spur

This isn't what it looks like. Unless it looks like yoga. A pro-active friend invited me and a bunch of other yogi pals to join her and a thousand others on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art a couple weeks ago to practice for an hour to raise money and awareness for an organization called Yoga Unites for Living Beyond Breast Cancer. I had fun and made new friends. Well, obviously.

So what the hell is that up there? It's an assisted upavistha konasana of course. My partner helped me bend deeper. It's important to open your hips.

smack-heady persuasion

In my last life as a childless struggling artist living in Brooklyn, I'd go apartment hunting roughly every four years. I'd walk from room to room, my imagination already planting myself in the space, picturing the walk to the subway, the soapy electric smell of the laundry room, the clicking of kitchen cabinets, the feel of the air while I laid in bed and considered my new dust motes. This was an uplifting experience if the apartment boasted period detail, hardwood floors and was situated on a beautiful block. More often the apartment smelled like mold, had drop-ceilings, fake paneled walls and the only bodega around sold three year-old Bisquick. It would take me days sometimes to rid myself of the feeling that my life had buckled in on itself in an oppressive particle-board heap, even as I knew I hadn't signed a lease, and wouldn't in a jillion years.

radish

Bryan continues to toil in the garden. Here is our first crop. Radishes. Mmm.

I'm less in the dirt, more at the stove, even though I really want to know how to garden. I'll get there eventually. When the fossil fuel runs out in a few years, say.

fairy town

This is what I get for spending more time in the kitchen and turning off the TV on a lovely spring evening. I was feeling all smug with my meat sauce and brown rice fusilli. Little did I know that while my ragu blipped away my angels were behind the garage hurling river rocks through our lawn chairs. 

Maybe they weren't happy with the color? The aesthetic got on their nerves? Their language is still too coarse to articulate such grievances, such attacks on their sophisticated senses of design, so when grilled, they looked stunned.