My love language

You will know I love you when I buy my favorite food but don’t eat it all day long, but instead, wait for you to get home, so we can eat it together.

When you enter the house to find options waiting. Draw a hot bath or eat dinner I put aside for you first? Go straight to bed or give you a run-down of the days events? Back rub and cuddling or a quiet movie complete with big pillow sharing? I put you first, even when you come home late.

When you find little trinkets hidden in your study, for you to find, as a means of giving you whispers of my affection, even while I’m not home.

Your luggage will be packed with intense precision. Pack of cards, pack of gum, pen, notebook, emergency money, Gift card for fast food, bandaids, neosporin, contact information, calling card, cough drops, q-tips, lotion, snacks and eye drops. You will probably not use most of it, but every item is me, loving you.

You will know I love you because I’ll start singing in the shower. You’ll hear me giggling. You’ll catch me dancing. You’ll see me blushing and I will get soo damned shy you can’t help but grin at me, because I’m an emotional mess for you.

You’ll know because I’ll bug you. I will push you to be better. To try harder, to trust in your power. To know your value. To never stop learning. I will challenge your every self doubt, question your every destructive behavior. Yell at you for every single criticism you aim at that heart I love soo soo much. I’ll demand you see the doctor, take your meds, investigate each possible health problem, just in case, because God can’t have you yet.

You’ll know I love you because I examine every word, every thought, every silly dream you tell me, and find ways, means, possibilities to make these things part of my knowledge bank. To prepare with careful precision a path that leads you toward things that you didn’t even know you wanted until I helped you attain them.

I’ll know your favorite songs, what all your expressions mean, what shirt you like for each particular mood you get into. I’ll know your biggest worries and attack them one-by-one before they reach your notice, prepare for them and counteract their poison with my own special brand of healing. If I can’t defeat them, I will stand ready for them, with every support ready to minimize their power.

You will know I love you because I’ll let you see me cry. Let you hold me while I rage. Let you hear my darkest failures. I’ll share my secret hurts and trust you to see my most devistating failures and the lessons they have forced upon me.

If I love you, it won’t be a question of you knowing…it will be a question of you letting me continue, because I’ll ask permission to do so..shyly with a quiet voice, I will ask if it’s ok that I love you. I won’t see a reason to lie about how I feel, but I will be terrified you won’t love me back.

If I love you, you will know. You will always know.

I just fell in love with a building

Well, possible building. It’s a design concept put forth by NUDES architecture for San Jose, California. You all already know I’m kind of a whore for architecture, but I can’t help it with this one…look at it!!!

“in a bid to celebrate the importance of water in our lives, NUDES has conceived of a rainwater harvesting tower for san jose in california. the soaring ‘rain water catcher’ is a design proposal that aims to address the global impact of climate change by advocating the need for water conservation.

true to its concept, the form of the ‘rain water catcher’ is algorithmically derived through fluid, flowing lines and geometries that create an interlaced pattern defining the tower as an extension of the landscape. the use of cutting edge digital design and optimization tools aim to streamline the process from ideation to reality, minimizing wastage and fostering respect for the environment through the use of sustainable materials. “

It’s fucking beautiful! I’d get married here. I’d vacation. I’d take 20,000 photographs. This is beautiful…soo soo beautiful.

I love this..soo soo much!


Honey and Salt by Carl Sandburg

I am in tears because I read this poem. In tears, greatly moved. Much awe and appreciation. As a poet, I must admit a tiny bit of wistfulness. I am not Carl Sandburg, we have different ways, as all poets do..and yet, I feel the best intentions of my own poetry whilst I am reading his. His words are far more advanced than mine. What a joy to see emotion perfectly expressed in words. The pauses and spaces in-between that he didn’t attempt to fill. Yes, please.

Pause a moment, drink a sip of tea.. and really taste each line.

Honey and Salt
Carl Sandburg

A bag of tricks—is it?
And a game smoothies play?
If you’re good with a deck of cards
or rolling the bones—that helps?
If you can tell jokes and be a chum
and make an impression—that helps?
When boy meets girl or girl meets boy—
what helps?
They all help: be cozy but not too cozy:
be shy, bashful, mysterious, yet only so-so:
then forget everything you ever heard about love
for it’s a summer tan and a winter windburn
and it comes as weather comes and you can’t change it:
it comes like your face came to you, like your legs came
and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands—
and nothing can be done about it—you wait and pray.
Is there any way of measuring love?
Yes but not till long afterward
when the beat of your heart has gone
many miles, far into the big numbers.
Is the key to love in passion, knowledge, affection?
All three—along with moonlight, roses, groceries,
givings and forgivings, gettings and forgettings,
keepsakes and room rent,
pearls of memory along with ham and eggs.
Can love be locked away and kept hid?
Yes and it gathers dust and mildew
and shrivels itself in shadows
unless it learns the sun can help,
snow, rain, storms can help—
birds in their one-room family nests
shaken by winds cruel and crazy—
they can all help:
lock not away your love nor keep it hid.
How comes the first sign of love?
In a chill, in a personal sweat,
in a you-and-me, us, us two,
in a couple of answers,
an amethyst haze on the horizon,
two dance programs criss-crossed,
jackknifed initials interwoven,
five fresh violets lost in sea salt,
birds flying at single big moments
in and out a thousand windows,
a horse, two horses, many horses,
a silver ring, a brass cry,
a golden gong going ong ong ong-ng-ng,
pink doors closing one by one
to sunset nightsongs along the west,
shafts and handles of stars,
folds of moonmist curtains,
winding and unwinding wisps of fogmist.

How long does love last?
As long as glass bubbles handled with care
or two hot-house orchids in a blizzard
or one solid immovable steel anvil
tempered in sure inexorable welding—
or again love might last as
six snowflakes, six hexagonal snowflakes,
six floating hexagonal flakes of snow
or the oaths between hydrogen and oxygen
in one cup of spring water
or the eyes of bucks and does
or two wishes riding on the back of a
morning wind in winter
or one corner of an ancient tabernacle
held sacred for personal devotions
or dust yes dust in a little solemn heap
played on by changing winds.
There are sanctuaries holding honey and salt.
There are those who spill and spend.
There are those who search and save.
And love may be a quest with silence and content.
Can you buy love?
Sure every day with money, clothes, candy,
with promises, flowers, big-talk,
with laughter, sweet-talk, lies,
every day men and women buy love
and take it away and things happen
and they study about it
and the longer they look at it
the more it isn’t love they bought at all:
bought love is a guaranteed imitation.

Can you sell love?
Yes you can sell it and take the price
and think it over
and look again at the price
and cry and cry to yourself
and wonder who was selling what and why.
Evensong lights floating black night water,
a lagoon of stars washed in velvet shadows,
a great storm cry from white sea-horses—
these moments cost beyond all prices.

Bidden or unbidden? how comes love?
Both bidden and unbidden, a sneak and a shadow,
a dawn in a doorway throwing a dazzle
or a sash of light in a blue fog,
a slow blinking of two red lanterns in river mist
or a deep smoke winding one hump of a mountain
and the smoke becomes a smoke known to your own
twisted individual garments:
the winding of it gets into your walk, your hands,
your face and eyes.

And now, we wait!

My son and I have a relationship that isn’t like other people’s relationships. I’m not going to break it down to soo..just take it on faith. We are different than other mom/son variety packs…I say that to kinda explain this next bit.

See, every year I send my kid a hoodie/sweatshirt or t-shirt, for his birthday. It’s our tradition. Since he’s an artist, it’s usually another artists work off an artist site like Threadless or RedBubble, or Society 6. His taste and mine are NOT the same, so I can’t really select one FOR him and besides, that would totally miss the point of “our” whole thing.

so…every year we do this..and every year it takes AT LEAST a month to get him to pick a damned hoodie already! My son isn’t against my spending money, he’s just ALWAYS DOING OTHER THINGS. Lil twerp! Busy kid, frustrated mom.

So, I submit my newest “actual” text to my son…

and now, we wait. A reaction is coming…this is how we communicate.

Apparently my heels are like eggs

What I mean is, they are cracking. This comes from working on my feet 8.5 hours a day AND probably because I sometimes have to do it in rain or snow, which obviously, leaves my feet wet and prone to… you guessed it! Cracking.

Fucking hurts. I have like 5 deep lacerations that look like fissures in my heels. The left foot being the worst. I have ordered pumice stone, cracked heel balm, and special treatment socks (if you know me you know I hate socks with a passion) that I promise I will use until I have a prevention and healing plan in place for future need. Cut me some slack it’s never been this bad before (honest!) The order should arrive by Tues.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to get through tomorrow to get to my weekend. Did I ever mentioned Saturday is the WORST day of my week? Last week was completely fucked up. Short of staff, overwhelmingly slammed and…it rained..a fuck-ton. It was not my favorite.

Ps. Eggy is lying on his back like a sunbather and it’s making me hysterical.

Ok, I’m owning it!

Ok…confession time,

It’s true, when I’m working I look mad as fuck. I focus all my attention on the job, cannot and will not stand for idle chit-chat tossed at me by people in the parking-lot (btw, why? Why do extroverted people ALWAYS need to chat just because you pass by them? Explain it so it makes sense?) and I don’t react well to commentary about stuff that’s really none of the customers business (Don’t you think you should use a cart pusher?! Why is a woman out here pushing carts when there are boys working here? Don’t you have any gloves, it’s cold out here!)

so, yeah.. I’m owning it..I look mad as hell when I’m working but, all that concentration is me, doing a badass job!

You’re welcome.