I ate an artichoke for dinner tonight.  I like them so much.  The pulling away of the scales, the dipping in olive oil, pepper and lemon juice, the scraping of the teeth, and the delectable heart of it all — so plump and rare tasting.

The artichokes are wonderful at the grocer lately.  I’m taking advantage of it.

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I am writing a lot right now.  Pages and pages in the morning, scraps of essays that are slowly taking form.  I have something I am supposed to write — there is no deadline but there’s kind of a deadline, you know?  Anyway, I’m figuring out how to approach that piece.  There are five directions the piece can go and I simply have to settle on one.

Oh, sometimes the committing is so tedious, so impossible.

I keep writing things that I don’t know what to do with.  I’m in a place, here in my 30s, wherein I want to share some of my larger life lessons through writing but sharing those life lessons will require anecdotes and truths and I don’t know how to write, how to share, without having people (some who are dear to me) feel alienated!  I want to write about my family, my friends, my strangers, and the little pieces of me that have been murdered over time…but I know that when I write about those things, there’s going to be some kick back.  I know I cannot make everyone happy.  It’s impossible.  But where does the balance fall between work and love, expression and respect, revolution and safety?  I’m not sure yet, which is why I’m keeping a lot of good things under wraps.  I remind myself, everything takes as long as it takes and in the meanwhile, I keep putting my pen to paper every single morning.

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Speaking of morning, my mornings are finally finding a rhythm.  My days are finally finding a rhythm, my nights, too.  It’s amazing how much more time I spend working when I am not spending myself on Robert (and I love to spend myself on Robert).  I miss him but it’s very good to be a full-on workaholic right now.

I’m like a draft horse in the studio, all bright brawn, rippling muscle and keen eyes.

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Late at night here, in the wee hours of the morning, Tater and Farley come clip-clopping into the bedroom and one after the other they climb up into bed with me.  We don’t allow dogs in our bed, but I let them stay, because I need them to, and I think there’s something intangible they are sensing that draws them to me in the night.  We sleep together, my hands on their warm backs, until the sun begins to rise.  I recently read that a lone wolf is a symbol of freedom while a wolf pack is a symbol of community; when Rob is away, my dogs give me an augmented sense of place and family.  I often wonder who I would be without them.  I think I live a split life, a life of a shape-shifter.  I’ve become half-dog-half-human in my wide open living — in my isolation.  I don’t know whether to sigh at the moon or howl at it.  I don’t know if I should scoop the water up to my mouth with a cupped palm to drink or lap at it like a dog.

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I hoped to update the shop this week but need to postpone until next week — for practical reasons as well as my own general sanity.  You can expect a shop update on February 25th and it will be a wild smattering of new designs as well as pieces I have had cluttering my workbench that I FINALLY made the space to finish.  I’ve been cleansing my palate, tying up loose ends and creating some new and glorious things.  I can’t wait to share it all with you, for it is all good.

More soon.

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