postcard: i still don't believe it

A slight majority voted for optimism and compassion.
But 47.8%, almost half, voted for fear. That's what I can't believe.
“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” - Yoda

Designed by Fumiaki Kawahata

Folded and photographed by Phillip West

http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/36935054949/i-still-dont-believe-it

postcard: out of place

I have eczema on my hands, and in recent months it was bad enough that I took to wearing cotton gloves--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, nobody likes to flaunt hamburger hands.
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."
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 [WITH MY WHITE GLOVED HANDS]. 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?
"I've always wondered what it's like to handle books with gloves on."

http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/34616849407/out-of-place

postcard: favorite line

I'll be the one to break my heart / I'll be the one to hold the gun

celebratory.

"I Feel It All" by Feist

http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33124902143/favorite-line

I remember in the beginning
A dream:
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, always felt the closest and most connected through touch.  My heart on my skin.
And now,
he sleeps on top of the blankets
a strike without contact.

postcard: 1234...5

you doggedly, patiently strive
and in the meantime, in this
strip mall shoe box, make community
remember names, swap stories
enable pursuits of happiness

http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33135907264/12345

postcard: self portrait

What do you get when you cross a persistent, idealistic 20-year-old prone to indignation with the pragmatic version almost twice that age? Me.
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.
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.
Hi.

http://nbwhoop.tumblr.com/post/33136402895/self-portrait

copacetic

cope pathetic

quagmire

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.