jpg/48007926.cached.jpg" height="400" itemprop="image" width="640" /><br />
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(picture from The Daily Beast) </div>
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It's unarguably very fascinating. I'm in awe. I'm envious. I'm intrigued and inspired. But, today, I'm also more like: <i>Why</i>? The installation is created at the location of an old, out of use seaside amusement park in England, so modeling the project after an amusement park makes sense. And the artists use the space - as Banksy is known to do through his street art - to bring up issues of political unrest and bring attention to societal ills: war refugees, our fascination with celebrity, the trace horse meat found a few years back in UK tv dinners (depicted by a horse on a carousel hanging bloodied upside down over boxes of lasagne - if I'm remembering correctly)...<br />
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I read once about Banksy recreating Monet's water lily paintings to include trash and debris. I get that. I think it's a good idea. But why the heavy mockery of Disney in this particular project? The brochure blatantly says (so I've read), "See what it's like to be a real princess." If the artists are not addressing the actual "issues" Disney usually gets criticized for - patriarchy, white-washing - then why reference the company at all? Simply because Disney has created the largest type of amusement park in the world, so it must be included?<br />
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I've never read anywhere, or gotten the impression through his work, that Banksy is a feminist or an advocate of racial diversity. So today I'm reading all these articles on Dismaland and I'm a little saddened and put off that an artist of such prominence would resort to using Disney characters' likenesses to hawk his dystopian theme park. I think, or I thought, Banksy is/was more creative and progressive than that. Isn't his name alone enough to draw attention to this place?<br />
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And I have a hard time swallowing the fact that he and his 50 friends and whoever else was involved in creating this sat around for months discussing how dark and disturbing they could get with this project. I'm in this unprecedented stage in my life where I have to stop and think: So, not once did any of them stop and think, "Hey, lots of people respect us, they value our thoughts, they'll be coming here in droves... Instead, how can we make this place be, like, a call to action to them? To change the world?" Though political, societal issues abound in Dismaland, I don't think it's getting any sort of large point across. The horse meat scandal was resolved years ago. The people sticking their heads through the "selfie hole" on a plain white wall are still all too happy to do so (I read a review saying that attraction had the longest line of any); they aren't picking up on how ridiculous the selfie phenomenon has become. I get the feeling nothing in this world is going to change as a result of this large-scale dreary exhibition.<br />
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Disney is not what's wrong with the world. And the brand is actually working to reconcile the criticisms it gets. In line with the times, stronger female characters have been the center of the last four or five Disney movies. The shows on the Disney channel feature surprisingly diverse cast members (unfortunately they still need to work on giving <i>lead</i> roles to diverse actors; Zendaya is a start, though) - many are even racially ambiguous; this way, they're never really seen doing stereotypical things. They're doing "normal" things (well, normal for children's television shows). Disney helps to "normalize" minorities in that way. Many of the families on the shows are blended. One has a stay at home dad. Another show came under fire a few years back for the main character's best friend having gay parents.<br />
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As a minority and a mom and the child of a gay father, this kind of stuff is important to me right now. And I'm glad Disney showcases a bit of diversity, because my kids need to see it. So, maybe what's really bothering me about this oversized Banksy exhibit is: I've outgrown this kind of stuff? Dismaland is dark for darkness' sake and that's, frankly, a waste of time and energy in this day and age. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-23116184452390509382015-08-19T21:18:00.001-07:002015-08-19T21:19:08.292-07:00Wednesday Whatevsday<div>
Editor's note/warning: <b>This post is just a cop out</b>. I fully realize that this space I'm writing in is not Facebook. But, as a writer, what better way to express how I've been feeling every other day in this third trimester of my fourth pregnancy than to post memes that can express it for me:<br />
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Oh, I beg to differ... ^^^<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549371959143909698.post-86403209102086909082015-08-19T21:08:00.001-07:002015-08-19T21:08:14.371-07:00Travel TuesdayAll travel thoughts and preparations this week are still focused on relocating to San Antonio, and what will be the best way to get us and all of our stuff over there from the Florida Keys with a 5 year old, 2 year old, 4 week old, and a Boston terrier who gets car sick and is traumatized by his plane ride over here from Vegas. Not to mention: looking into new houses, new schools, new doctors, new yoga studios. Not even gonna get into it much further. Y'all have probably moved before. Y'all get it. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959861297219080230noreply@blogger.com0