It’s been almost a year since I feel I’ve really written anything.*

Yet, there has been much efforts made toward writing. Here’s a list:

1. noted that the wordpress app was in a hidden-ish and sort of ominous folder labled “blog”. The other app in the blog folder was the self indulgent “blog stats” link**. I moved both to my less-threatening folder, “writing”.

2. I mentioned my squeamishness regarding bloging to my kind therapist. She noted that the echoing voice of one middle aged man in my community, saying “I dont know why all these kids writing the details of their lives on the internet,” doesn’t really have a better take on the relevance of internet culture than I do. Or at least that’s what I think she said. That’s how I chose to read her warmly humored smirk. Neither one of us brought up the reality that this cafe hang about had to have been reading the blogs to know what to claim was tmi.
3. I borrowed Margaret Atwood’s “Moving Targets” and Baby’s in Black, a graphic novel by Arne Bellstorf about Astrid Kirhherr and The Beatles’ time meeting and collaborating. Also took out Roger Rosenblatt’s Unless It Moves the Human Heart. Aun borrowed Sleeping Dragons All Around, by the beloved Sheree Fitch. (That library rocked it yesterday.) I’ve been reading*** Julia Cameron’s The Right to Write and Bell Hooks’ all about love. Reading about creators and their process inspires creation.
4. I’ve talked with, even befriended, writer friends. I’m slowly recalling how little time most “writers” actually spend writing, and that most all writers doubt themselves. I attempt to push myself out of the “I shouldn’t write because I’m not a writer because I don’t often enough write” spiral.
5. I signed up for SARK’s exceptionally welcome weekly email. I’m reading her writing. I’m practicing the art of “micro movements”. Rather than procrastinating, and spending my efforts on hating myself for procrastinating, I do a small thing – a tiny thing – to begin what it is I eventually intend to do. I make the action more easy for myself, or more appealing, in some small way, and then I attempt to not beat on myself for being distracted immediately afterwards.
6. I’ve filed for divorce, and am filling out immigration paperwork, and am tracking my finances if not quite dealing with them perfectly. I’m climbing out of the rubble that was the messy result of my saturn return. I spent $20 on a big ole astrological reading, telling myself the personalized info was research for a piece on coming of age at 30. I attempt to not let skepticism eclipse inspiration.
7. I’ve changed the way I write an “A”. I recall intentionally chaining my “e” as a teenager, and it stuck. Also, I disliked my “D”‘s until a few years ago.
8. I got Adele and Melissa Ferrick back on the ipod. They had both been banished in a bad synch.
9. I allowed myself to be distracted on the way to prune the tomato plants. I worry I’ve left it too late, and the lower leaves are yellowing and I cant tell if that’s because they’ve been overwatered or under fed or over winded or transplanted too late. Most likely the pots are too small. Container-friendly vegetables my ass. Now they’re spindly and the tops I need to chop off are the first to flower and fruit. I’ll need to have faith to make the cuts. Suddenly, holding the knife, searching for my less-wet garden shoes I have a urge to write. Instead. And I take it.****

20120802-120217.jpg

20120802-120501.jpg

*the anniversary of Sean’s arrival in NS is a scant few weeks away, August 23rd.

**note to the iphone users, in case you missed this delicious feature: to craft an app-like icon on your phone that opens a favored url, simply click the edit icon when you have said url open in safari and then “Add to Home Screen”

***or atleast carrying these books around, reading perhaps a page a month each. It’s heavy stuff, but it sort of fuels me to have supplies near by.

****it occurs to me that in the spring, when the garden is orderly and plan-able I shouldn’t expect to get much writing done. Now, as everything overgrows and fights off aphids there’s so many “if’s” the space makes me spin. Happily there’s lots to snack on while I wander around overwhelmed. The raspberries this year are fantastic. So will be the tomatoes… I just need to man up and do it.

Sitting in the local spend-more-than-you-have-to-because-you’ve-been-led-to-believe-it-will-make-a-difference-in-the-global-south-but-you-know-with-certainty-the-staff-make-less-than-a-living-wage-so-who’s-to-say-if-you’re-being-duped-out-of-your-money cafe this evening* I’m somewhat overwhelmed by the richness that is the internet. There’s just so much Stuff out there. And I might even like to read some of it. All I need to do is make a request to the great goddess that is the google and, instantaneously**, there’s my wishes laid before me. But. What to look up? What to type? What to read? What to know? What to feel? ahhhhh

Soothing. What I want is some nice warm cozy soothing. And the fuzzy australian’s using the headphones… so… I go to the old friend, or atleast the disembodied corpse of the old friend now that the print magazine is no longer being published… Mothering.com

Every two months it would arrive in the mail box and, in unison with attachment parents desperate for a little validation, i hid behind the piles of mess that was my life, and read the thing cover to cover. Ahhh That’s better. All those other hyper-achieving highly sensitive mothers who refuse to feed their children anything other than compassion and best-bet integrity… all those other Moms find it both hard and sweet and meaningful and repetitive and confusing as well.

So I turned to Mothering, hoping for that good ol long coming fix of reassurance.

Instead I find a lot of articles (under the “Child” link) about*** glossy handmade waldorfy perfection and how our kids are so much better off because we’re loving them in a more “wholesome” way than those plasticy mamma. Sure they don’t “say” that. But, they do. We all know they do.

I did take a gander at the article “The Parent They Need”. By the second paragraph I recall having read it. A few times.

Balls. So, no reassurance there. No fresh fix. No… well… no reality.

And instead of returning to the search of the interwebs I decide to give a little of what it is I’m looking for.

My live is messy. And lovely. And so real it makes my head spin. Love is abundant. Love sometimes sounds like screaming and crying. Love sometimes sounds like snoring. Love sometimes is very very still and silent and lonely, especially on Thursday, when she goes to her Dad’s and me and the fuzzy-step-dad-in-training go into kid withdrawals and get cranky just as we’re supposed to be relaxing into the lovely peaceful kidlessness.

My life is a beautiful mess of so many of the things I’ve wanted and worked toward it being. And it all happens, without me noticing, without me appreciating it, when I’m busy making other plans.

I’m a chip-in-the-tea-cup-makes-me-love-it person.
I like my stuff scuffed up.
That’s how I know it’s mine.
That’s how I know it’s real.

And so here are some of the scuffs. Here’s the stuff I wanted the google to deliver to me but was to spoiled and impatient to articulate a search for it.

One. Sometimes I pick out cloths for my kid I know dont match because it’s what’s warm or clean and hope the adults in her school will assume she insisted on wearing outrageous contrasting patterns and coulours.

If no one else buys my kid a fashion doll for christmas I likely will because she asked Santa for one and she’s still young enough I can claim to “protest” the toy (There’s no way this doll could be alive if she were made of flesh. These toys tell lies to children and try to make them unhappy in their bodies so they’ll later be able to be convinced that they need to buy a whole lot of crap to regain the joy stolen from them in their childhood. Etc.) while also letting her have it (The point, I’ve explained, is that she sees their nonsence and learns to think for herself. Critical thinking skills, I’ll tell her. See the bull shit. Oh, and have fun too.) Really, it’s cristmas and I’d rather she believe that santa is all powerful and there is magic and jump around in pink plastic inspired joy of having shiney new expensive crap… i’d rather this than have a barbie-and-monster-high-doll-free house. Plus, I know what she wants, and if I just go buy it I’ll have that task done. And she doens’t really play with her felted or wooden or handmadey toys. blech.

Sometimes I plant things in my garden so I can say I’m growing a wierd highly nutritious variety of vegetables, knowing with confidence that no one will ever eat this food. I may harvest some of it and give it to friends (who may eat it, but, really, are more likely to let it rot in their crispers). While planting these seeds I think to myself of the nice rich compost it will make.

We swear a home. A lot. There’s a constant discussion about the definitions of a variety of spicy words. Happily my kid has enough eager-to-please and impulse control to not catch and replicate the pottymouthness. I think to myself that I’m helping her gather the vocabulary she’ll need for hte punk songs she’ll write as a teenager.

Throughout every conversation with my kid’s teacher I’m itching to ask her if my kid is smarter/more creative/cooler than her age peers. I’m craving evaluation and pats on the back. I wish i could just chill and be grateful she’s happy and seems able to learn at a pace she’s comfortable with.

Sometimes she’s so insightful and articulate I cry.

I’m happy she doesn’t yet know how to read the clock, and intend on teaching her this skill as late in her life as possible, so that I can claim it’s bedtime as soon as I’ve had enough. Mostly I want to be asleep by 8:30pm, too.

I’m glad I only have the one kid, but, simultaneously feel like I really have no cred as a take-myself-seriously-mamma because I get three days off of parenting a week. Also, there’s no livestock in my life. Yet.

I’m concidering using the fact that I’ve delayed selectively vaccinated my kid this long to get in the door at a local family doc (who’s supposed to be great, and has a wholistic background including work as a naturopath). I’ll claim to now want to vaccinate, pick the few I’ll need to stick her with so we can travel with intack paperwork, and bat my eyelashes hoping he’ll take us on as patients.

I made this wobbly tree:

20111209-210723.jpg
And I’ll make more of them.

*still no wifis or 3Gs or cell reception at the little house on the hill. balls. think about it: you have to get dressed and buy warm beverages to stalk people on Facebook

**when did I become so impatient a ten second wait for a page to load feels maddeningly unreasonable?

***seemingly about, really. I didn’t read any of them before writing them off. Again with the impatience.

Sitting in the local spend-more-than-you-have-to-because-you’ve-been-led-to-believe-it-will-make-a-difference-in-the-global-south-but-you-know-with-certainty-the-staff-make-less-than-a-living-wage-so-who’s-to-say-if-you’re-being-duped-out-of-your-money cafe this evening* I’m somewhat overwhelmed by the richness that is the internet. There’s just so much Stuff out there. And I might even like to read some of it. All I need to do is make a request to the great goddess that is the google and, instantaneously**, there’s my wishes laid before me. But. What to look up? What to type? What to read? What to know? What to feel? ahhhhh

Soothing. What I want is some nice warm cozy soothing. And the fuzzy australian’s using the headphones… so… I go to the old friend, or atleast the disembodied corpse of the old friend now that the print magazine is no longer being published… Mothering.com

Every two months it would arrive in the mail box and, in unison with attachment parents desperate for a little validation, i hid behind the piles of mess that was my life, and read the thing cover to cover. Ahhh That’s better. All those other hyper-achieving highly sensitive mothers who refuse to feed their children anything other than compassion and best-bet integrity… all those other Moms find it both hard and sweet and meaningful and repetitive and confusing as well.

So I turned to Mothering, hoping for that good ol long coming fix of reassurance.

Instead I find a lot of articles (under the “Child” link) about*** glossy handmade waldorfy perfection and how our kids are so much better off because we’re loving them in a more “wholesome” way than those plasticy mamma. Sure they don’t “say” that. But, they do. We all know they do.

I did take a gander at the article “The Parent They Need”. By the second paragraph I recall having read it. A few times.

Balls. So, no reassurance there. No fresh fix. No… well… no reality.

And instead of returning to the search of the interwebs I decide to give a little of what it is I’m looking for.

My live is messy. And lovely. And so real it makes my head spin. Love is abundant. Love sometimes sounds like screaming and crying. Love sometimes sounds like snoring. Love sometimes is very very still and silent and lonely, especially on Thursday, when she goes to her Dad’s and me and the fuzzy-step-dad-in-training go into kid withdrawals and get cranky just as we’re supposed to be relaxing into the lovely peaceful kidlessness.

My life is a beautiful mess of so many of the things I’ve wanted and worked toward it being. And it all happens, without me noticing, without me appreciating it, when I’m busy making other plans.

I’m a chip-in-the-tea-cup-makes-me-love-it person.
I like my stuff scuffed up.
That’s how I know it’s mine.
That’s how I know it’s real.

And so here are some of the scuffs. Here’s the stuff I wanted the google to deliver to me but was to spoiled and impatient to articulate a search for it.

One. Sometimes I pick out cloths for my kid I know dont match because it’s what’s warm or clean and hope the adults in her school will assume she insisted on wearing outrageous contrasting patterns and coulours.

If no one else buys my kid a fashion doll for christmas I likely will because she asked Santa for one and she’s still young enough I can claim to “protest” the toy (There’s no way this doll could be alive if she were made of flesh. These toys tell lies to children and try to make them unhappy in their bodies so they’ll later be able to be convinced that they need to buy a whole lot of crap to regain the joy stolen from them in their childhood. Etc.) while also letting her have it (The point, I’ve explained, is that she sees their nonsence and learns to think for herself. Critical thinking skills, I’ll tell her. See the bull shit. Oh, and have fun too.) Really, it’s cristmas and I’d rather she believe that santa is all powerful and there is magic and jump around in pink plastic inspired joy of having shiney new expensive crap… i’d rather this than have a barbie-and-monster-high-doll-free house. Plus, I know what she wants, and if I just go buy it I’ll have that task done. And she doens’t really play with her felted or wooden or handmadey toys. blech.

Sometimes I plant things in my garden so I can say I’m growing a wierd highly nutritious variety of vegetables, knowing with confidence that no one will ever eat this food. I may harvest some of it and give it to friends (who may eat it, but, really, are more likely to let it rot in their crispers). While planting these seeds I think to myself of the nice rich compost it will make.

We swear a home. A lot. There’s a constant discussion about the definitions of a variety of spicy words. Happily my kid has enough eager-to-please and impulse control to not catch and replicate the pottymouthness. I think to myself that I’m helping her gather the vocabulary she’ll need for hte punk songs she’ll write as a teenager.

Throughout every conversation with my kid’s teacher I’m itching to ask her if my kid is smarter/more creative/cooler than her age peers. I’m craving evaluation and pats on the back. I wish i could just chill and be grateful she’s happy and seems able to learn at a pace she’s comfortable with.

Sometimes she’s so insightful and articulate I cry.

I’m happy she doesn’t yet know how to read the clock, and intend on teaching her this skill as late in her life as possible, so that I can claim it’s bedtime as soon as I’ve had enough. Mostly I want to be asleep by 8:30pm, too.

I’m glad I only have the one kid, but, simultaneously feel like I really have no cred as a take-myself-seriously-mamma because I get three days off of parenting a week. Also, there’s no livestock in my life. Yet.

I’m concidering using the fact that I’ve delayed selectively vaccinated my kid this long to get in the door at a local family doc (who’s supposed to be great, and has a wholistic background including work as a naturopath). I’ll claim to now want to vaccinate, pick the few I’ll need to stick her with so we can travel with intack paperwork, and bat my eyelashes hoping he’ll take us on as patients.

I made this wobbly tree:

20111209-210723.jpg
And I’ll make more of them.

*still no wifis or 3Gs or cell reception at the little house on the hill. balls. think about it: you have to get dressed and buy warm beverages to stalk people on Facebook

**when did I become so impatient a ten second wait for a page to load feels maddeningly unreasonable?

***seemingly about, really. I didn’t read any of them before writing them off. Again with the impatience.

Writing has been hard lately.
For many reasons.
But, first, I am distracted by a few things:
First, Margaret’s loaned me a SARK book on creativity, and thank you, it’s been very helpful.
And Second that I’ve just discovered that I can type in bed, under the covers, hiding from the sudden below zero temp, with wet wet wet in the air, onto my phone via the wireless keyboard*.
The third distraction is to say wait, why am I over hear on this side of the bed, cold and hiding, in order to not keep** Sean up with the writing?
Perhaps I could be over there, instead.

Creative goal inspired by SARK, and November : Learn to type, in bed, while wearing a sleeping Australian.

20111118-154026.jpg

*a sweet and swanky gift from my love
**very warm and cozy seeming

Last night my kid rediscovered her Victorian style paper dolls*. Sitting on the floor in her little room, she matched outfits to faces; “She has the most beautiful curls, so she’s the angel. Ooo! Here’s the bonnet to match your girl’s dress!” Soon she found the box top showed a few of the pages, scaled down, from which the dolls were cut. For her it was a map of how each doll was to be dressed, and she jumped to have a chance to recreate order as it was intended to be. In the moment I was concerned about her creativity and her sense of freedom. I worried that she WASN’T the sort of kid to paste the dresses above her bed, as wall paper, or even tear each colorful piece into tiny bits and ignite the whole mess in her effort to burn down the current socio-polical mal-structure and orchestrat a new reality from the ashes. “Conformist alert!” my mind screamed. But… but. Then I sat down and helped her in her task of arranging things Just. So. And (some of) the tension of my adult life melted from me. I, too, have enjoyed crafting order, following directions, checking boxes, and generally remaking things in a predestined design. It’s okay that she’s wanting to follow someone else’s concept. It’s okay that she likes school. It’s okay that she’s eager to please. It’s okay that I want to follow someone else’s order. It’s okay that I liked school. It’s okay that I’m eager to please.

It’s even okay that I get confused sometimes and assume her experiences are replicas of mine when they’re not, or hide from understanding her because I’m avoiding the thought that she’s like me and I’m disallowing her from being herself, and even that I stop thinking about why I’m thinking what I’m thinking and just stick the tiny little boots onto the many-times-copied image of what some opium addled vicorian wished little girls could be.

Everything. Actually. Everything is okay.

Even when it’s not.

There have been no drains in the sinks, bath, or washing machine for a week.** Here, sweet houseman of mine, here, the house challenges you, here, have my debit card, and rise to the occasion! For the first few days is was almost adventur and chivalrousness. We blamed the beavers for flooding the septic field and outlet house.*** Sean carted bucketload after bucketload of water out through the basement so I could have a long(ish) hot shower. It reminds him of Melbourne, he says, hauling water, where everyone had a bucket in their shower to catch water as the city diallowed them from watering their gardens. I love your strong shoulders, I drooled. He tried the nasty chemical option, and we stared at the thing and wondered. He rented one snake thing, then another, and we stared at the thing and wondered and wondered. Then came a “bad day” and we both discovered mildly frustrated voices sound a hell of a lot like yelling when spoken in a small room full of firewood, standing water, and hardly enough room to turn around. The thing is, with yelling, I am reminded****, is that if both parties are commited to being right at all costs, and yelling seems to increase the force or relevance of a statement, shit can get mighty loud mighty fast. Freak out. Anxiety attack. Kid gets off the bus. Slammed doors. Take your corners. He drives away. We watch a movie. I braid something. He pulls back into the driveway. Sheepish looks all around. Brusied egos and pride. Early Dinner. Early to bed.

No sleep for me.

Is Sean leaving, asks Aun.
No, I say. (please, no)
Good. She says. (thankgoodness she wants him to stay.)
I’m sorry we argued when you were sleeping and woke you up.
Yeah, I was glad when you went back to the basement so I could go back to sleep. I was about to tell you to do that.
Sorry. I appologized again. So, you want him to stay?
Yes, she paused, but he’ll have to learn a few things. Like not slamming the door. That hurt my ears. Hey! It’s raining! Yay! Indoor recess!

A Friend reasured me that my kid seems resilient enough for this. She’s honest about her experience within it. She feels secure, through it. Her life functions. I’m on top of the “kid stuff” still.
And she seems able to deal with the reality that a relationship needn’t be easy to be worth it.

Phew. Really? She’s okay? Actually okay? And I’m not a terrible mother for having invited this passion, this drama, this struggle, this romance, this massive overwhelming challenging time of growth into our lives?
Really?
You think my kid is okay?

Tears of release.

Time spent dressing paper dolls to spec. Time spent making mini pizzas. Time spent rapidly deleting photos off my phone to make more room for the third video of her Sparks Enrollment night. Time listening to her reading to me. Time rushing her to stop reading and brush her teeth instead because we’re going to be late for school so get your butt into that bathroom, child. But it’s not my butt that needs to be brushed, Mom, she grins.

Time.

Many***** people who love me tell me I’m impatient. Sean said, sweetly, that in the moment, I can be elegantly patient…. but. The fuse is long. I can deal with kids and angry customers. But in my life, in my planning and my to-do list, I’m almost instantly frustrated that an idea doesn’t become real as or even before it’s hatched. I want it done. Now. Yesterday, preferably. You need to learn how to be in a family, I seethe at him. You need to stop kicking me in the balls and then expecting me to be gentle, he says during the next day cleaning up the rubble. He’s only been her for three months, I try so hard to remember. He’s been a bachelor for… well, forever.

He has within himself an accumulated experience from which I have so many many things to benefit and learn. And, likewise I have for him. We’re not together just because we are simlar, but because we are each other’s compliment.

You have to learn to argue differently, I yell at him, because this hurts me too much.
That’s a lot of bull shit jargon, he fumes.
No it’s not, it’s what I need. I scream, generations of women’s needs being ignored because we’re all “hyterical” wait for me to win this one for them, for all of us.
What the fuck it makes no sense to me, he insists.
Who cares if it makes sense? If I did something that hurt you I would at least try to learn how to do it less. I would definitely atleast try, you jerk!
And he reached out his hand. Right, he said. I’m sorry.

Time. And paper dolls. And asking for help from my father who can come help fix the plumbing. And facing the shame of having not yet filed my taxes and just doing it******.
And painting my fingernails. And yoga. And knitting. And having great friends who say they’ll bully me into at least a half day of “girl stuff”. And therapy, maybe. And another pregnancy, eventually. And, mostly, saying fuck off when I’m being hurt.

And writing.

And knowing that it’s not just me who has a messy life and plugged pipes and doubts about my choices and achievement anxiety and resilient kid who knows, better than her mother, that in time we all can eventually learn to stop slamming doors and hurting each other’s ears.

20111117-140240.jpg

*They cost two dollars for six sheets, at the dollar store, then took her Dad and I three days and two pairs of manicure siccors to cut out. There’s the dolls, and their dresses, of course, but also this little muskrat and a few bunnies and stuffed bears who come with outfits. And an armchair. And a globe on a stand.

**Glory be, and thank you goddess, the toilet’s still worked.

***Having previously cut down the three best trees on the property (including my apple tree) to flood the marsh behind the house.

****FYI, the wasband, Aun’s Dad, was not a yeller. That little house heard almost no raised voices for the first three years of me living there. Nor did Aun herself. It’s a new reality.

*****Most. All, likely, I just haven’t heard all of them yet.

******As soon as I’m finished blogging.

I love the internet. I have friends who are far too cool and collected to love the internet, and I once pretended to agree with them, but really, I’ve pretty much always loved the internet. In 1996 there was mIRC via my high school’s computer lab. Then in 1998 I spent far to much time on ICQ. In 2005, when Auna was an infant, mothering.com/discussions kept me sane. Live journal became an almost daily (and near disastrous) reality. I signed onto facebook in 2006 when only those of us with uni email accounts could join. Song lyrics, free knitting patterns, the story -behind-the-story stuff… it’s all fascinated me in a big bad way. And now technology seems to have caught up with users’ needs & wants in a way that it’s becoming rather easy to promote ourselves without have to feed the beast that is the marketing industry. Sure, all sorts of nice things are ending (or suffering as they preserver for a little longer) while the internet takes over their niche. Mothering mag is no longer being published (but it’s online community has tens of thousands of users and is gargantuan in scale and scope). Newspapers suffer. I fear the most holly of all grails – the public library – may loose out, long term. But… but… but! Cant make an omelette* without breaking a few eggs, and the fact that we can now articulate our own perspective and ideas and, in a few minutes a day, help reach the people who want to hear us… it’s changing everything. I’m glad to be a participant. Hence, recently, I started to tweet.

Oh the twitter. (shameless plug, the first… I’m @seeing_eye_cat )

Now, if you dont do this already, follow Stephen Fry. He’s the goose that laid the golden egg. Just do it. You’re welcome.

Then (shameless plug, the second, in 3… 2… 1) if you dig my blog tweet it’s url (https://womanbeingwomandoing.wordpress.com/). Phew. There. I typed it.

Next, stop doing those other two things and listen to this:

Now, listen to it again. I know you want to. Here’s the lyrics. You’re welcome (again).

Bitter Ruin – Trust

Dust is settling on my eyelids as I sleep
Tar is sliding down the window through which I see
Somehow its blacker than these piano keys
I think I’ve lost the ability to see
I’m so cold through all these clothes
I’m crushed to a pulp, on this whisky I gulp, pour pills down my throatUnlock me I mean you no harm
Bite the arm that feeds me real food
How do you expect me to tell the truth
Trust belongs to you

Far too risky to feed you with bare arms
Wait your turn you’re greedy I hear you
How can I protect myself from you
Trust is for fools

Don’t disguise yourself I’m easy led
Don’t pretend you’re drunk that whisky’s down your dress
And I know those pills are aspirin for your head
An obvious fact ‘cause if they weren’t bitch you’d be dead
Well I’m sick of this now, you’ve crossed the line
Look at you, you state, wipe the tar of your face and the dust from your eyes

Unlock me I mean you no harm
Bite the arm that feeds me real food
How do you expect me to tell the truth
Trust belongs to you

Far too risky to feed you with bare arms
Wait your turn you’re greedy I hear you
How can I protect myself from you
Trust is for fools

How can you ask me to trust you again?
Did I ask you to trust me at all?
How can you tell me you don’t want me back?
I don’t want you around me at all

Unlock me I mean you no harm
Bite the arm that feeds me real food
How do you expect me to tell the truth
Trust belongs to you

Far too risky to feed you with bare arms
Wait your turn you’re greedy I hear you
How can I protect myself from you
Trust is for fools

Trust is for fools
Trust is for fools
Trust is for fools
Trust is for fools
Trust is for fools
Trust is for fools
Trust is for fools

Read their story here and how they make and promote their music here. They’re crafting all their art and it’s promotion themselves, and, as you know, have made great use of this internet meme viral video thing. Buy their single. Vote for artists benefiting from their art.
Now go listen to it again. And just try to get it out of your head. Good luck : )
*to make an omelette: crack a few eggs into a largish bowl. Heat your pan to medium high. Use non stick, or lots of grease, or both, but if you’re using butter for christ sake dont burn it and if does start to burn rinse your pan, lower the heat, and start again, because burnt butter sucks. Now splash a little hot water into your eggs, and beat them until they’re uniform and smooth. Dump the whole thing into the pan and wiggle the pan a little as the egg starts to set. If it’s sticking, slide a spatula underneath the mass to try to unstick it, but try not to break it into pieces. If it’s impossibly stuck, trust that in time you’ll find the right heat/grease balance, and just eat your eggs and as Julia Child says, No Excuses, No Apologies! Now… when they egg mass seems mostly cooked on the bottom but still juicy on top turn your oven broiler on high, slide your pan onto the top rack, and watch as the top of your omelette gets all brown and poofy. Take it out of the oven, dump cheese and various other yummy things in the middle, fold it over, and eat it when it’s hot.

a favorite from this year.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.