tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885431950270951112024-03-13T14:58:27.531-05:00ride the boogie.tiny ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06147440731556345563noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-1058098611213045602018-07-04T22:48:00.000-05:002018-07-04T22:48:00.481-05:00my friend wrote a book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There it is. In my lap. Leila Marshy wrote <a href="https://www.haikuboxer.com/the-philistine" target="_blank">The Philistine</a>. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpHYR0EI96T4Twau9xwWVyQ1tZGcR21cdH67JdDwyeg6k7LizWozxxPrRsfAdOk3B35VV-lVrqRiwYmlg7zy-G9SSiAyEOhxm5ZWCR4VsxYDfhFvsWShg9fWpPWszclhgp0LV2_CtTi8/s1600/IMG_20180527_075515_611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpHYR0EI96T4Twau9xwWVyQ1tZGcR21cdH67JdDwyeg6k7LizWozxxPrRsfAdOk3B35VV-lVrqRiwYmlg7zy-G9SSiAyEOhxm5ZWCR4VsxYDfhFvsWShg9fWpPWszclhgp0LV2_CtTi8/s320/IMG_20180527_075515_611.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I can't do a review<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">—</span>others have that covered<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">—</span>but I can do a reaction.<br />
I loved that Nadia kept moving <i>toward</i>... Maybe not forward, but she's not content to not seek. She doesn't quite know what she's getting into, but she keeps moving and I wanted to go along because I understood that what she'd learn would be worth knowing. I loved the past in present moments. I loved Manal. I loved Bishara. I wanted to know Clare a little more.<br />
<br />
You know something is good when, as you read, you collect bits that strike something in you and draw a smile or an ache. Here are some pretty pebbles I collected:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"How could we know? Our enemy now was all of history. All of history!"</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Nadia hadn't seen any pigs. Maybe her mother was getting her animals mixed up? "But Mama, but Mama, they were dogs."<br />
Bishara winked at her, he would take care of it.<br />
But now she could see the animals now. She could see them and hear them and every now and then feel them. The sidewalks were sliced in two between the men who ignored her and the men who wanted to eat her for lunch.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Between them, in the empty space, she caught Manal's eyes. Her definitely watching eyes. "I'm going to stay here. Thanks for the invitation," she said.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Nadia shuddered with a laser-like awareness that informed her as to the business of every hair on her arm, every millimetre of space between them that was occupied not by fabric but by longing.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
To everyone's visible relief, he approached from the long hallway, the <i>shib shib shib</i> shuffle of his slippers disconcertingly familiar. He could have been coming to tell Nadia it was bedtime, to ask her what she was reading, to entreat her to dance with him to Farid Al Atrash in the living room, to call her to taste his <i>mujadara</i>, the lentil dish he grew up eating and which he made, he swore, better than anyone.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The three of them smiled at each other, looking from one to the other. Something happened just then, in that precise moment. A fire like a lit fuse ran around them, energized the room, charged the air. They became friends.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
...there was an unseen architecture that was sometimes visible, most times not. A framework of obligations, diminished expectations, and only the illusion of opportunities.</blockquote>
<br />
Just go now. Read it.tiny ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06147440731556345563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-2248599868504774812018-07-01T10:13:00.006-05:002018-07-01T10:13:52.152-05:00meantimeI really love <a href="http://nachoniche.blogspot.com/2012/08/in-years-gone-by.html" target="_blank">this post</a> by Cool Ranch Luke. In an effort to hit reset, clear out the metaphorical ill-fitting and unredeemable, and pay homage to the meantime, I offer this more dreary, but still hopeful imitation.<br />
<br />
<b>About 5 years ago</b>, after watching my son, then four, brought again to hysterics and vomiting by the booming anger of my ex, THB, I intervened with my 5'2" frame, shoving THB, a hulking, fuming, foot-taller-than-me human, and summoned enough spine to shout my intent to divorce. The kids watched the whole thing. I never wanted them to see that again. Ever. I wanted them to experience contrast to that existence and to understand what a twisted portrayal of marriage and family that was. In the months following, I:<br />
- started seeing a therapist regularly;<br />
- fell in love with a woman, D;<br />
- became a librarian of the web variety;<br />
- slept too little and lost too much weight;<br />
- moved into a two-bedroom rental in the basement of a ex-professional wrestler's home;<br />
- met Cool Ranch Luke IRL;<br />
- totaled my car; and<br />
- watched cancer claim my grandma and emphysema take my grandpa (<a href="https://ridetheboogie.blogspot.com/2007/11/spaghetti-with-mary-and-gene.html" target="_blank">these</a> <a href="https://ridetheboogie.blogspot.com/2007/04/baked-chicken-with-mary-and-gene.html" target="_blank">two</a>).<br />
<br />
<b>About 3.5 years ago</b>, my son started kindergarten and my daughter was in her second year of preschool. D moved in with us, and we gradually loosed (most of) the grip of THB's influence to establish a healthy home of love, imperfection, and forgiveness.<br />
<br />
<b>About 2 years ago</b>, and after a year of efforts, I gave up on a Meetup group I'd created. I failed to find more couples like us or families like ours...with one lovely exception. On the very last event I planned, we met and became friends with two women from India. They'd fallen in love in school, later moved to the U.S. to be together, and then got married shortly after it became legal in the U.S. They lived within 5 miles of the three-bedroom place we'd rented just months prior.<br />
<br />
<b>About 1.5 years ago</b>, those same friends were the witnesses at D and my wedding. D is one of the best things that has ever happened to me.<br />
<br />
<b>About 1 year ago</b>, I became a librarian of the ill-defined, middle-management variety. Still trying to find my way through that, and seriously pondering whether a mid-life crisis career shift is in order. I may settle for a nose ring.<br />
<br />
<b>About 6 months ago</b>, I started the process of trying to wrench free of some of the remaining ridiculous power THB has over our lives. First, mediation (fail). Next is court. I'm hopeful, but know it's likely to not go in our favor. The tarnished silver lining is that there are now more witnesses to his behavior. Ever dealt with <a href="https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/what-is-obsessive-compulsive-personality-disorder-ocpd1/" target="_blank">OCPD</a>? It's (characteristically) undiagnosed, but it's a near perfect description of THB. Except he's unemployed; helicopter parenting is his profession.<br />
<br />
<b>About 2 months ago</b>, my dad died. It took a while for me to understand why I responded internally with anger when people said they were sorry for my loss. Perhaps because the loss wasn't the loss they assumed. Perhaps also because it was punctuated by the fucked up dynamics he established that played out amongst my siblings and me as we settled his affairs and settled him below ground. Yeah, still working through that. Already lost April to it. Maybe more another time.<br />
<br />
<b>In the last month and a half</b>, my son turned nine and my daughter turned seven. D and I have a year and a half of marriage under our belts. Discounting THB, things are really good.<br />
<br />tiny ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06147440731556345563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-47565601942079370082018-06-17T12:26:00.000-05:002018-06-17T12:26:54.207-05:00blipI'm toying, really.<br />
<div>
Clickety clickety. New theme. A little cleanup. Minor gaps filled.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm stirring within the parameters of "nowadays" (<a href="http://media.longnow.org/files/2/LongNowDiag.jpg" target="_blank">see here</a>). Same decade even. (Holy shit.) But neither our shrunken perspective of time, nor the expansive notion of it holds sway in real life. Millennia have passed, as far as I'm concerned.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I'd love to go back and controvert the turds I'd buffed to a shine and posted here, but it's best to let sleeping turds lie.</div>
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-47668766687337570592017-09-10T11:51:00.001-05:002017-09-10T11:51:20.884-05:00no more & no less<p dir="ltr">Quote from "Long Quiet Highway: Waking Up in America" by Natalie Goldberg - </p>
<p dir="ltr">"Real, solid growth and education are slow. Look at a tree. We don’t put a seed in the ground and then stick our fingers in the earth and yank up an oak. Everything has its time and is nourished and fed with the rhythms of the sun and moon, the seasons. We are no different, no more special, no less important."</p>
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-66132305726236016392017-08-20T12:56:00.001-05:002017-09-02T13:17:59.085-05:00as for me and my house, we will find farts funny<div dir="ltr">
"As for the silly behavior. Burping and farting is not funny at this house, I think it was at yours, hopefully it is not anymore. They think saying excuse me means they can do it over and over again and laugh about it. I tell them everybody burps and farts, but it is usually by accident, and they say excuse me. They don't do it over and over again to be funny. [boychild] likes getting laughs. I think he likes that type of attention. I am not 100% sure what to do about that yet, other than to keep telling him that school time is not a time to be silly.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
On a very minor note, try to get [girlchild] to stop saying Poop or Poopie so much. I think, that is her attempt at being funny. She says it a lot."</div>
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-68694756765101168362013-08-05T12:21:00.000-05:002017-09-07T21:38:00.102-05:00postcard: tonglen tanka #2I don't know these words<br />
grace and mercy. forgiveness.<br />
I wish them for you<br />
to be kinder to yourself<br />
and to the hearts in your care.<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1629128727"><br /></a>
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/55312729081/tonglen-tanka-2">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/55312729081/tonglen-tanka-2</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-4563334498409415542013-06-25T21:24:00.001-05:002013-06-25T21:24:45.899-05:00cursory crimePeter, Peter booming screamer<br />
<div>
Has the wife, but he won't keep her</div>
<div>
Georgie Porgie prepped the pie</div>
<div>
Kissed the girl and made her cry</div>
<div>
Mary Mary so contrary</div>
<div>
Tends the garden, ever wary</div>
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-91852324331940523442013-06-17T11:50:00.000-05:002018-06-17T13:13:56.110-05:00postcard: skeleton in your closetFrom 5th grade to 8th grade I was a bit of a kleptomaniac. It likely started in TX with my sister & a friend thinking it funny to have me walk out of a store with something. But then in MN, I stole money from my grandmother, shirts and cassette tapes (yes, tapes) from my aunt and cousins, clothes and tapes from stores... I recall stealing an Ocean Pacific tee from a boutique clothing store/tanning salon (BouJous? Terrible name.) where my friend went tanning. I stole textbooks from English and writing classes and other books from libraries. I stole sunglasses. I stole silver rings and jewelry from the local crafts fair. I stole someone else's birthday gift while at a birthday party. That time I got caught. It was in middle school and it could have gone badly and stayed with me, but they mercifully downplayed it. The last thing I recall stealing was $ from the till at my first job. Then I just stopped. It felt gross and dishonest, and I didn't want to be that.<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1629128725"><br /></a>
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/52200968266/u-pik-it-a-prompt-smorgasbord">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/52200968266/u-pik-it-a-prompt-smorgasbord</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-12794619785716249502013-05-31T23:45:00.003-05:002013-05-31T23:50:40.967-05:00own the messTonight, I was tired. And frustrated. And overwhelmed. And a little pissed. The minute I got home from work, husband went (escaped) outside to mow the lawn, and I sat like a pathetic, sad lump with two children wanting my attention, wanting a lively response, and using more and more extreme ways to get it. I needed something interactive for them to do that would also get me engaged (even though I wanted desperately to lie down on the floor and stare at the ceiling)...and not a flashy screen, touch screen cop-out.<br />
The house was an intimidating mess. Clothes and toys and toy related debris. Everyfuckingwhere.<br />
Target: locked on.<br />
I tried several attempts (polite requests degenerating into threats) to get my son to help me clean up. No dice. (When will I learn?) And I could feel myself getting really pissed and Son could feel his manic success in getting a response.<br />
Finally, I just started plowing all the shit, everywhere into one ginormous pile in the middle of the floor. Everything that had been pushed to the perimeter and the corners and under and on top of furniture. Then, after that satisfying exertion, I sat on a chair and calmly told Son that we had a pretty big mess here. We wouldn't be able to do anything fun together until we cleaned it up. Maybe he could think of some ideas of how we could work together to get it all put away. What could he tackle first? Say, stuffed animals? And what should I tackle first? Blankets and pillows?<br />
Next the big things with wheels.<br />
Then the things that go in the play kitchen.<br />
Then action figures (he stood them all up along the bay window).<br />
Then cars (lined up along the ledge).<br />
The final challenge was the contest: who could put the remaining miscellany into the toy tub the fastest. Of course, he won.<br />
The other approach I've witnessed too many times to mention is to demand that Son pick it up by himself, yell and punish and get increasingly loud loud loud and angry, and get Son increasingly angry/sad/frantic until everything falls to shit and everyone feels wretched.<br />
But this, among other things, completely misses the fact that it wasn't just my Son's mess. It was our mess. I played a role in it getting to where it was. I let night after night go by without setting limits or working with him to make choices and take responsibility and clean up. It became this daunting, scattered thing that no one could get a handle on and no one wanted to touch. So I piled it up. Got it all into view. And it became something that could be sorted and dismantled.<br />
Tomorrow, I'll tackle the kitchen in a similar, though more glassware friendly fashion.<br />
Maybe next, one of the other several overwhelming clusterfucks that I've assisted in creating.<br />
And boom! There you have it: a metaphor for life.<br />
<br />
<br />erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-20917045786898727802013-05-24T23:18:00.000-05:002013-05-24T23:18:54.041-05:00us chickens<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Whatever sense of life one has, it seems to me qualified by the literal biological <i>thing</i> we are, and by the fact that, though we may presume differences between us, we're basically, like chickens, not a wildly various life form. Our repetitions are bleakly notorious in every sense. But a world is, as it turns out, in the very word that says it, a "<i>vir </i>(man)-<i>eld </i>(age)," the length of a human life--and what one takes that as being, and what relations one feels it to have or works to accomplish: That's it entirely. If there is a world of insistent pain and poverty and despair, it is a human one. That I have never been able to forget. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Robert Creeley in <a href="http://www.worldcat.org/oclc/49322746" target="_blank">Take My Advice: Letters to the Next Generation from People Who Know a Thing or Two</a> [Thank you, <a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/10/12/martha-nussbaum-take-my-advice/" target="_blank">Ms. Popova</a>]</blockquote>
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-52074783713040375402013-05-24T22:16:00.001-05:002013-05-24T22:16:45.196-05:00understatementI just caught myself thinking, "I need some motherfucking chamomile lavender tea."<br />
Yes, I think I do.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-85609786614378294942013-05-24T00:26:00.000-05:002017-09-02T11:38:25.342-05:00postcard: in the year 04000I have a terrible sense of history which makes envisioning the future really, <i>really </i>difficult. Lessee... Continents' edges will have submerged leaving less room and less arable land and less potable water. We'll lose a lot of beautiful creatures. Beautiful beings. People will suffer. People will be kind. Arrogant, self-serving nations (wonder who?) will have fallen and new, more global nations will rise. I hope that the folly of eleventh hour thinking and reacting will have prompted a more collaborative approach to governance and resource sharing. But that would mean that the human race would have begun learning from history. People would have to be nothing like me and most people I know; to wake up from distraction; to recognize the sacred in each other and all things. Or maybe humankind will be wiped out by the after effects of the Great Asteroid of 03011, and Earth will be dominated by intelligent, self-aware descendants of the cockroach. Wait. Evolution can't happen that fast, can it? I suck at this.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In my view, people get to get together to form a society not because they're afraid and they want to strike a deal for mutual advantage, but it's much more out of love that they want to join with others in creating a world that's as good as it can be.<br />
Martha Nussbaum, <a href="http://youtu.be/cbcGbflpFzI" target="_blank">Examined Life</a></blockquote>
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/49660342301/in-the-year-04000">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/49660342301/in-the-year-04000</a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-52426271412165260822013-04-25T23:57:00.000-05:002017-09-02T11:37:43.855-05:00postcard: nostalgiaThings that brought me joy as a kid, mostly in Texas and between 7-10 yrs old:
Learning Roman numerals (voluntarily during the summer) with a workbook given to us by I can't remember who. Being at the top of any tree, but especially the live oak in the neighbor's pasture.
A wristwatch with a red leather band and a tiny beating heart on the face. (I broke the crystal while climbing the oak.) Sound collecting expeditions with a tape recorder and my brothers. Running full-out to the farthest reaches of the playground with Maggie. A little white plastic purse from Micah who was awkward and goofy and so sweet.
Scissors gifted by a mortician that were sharp and pointy and probably not a wise choice for a child, but could cut construction paper with gratifying precision. Coloring and coloring books.
Stacks of mimeograph prints of coloring pages I nabbed from my 2nd grade teacher's garbage can.
The realization that adults could be wrong and I could be right.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/47088037568/nostalgia">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/47088037568/nostalgia</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-65316492575462903192013-04-13T22:28:00.002-05:002013-04-17T22:11:34.104-05:00tortgot those<br />
shriveled in upon myself<br />
wicked witch's shoes<br />
unrecognizable<br />
bent out of shape<br />
curlicues blues<br />
quadruple double triple take<br />
snake eating tail eating snake<br />
snack break<br />
round again bend again<br />
snap, crack, pop and wend again<br />
defensive reflex send again<br />
low down dirty crazy eights<br />
got no good sense to set it straight<br />
<br />
torsion just begins the woes<br />
tension will reap what it sows<br />
when wiggled toe scratches nose<br />
catches slip,<br />
purchase stripped<br />
hips wrists whiplash twist<br />
frenetic kinesis lays its claim<br />
levels, not enough to maim,<br />
decimates it all the same<br />
<br />
recompense clearly due<br />
for me<br />
not you<br />erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-68910441096075570002013-03-13T11:37:00.000-05:002017-09-02T12:13:33.112-05:00postcard: what spring bringsSpring is the light from a star pouring in my window, causing me to stop mid-stride, turn my face...eyes closed, see the pink of my eyelids and feel warmth soak into flesh and bone. My huddled, clenched body softens, loosens, recalls movement and flow.<br />
Neither cold nor heat holds sway. It's the bridge between; the balance before the scale tips. It's remembering and marking the transition. No longing. No denunciation. Just appreciation of the contrast. <br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1629128716"><br /></a>
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/44428755878/forget-new-years-spring-is-for-rejuvenation">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/44428755878/forget-new-years-spring-is-for-rejuvenation</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-24805003882709172482013-02-09T23:34:00.000-06:002017-09-02T11:36:25.848-05:00postcard: who loves you, baby?Lots of people out there love me…and sincerely, I’m sure. But with most I’ve—we’ve—had years to muddy the waters. So much in suspension that makes love difficult to feel and see. So, though this is terribly cliché, the only exceptions I have to offer are my two children. Why do they love me? Well, because they’re hardwired to. Because I radiate imperfection. Because I acknowledge when I fail and say I’m sorry. Because no mistake they make is bigger than my love for them, and I think…I hope they know this.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/42166797016/who-loves-you-baby">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/42166797016/who-loves-you-baby</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-33974557936132353122013-01-27T22:43:00.002-06:002017-09-02T11:35:50.376-05:00postcard: always look on the bright side of lifeYou can't have a Happy Life. There are happy moments and crap moments and <i>meh</i> moments...and a million other moments. I try to embrace them for what they are, not give extended influence to any one, and then move along. I try.<br />
I also try to tip the happiness balance in my favor by<br />
...spending time in the company of funny, smart, and kind people whenever possible.<br />
...expending as little energy as possible on walking, talking black holes.<br />
...carving out something for myself that keeps my brain active and forces me to create.<br />
...knowing that every rough patch is just a string of crap moments, as fleeting as any other. Nothing crap can stay either, Ponyboy.<br />
There's my bright side for you.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/39442162766/always-look-on-the-bright-side-of-life">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/39442162766/always-look-on-the-bright-side-of-life</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-17453128538702141072013-01-27T00:37:00.001-06:002017-09-02T11:34:46.485-05:00postcard: i still don't believe it<br />
A slight majority voted for optimism and compassion.<br />
But 47.8%, almost half, voted for fear. That's what I can't believe.<br />
“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” - Yoda<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/phillipwest/505158448/"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEWZLemVijHX_m9dNWC6uPEXLQqehHfTM4qo9EINbQDmrRy2TKreGGN_YVPXGCU4d5I1BQHGkm2-k2jdk53J9tIu51BRaY558ycayAr2QVJanSY2drhz3zqnQUYOaalUD3jWomVDzBPf8/s400/505158448_d442a6a3ed_b.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/phillipwest/505158448/"><span style="color: black;">Designed by Fumiaki Kawahata</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/phillipwest/505158448/"><span style="color: black;">Folded and photographed by Phillip West</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/36935054949/i-still-dont-believe-it">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/36935054949/i-still-dont-believe-it</a><br /><br />
<br />erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-36469799355369477332013-01-27T00:22:00.000-06:002017-09-02T11:32:59.317-05:00postcard: out of placeI have eczema on my hands, and in recent months it was bad enough that I took to <a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/36793171410/apropos-of-something-amiss">wearing cotton gloves</a>--glaring white, no less...they don't come in any other color--to protect my skin from germs, from my own scratching and picking (sorry: truth), and because, well, <i>nobody</i> likes to flaunt hamburger hands.<br />
So, these gloves are eye-catching, and I get no shortage of questions and comments when I wear them at the library. One individual seeking out some automotive-related books asked about the gloves and, tempering my response based on a sixth sense (a weirdar?) developed out of necessity in my line of work, I replied simply, "I wear them to protect my hands."<br />
The back and forth continued as we sussed out exactly what sort of automotive information he needed and I walked him to a shelf in the 629s to see if something might fit the bill. Out of habit, I reached up to straighten some books on the shelf [<b>WITH MY WHITE GLOVED HANDS</b>]. It was clear to me early on (weirdar) that he was distracted--unable to get past the white gloves and some burning need to know more AND stricken by knowing there is no smooth, socially acceptable way to broach the subject again. The fruit of his mental labor?<br />
"I've always wondered what it's like to handle books with gloves on."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/34616849407/out-of-place">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/34616849407/out-of-place</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-88725667411923526802013-01-26T23:46:00.000-06:002018-06-17T13:08:28.542-05:00postcard: favorite lineI'll be the one to break my heart / I'll be the one to hold the gun<br />
<br />
celebratory.<br />
<br />
"<a href="http://youtu.be/l-iAS18rv68">I Feel It All</a>" by Feist<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33124902143/favorite-line">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33124902143/favorite-line</a><br />
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erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-16634068999999435872013-01-26T23:35:00.000-06:002013-01-26T23:35:24.070-06:00I remember in the beginning<br />
A dream:<br />
I was at an airport restaurant with my love and couldn't keep my hands off him. No ravenous make out attack. Just hands on...a need to feel physical warmth and connection. I feel it in my chest as I write. I've always, <i>always</i> felt the closest and most connected through touch. My heart on my skin.<br />
And now,<br />
he sleeps on top of the blankets<br />
a strike without contact.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-88411558743185680012013-01-26T23:17:00.000-06:002017-09-02T11:30:22.354-05:00postcard: 1234...5you doggedly, patiently strive<br />
and in the meantime, in this<br />
strip mall shoe box, make community<br />
remember names, swap stories<br />
enable pursuits of happiness<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1629128701"><br /></a>
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33135907264/12345">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33135907264/12345</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-76635936346255664062013-01-26T23:02:00.000-06:002017-09-02T11:29:29.802-05:00postcard: self portraitWhat do you get when you cross a persistent, idealistic 20-year-old prone to indignation with the pragmatic version almost twice that age? Me.<br />
I am not the woman my younger self envisioned. I am so much better and so much worse. We cohabit my brain, alternately disappointed with our spineless ultimatums, and impatient with our simplistic if-thens.<br />
Writing helps the truce building. Beyond, because of, or in spite of all this (and depending on the realm), I'm a catalyst, a buffer, a connector, a cleaner, and a creator.<br />
Hi.<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1629128698"><br /></a>
<a href="http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33136402895/self-portrait">http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33136402895/self-portrait</a>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-88138066498256055472012-03-16T11:02:00.001-05:002012-08-22T21:52:32.944-05:00copacetic<br />
cope pathetic erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945162185886074617noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288543195027095111.post-51767417295373768912011-09-20T11:17:00.000-05:002018-07-01T11:20:42.783-05:00quagmire<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana, tahoma, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.16px;">What a sham. But sham implies that we’re fooling someone. Truth is no one is close enough to us to allow any scrutiny. In-laws aren’t fooled because they knew the mess before I hitched my wagon to it. My modes of coping are familiar to them. Familial. Spending so much time in their lives provides a 360 degree, past-present-future view of my quagmire.</span>tiny ehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06147440731556345563noreply@blogger.com0