Sleeping In Might Kill Us (But Poetry Might Save Us)

I have a problem.

I sleep in. No matter how early I go to bed, no matter where I am in the world, I am always tired in the morning. So when I have to get up, I never can. Now, I understand that this is a thing that most people experience, but it seems serious in my case. Like, I want to get up, but I actually can’t do it. My eyelids will not stay open without toothpicks propping them up, but that makes me feel like I’m in a toothpick prison so it’s not worth it. Thus, I hit whatever button I can find to make that horrific beeping stop, and I roll over, back into my second life which is that lived in dreamland. And then I wake up five minutes later because the button I happened to hit was the snooze button when the one I was aiming for was the let-me-sleep-forever button, and I still want to sleep. At this point however, things are getting clearer. I can actually open my eyes, for starters. I also now know where I am, and I can quantify how much I want to stay in bed. And of course, I can think about all the things I have to do: class, essays, laundry, cleaning. So the clock gives me five more minutes (wrong button again!) and at the end of that time, which is starting to feeling like a taunt, I can see even clearer. Now I can see past where I am and what I have to do, and I can see what I want to do. I remember that I had an amazing idea for a novel last night and that I planned to write it today, and I remember that my friend who I haven’t seen in ten years wanted to meet for lunch. I remember that there was an internship I wanted to apply for and I remember that there were people who needed saving today. But it’s just so much. It’s too much. I can open my eyes now, but I choose to close them. Then I hit the clock (where is that let-me-sleep-forever button?!) and officially drown myself in the counterproductive cycle that is the snooze button. There is so much to do that I just go back to sleep. And it seems to happen every single morning.

So. That’s where my problem stands. Sleeping in is my worst habit. I love the morning, I don’t want to sleep in, but here I am. This morning however, I woke up a little earlier than usual and had some time to sit in the corner and think about what I’ve done, and also about how sleeping in might very negatively affect our society in the long run. And I had a little more time, so I put my thoughts into a poem:

The Snooze Button

It’s 12PM and all is quiet

In this town no dogs bark

No bicycle wheels spoke

No vendors speak.

One more hour and we might be up.

Nothing’s getting done, except in our dreams

Where we can do anything, and it’s safer to try

“There’s so much I can do that it hurts my head,

So this morning I think I’ll just stay in my bed.”

I could do anything here, too

I could write a song

I could write a book

I could get on the subway and meet someone new

I could walk somewhere.

“Sleeping in will be our downfall.”

“As if it will cause any movement at all.”

So see? I don’t get nothing done; in my waking hours I think I actually get quite a bit done… I think. But I just wish I had more time. I wish I could get up and give myself more time. Because there’s only so much of it and I, and I think a lot of other people, waste too much of it sleeping in.

Now. About those other people. We all seem to be dying at the hand of sleep, but we’re clearly all trying to cope with it through poetry. I’ve put together a list of songs (which are poems) that you can listen to to understand that if you sleep in, you’re not alone. I’ve also added my favourite line from each song, and why it can comfort you who will want to sleep in forever.

1. The Smiths – “Asleep”

Favourite line: “Sing me to sleep / And then leave me alone”

This line is amazing because it addresses the paradoxical desire we sleeper-inners have: the desire for someone to be there as we fall asleep and then to let us sleep long after they want us to wake again. I think it represents my paradoxical problem with sleeping in: there’s so much I want to do, and so many people I want to see but… I just want to be left alone.

2. The Beatles – “I’m Only Sleeping”

Favourite line: “I’m ONLY sleeping”

That word: only. I love it. Sleeping in isn’t always big deal. Sometimes – often – it’s well-deserved.

3. Mary Poppins – “Stay Awake”

Favourite line: “You’re not sleepy as you seem”

This is what I tell myself, Mary Poppins. Over and over again, I sing this to myself as I try to get up. BUT IT DOESN’T WORK! Your reverse psychology has reverse-psychologied me. I thought it would be more of a creepy-hypnosis thing that would wake me but alas, your lullabic skills have charmed me in the same way they charmed those adorable children. Have you any other suggestions? (Also those children are adorable).

4. The Postal Service – “Sleeping In”

Favourite line: “I plan on sleeping in”

That’s what I need. A plan. And the confidence to carry it out, without all of this worrying and this writing… but then, that’s what you’re doing, is it not, Mr. Gibbard? Writing rather than sleeping? Ha! We’re not so confident, are we… (P.S. please reunite the band! I will wake up for you!)

5. Jack Johnson – “Banana Pancakes”

Favourite line: “And we could pretend it all the time”

Wishful thinking. In pretending there’s no world outside, that is. But I’m okay with it. I’m okay with pretending, for just one… more… morning…

So, here we are. With a problem and some poetry. Does anyone have answers to our questions? How will we stop sleeping in? Answers would be helpful for sleeper-inners all over the world like us, so that we don’t find ourselves in this town I write of, this town that we might have already created. Please advise?:)

I Was On a Flight Today, So I Wrote a Story About a Car Ride

Good day, friends. Today I find myself writing, for my first Write or Wrong post!. And reading. My reading for the day: the next topic my 642 Things to Write About Project. My writing: a short story. A hint at the short story (more an excuse to put a picture in the post):

http://www.healthconspiracy.com

The twelfth topic is: You have just swallowed your pride and done something you didn’t want to do. Your friend wants to know why. The two of you are driving around an almost-full parking garage for a space for the friend’s oversize pickup. Write the scene.

My answer (which is inspired by this topic, not instructed):

Cucumber Water

I was sixteen when I met him, she tells me. At this very hotel, in the fitness centre. I was filling up a glass of cucumber water, when there he was, filling his own glass at the next cooler. I was at the hotel with my parents, for someone’s wedding. Maybe an aunt.

There’s a spot, there, I say.

Not yet. This parkade is big. We’ve got a while.

Fine. Keep going.

We had already been there a few nights. We hadn’t taken a vacation in a while, so we came early to ski.

Are you good at skiing?

I wasn’t then. I might have gotten into it though, that weekend.

That weekend. You’re right, that sounds intense.

Don’t make it worse by saying that again. I do not want to be telling this story. But I have to tell someone, before I go back in.

So tell me. You were getting cucumber water.

I hate cucumber water. I just thought it would look classy.

Anyway.

Yes, anyway. I looked up and he looked down. And that was it, really. Towel over his shoulder, green eyes. Drinking, cup empty, walking away. I sipped my cucumber water and looked after him as he left. Anyway, I went back up to the room. The wedding was that night. I took a shower.

You’ll be able to fit into that one.

She reaches up and pats the dashboard. Not Lor. She’s too big.

You named your truck?

Everyone names their vehicle. They won’t all admit it, but the vehicle is the home now. The home and the family. It has to have a name.

I wouldn’t name my vehicle.

You clearly don’t have one. Anyway. After my shower, I came out of the bathroom. My dad was watching T.V. and my mom was sleeping. I was surprised that they were there, because they had gotten me my own room.

What are you doing here? I asked.

Our room’s being cleaned.

Anyway. You should get ready, I said to my dad. Two hours until the wedding.

You should get ready. You have to change. All I have to do is throw on a suit jacket.

Fine. Lie there. I smiled at him.

Did you find anyone to bring yet? he asked.

I hesitated. No. I’ll go alone.

That’s kind of pathetic, my mom mumbled into her pillow.

Thanks for the support, Mom.

My dad took his eyes off the T.V. for a second and looked down at my mom. Good parenting.

She didn’t respond. He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

Nothing we can do, he whispered, loud enough so she could hear.

She did. No, you can find her a date.

Stop it.

I just don’t want to be seen with a daughter who doesn’t have a date.

Go back to sleep.

My parents fight all the time. My dad smiled at me. I smiled back, that smile that is a frown trying its best, you know? I grabbed my dress from the closet and went back into the bathroom.

There there there! It’s big enough, go in! I point in front of her.

Stop it. You said you’re not in a rush, and I’m not either. So just wait until I finish.

I sit back and roll my eyes. She keeps driving through this dingy parkade. I wish she would choose a spot. I have stuff to do.

Anyway.

Anyway. I got dressed, they did too, and we went down. Looking pathetic, I suppose. And we went to the wedding. She sighed. I hate weddings.

Always?

Because of that weekend.

Just tell me what happened.

Okay. So I was there, and it was just a bunch of these uppity people my parents always hang out with, so after the ceremony and the main course, I went for a walk around the hotel.

Past the fitness centre?

Just to see if he was there. He was cute, that’s all.

Was he?

He was not. Anyway, I thought, as I filled a cup of cucumber water and walked to the elevator, he’s gone. Somewhere else. So he doesn’t work out all day.

And then… I probe as we pass yet another giant parking spot.

And then I took the elevator upstairs, to my room. Where I walked out of those awful heels, put my hair up and turned on the T.V. Hotels, you see, start on the hotel channel, where you can watch a one-minute ad for that very hotel.

Completely pointless. You’re already staying there.

Yes. Anyway, I kept going. Next is the Menu channel, where you can rent movies. But I was so tired, I didn’t want to watch a movie. I wanted to watch an episode, even a news story. Just some bright, short, moving picture.

So, next channel?

Just what I needed. The news. And there was a story. Some bright, short, moving picture. Or in this case, a still. He was staring at me.

Fitness Centre?

Fitness Centre. A picture of him, and a woman’s serious voice saying “passed away this morning as a result of a ski accident.”

Wow. And you had just seen him at the cucumber water cooler.

We are quiet.

So I guess that’s it. There’s a parking spot, take it.

No, that’s not it! she insists, driving by again, turning onto the next level of the parkade.

What else is there?

Everything. Every reason that he died. There’s only one, really.

What is it? I sigh. This girl is being so dramatic.

It’s me. He died because of me. There, at the cucumber water station, I met his eyes and really did consider inviting him to the wedding. Everyone wanted me to bring someone, there was an empty spot at the table and I was lonely. But I didn’t do it. He just looked like he had bigger things to accomplish that day.

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure if she wants me to. It’s been three hours, but I still don’t know her that well.

And the second time, when I went down in the middle of the wedding, I would have invited him. I was ready. I should have invited him. But it was too late. And it was my fault.

Now I say something. No. That’s not you. This experience is so overplayed. Unless you murdered the kid, it’s not your fault.

I did murder him. It was a chain reaction.

Now that’s pathetic. Death doesn’t work like that. And if it does, then I’ve murdered hundreds, thousands, millions of people. If that’s how we’re looking at it, every day I murder someone. At least one.

Don’t say that.

Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?

I guess.

She turns into a parking spot.

Finally, I think. I want to keep going.

So that’s why I’m nervous. I don’t even know if I should go in. It’s weird that I would go to a funeral for a death I had nothing to do with.

She straightens her wheels out and puts Lor into park.

You have to go.

But then I’m admitting that I had something to do with it! See, this is where I’m at. This is why I can’t park.

She puts Lor into reverse.

No no no. That’s not it. Don’t let yourself think that. That’s just pathetic. You go because you care. That’s it. Don’t tell them you think you did it, because that’s a stupid thought and that’s a stupid thing to say at a funeral. Just go and tell them you care.

Lor is back in park.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. Anyway. I have to go.

Where to?

Who knows? I’m in the city now, no more hitchhiking. There’s transit. Maybe I’ll just stay on the subway.

Do you need somewhere to sleep? My parents have a ton of space.

No. Accept my thanks for the ride, say goodbye and don’t worry.

Well you’re welcome then. And goodbye. And thanks.

For?

For listening. How old are you?

Seventeen.

That’s young to be out there alone.

I’ve been at it long enough. And you, how old? Sixteen, you said?

Seventeen. Birthday yesterday.

I sigh. A crazy week then. Weddings, funerals, birthdays.

All the same, I suppose.

All the same. Anyway.

Anyway.

Turn Lor off, and go in. It’s not about you today. It’s about this nameless guy.

Right. It’s not about me.

I wave, slam my door, and go to the door that leads to the stairway that leads to another door that leads to some street. But I stay right in the window for a minute, making sure she doesn’t start Lor. She doesn’t. She just sits in her for a while, but then she gets out and begins to walk over. I turn around and skip down eight flights, hoping she doesn’t know I’m still there.

*The End*

I hope you took something from the story, even if it was just a warning about cucumber water. Which I actually really like. It’s a recent thing, but I do enjoy it. I’ll let the story speak for itself though. There’s also a lot of dialogue, so I won’t talk anymore. Maybe you could? Leave a comment!

Sources:

Bronson, Po. 642 Things to Write About. San Francisco: Chronicle, 2011. Print.

I Am a Canadian Coming-of-Age

This time of year is for change. Winter Solstice, New Year’s, all of these occasions represent the necessity of transition.

Which is why I’ve decided to make a few transitions myself, in regards to the blog (and my personal life, but that mostly involves less coffee and I know it’s not going to work out anyway). And you can see it all in the tagline.

The new tagline for We Try Too Hard is: A Canadian Coming-of-age. Let’s break that down:)

First: Canadian. I am Canadian. And I am proud of it. Just so everyone who is quickly scrolling through can also understand that I am Canadian, let’s see a picture of our beautiful flag (Dear Canada: I would make the picture bigger to honour you, but I can’t figure out how!):

photo credit: ichemepresident.wordpress.com

See, I’ve always been Canadian, and I’ve always been proud of it. But proud in the way that one might be proud of his or her family – proud when you’re with them but hesitant to invite outsiders in, scared of what they’ll think. For example, with the blog, I have kind of avoided saying I’m Canadian because to a lot of people, Canada might seem irrelevant. And that’s the last thing I want to be.

But as I get closer to the new year and consider who I’d like to be in 2015, I see that I would much rather be an irrelevant Canadian than a relevant liar.

So, before I move on, let’s get this straight: Canada is my home. I love it like I love nothing else. However, I have been somewhat hesitant to establish myself as a Canadian blogger for fear that I might not get any further than Canada’s borders. But I’ve decided that whether I lose readers because they don’t care about Canada or gain readers because they’re thrilled to witness an exotic creature in her natural habitat, or even if I keep the exact same amount of readers because no one actually cared about my nationality in the first place, I am declaring myself as a Canadian, proud within and without my country.

I’m watching the World Juniors as I write this (don’t go crazy with all your Canadian clichés now, I love hockey, no big deal) and regardless of the score (okay, not quite regardless – we just won and I’m thrilled!), I’m so impressed with these boys who can represent their country in such a passionate way. And that’s what I want to do. Represent Canada as a young adult, through what I love doing and through what I am passionate about.

Which brings me to the next part of the tagline: a coming-of-age. Coming-of-age. It’s my favourite genre. I remember that I learned this term before I watched Stand By Me for the first time; my dad told me it was a coming-of-age film, and he clarified that that meant growing up. We’ll get to that in a second, but again, for the scrollers, let’s make them stop and perhaps start to read at the sight of one of the most beautiful films ever made:

photo credit: moviepilot.com

Getting a post-secondary education in english literature has changed my definition of coming-of-age slightly. First of all, the “intellectual” term for a coming-of-age story is a bildungsroman, and second, I realize now that growing up is something that happens at any age, not just at the tender age of 12, which is how old Gordie, Chris, Vern and bless his heart, Teddy are when they get their chance to grow up. (If I had to choose, Teddy would be my favourite. But Chris, he’s so tough love. And Gordie, an old soul. And Vern, of course, with the comb – I get how important hair is, I do. Never mind, can’t choose. Sorry, I am a tangent). Anyway, coming-of-age happens at any age – the idea of numbers increasing might just be the easiest way to represent the growth that happens in a bildungsroman. This realization has helped me discover that, even though I am coming to the end of my teenage years too quickly, I will always be growing, not in one bildungsroman but in many different bildungsromans.

Now, another point on bildungsromans: they’re not just present in literature. They’re present in stories, which are everywhere. Specifically (I mean, as specifically as I can go), in my five favourite mediums: music, photography, writing, fashion and film. Anything that represents growth is a bildungsroman. Whether it is a growth story from beginning to end or just one point in that story.

Growth is my passion. I have found my style and my voice and it is coming-of-age. And in order to grow through my favourite mediums, I need to be aware of and tell other people of my surroundings, or surrounding, which in this case is Canada!

So, we’ve addressed why I’m changing things. But let’s address what’s actually going to change?:)

To put it simply: I am going to follow a schedule, that rotates between my mediums of growth. This is not only so you know what’s coming, but also so that I know what’s coming, because deciding what to post an hour before I post it stresses me out and frankly, favours quantity over quality, which is never good in art and never fair to an audience. So, here is the schedule (featuring topics that I like to think sound like Cranium categories):

Mixtape – In this section, I’ll review albums, artists, songs, etc.
The Darkroom – Here I’ll post polaroids, random photo collections, old pictures with captions etc.
Write or Wrong – In this section, I’ll follow my 642 Things to Write About project, write personal essays, poetry: whatever inspires me at the moment:)
Threads – Here I’ll post pictures of some sort of fashion shoot I do…
Film Buffs Only – Who doesn’t love film? If you don’t, you will after I introduce you to some amazing ones, and you can also consider yourself a film buff (I think if you’re passionate about one film, you’re a film buff, so don’t let the title exclude you). Here, I will review films or compare films or just talk about films.

Now, where does the actual “schedule” part come into this? Okay, so I’m not going to do any sort of daily post thing, because I don’t even want to go for the quantity-over-quality crime that I have too often committed. So, I’m going to follow this schedule in terms of posts, but not in terms of specific days or times – just know that after photography, for example, will come writing, and after writing will come fashion and so on, and I’ll post every couple of days.

So. I am a Canadian coming-of-age story. A northern bildungsroman. Who will, in wake of the Winter Solstice and in preparation for 2015, try to follow inspiration rather than desperation, creativity rather than pressure to produce, and honesty about who I am rather than… anything else.

Let me know what you think of all of this change; your opinions would mean a lot! And please stand by me as I try out these changes (Stand by me / Stand by me).

Did Everything Stay the Same?

HAPPY WINTER SOLSTICE! After all of these weeks of my From Equinox to Solstice: Photographing the Fall project, we have arrived at the shortest day of the year! And, it’s officially winter! This is exciting. Everything changes today. As it always does, but really, everything changes today. But wait. “Solstice” means “a standing still (of the sun)” (OED). Does that mean that everything stands still today? In the exact moment of the solstice (6:03PM my time), did nothing change? Did everything stay the same? I wrote a poem today (it’s a really poetic weekend!) to ask the question. It’s just about as short as the day was.

The Shortest Poem of the Year

Tonight at 6:03, the sun stood still.

Did I stand still too? Do I move at Sun’s will?

Nothing or everything? Leave your vote:)

P.S. Does the solstice weekend have something to do with me being so tired? It’s actually unreal. Like, typing with my eyes closed unreal. At least the sun is going to stick around a little more after today! Unless it likes the whole “standing still” thing. In which case, I am hibernating until it changes its mind.

P.P.S. In case you were wondering, this was my Winter Solstice party. I watched the sunset, refused to take pictures (because some things are better without the lens), and wrote a poem. That’s kind of the liveliest my parties get.

Sources

“solstice, n.” OED Online. Oxford University Press, December 2014. Web. 21 December 2014.

This is Joy, This is Sadness, This is Mystery

I went to an event this evening. And then I wrote a poem about it. Now, I’m super tired because these kinds of events are overwhelming, and I’m not going to write too much other than the poem. So it’s your job to make sense of this. Read the poem below, and guess what I’m describing.

I Went to an Event This Evening

Processing down the aisle

There is music and there is silence

All at once.

People are staring, their eyes following the procession.

As the procession reaches the end of the aisle

And someone is given away,

The masses are crying, out of celebration and sadness.

After the program, the congregation disperses.

They all get into their separate cars and drive

To their separate homes.

On the way, they are nostalgic.

They look at the past in blurry photographs

And toss questions at the future in point form.

When they get home,

They kick off their shoes, climb into bed

And wonder if they’ll be next.

Figured it out? Hint: it’s either a wedding or a funeral. Confession: I can’t figure it out either.

Writing Comes First. Even Before Sleep.

I am so tired. Like eyelids physically can’t stay open. But I must write. So I’ll write about sleep. This is my acrostic poem… can’t think of a fantastic name… calling it “Sleep”:

Softly

Let

Everything

Else

Pass.

Before you go to sleep tonight – let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions?

Goodnight:)

The Test of Survival

I was in class a few weeks ago, when I looked down onto the desk and noticed this:

You see it? It’s an equation. Now, I do not get math, so I have no idea what the numbers mean. But I have an idea of what numbers softly written on a desk mean: a desperate student didn’t study hard enough for a test and needed some unauthorized assistance. Regardless of what the equation is or what the person’s intentions were, I wrote a poem about what this looks like. Before we start, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t condone cheating. I just understand survival.

The Answer Key

Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,

Don’t like studying? No, me neither.

But did you think this was the answer? Okay, well it was.

But cheating doesn’t help you; it hurts you, it does!

Never mind. That was what they told me to say

When I was young and believed honesty was the only way;

See, while I wish that the truth was better than the lie,

I know there are things you must do to survive.

Let me know what you think of the poem! And be honest…

Question: What Is the Opposite of Existence?

I’m into existentialism. Anything to do with existence actually, I’m really into. Just thinking about it. Like, why are we here? WHAT IS LIFE? Anyway, while thinking about this recently, a sentence came into my head; find it in the last line of the poem below. As I’ve said before, sometimes sentences just come into my head and I need to do something with them. I try to expand on them – but tell me, is it worth it? Should I just leave them as they are? Let me know after you read “UNEXISTENCE”:

UNEXISTENCE

[START] Everything is something

And I’m always here

Wherever here is, I’m there, I’m there

I’m always at a place, doing something or other

There’s never time to do nothing, be nothing

Opportunities are either here or they’re missed

But I wish I could find something that just didn’t exist. [END]

So. Let me know what your answer to that question above is, I’d be really interested to know.

P.S. The [START] and [END] aren’t just letting you know where the poem begins and ends; they actually have a metafictional purpose. Also, can you answer the title’s question in light of the poem? I can’t figure any of this out. WHAT IS LIFE? This post has helped nothing.

This Is Where It All Started

I’ve been away from my 642 Things to Write About book for too long! But alas, tonight I have returned to it, and so, I present you with today’s Thing.

The eleventh topic is: Tell a complete stranger about a beloved family tradition.

My answer:

First, you have to know my mom. When I was growing up, she was always there with a camera. To capture every moment. And then to fabricate some more to capture, when the regular fam was just not interesting enough. There were poses. The every 5 years you take a picture in the same spot pose, the first day of school pose (every September) and the whole family with their hands on the police car to look like they’re being arrested pose. Wait, what? Yes. That was a pose in my family. Now, as my mom fabricated some pictures to make what might have been a boring day look like a really eventful one, I have been known to fabricate memories. So, we have no way of knowing whether or not this happened as much as my mind says it did. But anyway. Let’s go through the process.

So, we travelled a lot when I was a kid, and with travelling comes new customs, new rules and… new police cars? I guess my mom was really into different countries’ cop cars: how they looked, what side the steering wheel was on, you know, the stuff that interests tourists. I don’t know why she was so interested in them, none of us kids nor she or my dad have ever been arrested (as far as I know…) so I’m not sure where this fascination came from. Either way, it was there. And we had to accept the tradition: if there was a police car, there was going to be a photo. No questions asked. Everything we said could be and was used against us at dinner.

Anyway, we would have to pose with all of us, hands against the car in an altogether awkward stance. So, to prove this happened at least once, I found an example:

I don’t think any of us other than my mom were ever happy about these specific poses. You can see by our strained smiles (mine is fourth from the left, complimenting my striped tights) that we’re all just feeling weird. But you know, it was family. It was strange, and people were staring, and the cop was probably wanting to get into his car, but it was my family, and looking back, I’m proud of this excruciatingly awkward tradition.

So, years later when I am a criminal famous for exploiting family traditions through photography, you might visit my Wikipedia page and see this picture, with the caption, “This is where it all started.”

Sources:

Bronson, Po. 642 Things to Write About. San Francisco: Chronicle, 2011. Print.

The Painting I Rescued from the Fire

So I think I’m going to start a new thing… I don’t know what to call it. Anyway, the thing is, “I’m as indie as the next guy or girl.” I love this thing, this sentence, because I think Indie people believe they’re more special than they actually are. Now, they are special, but they let it go to their heads too often. And then they pretend they don’t know who Taylor Swift is. Which leads me to tonight’s Writing Lyrics that Have Already Been Written picture, called “Safe & Sound.” This painting/carving is of a line in Taylor Swift’s song “Safe & Sound” that features The Civil Wars and that I really love; listen to the fantastic tune here while you observe:

A few notes. First, back to the T. Swift thing. I get it, she’s mainstream. She went straight from country to pop (which my inner Indie cringes at), and never really hit it with the (real) hipsters. But see, she’s actually a really decent poet. And I know, there were lesser-known poets that contributed to this song (maybe that’s why it’s one of her best…) but she had a significant hand in it, and I think that’s impressive. So a little lesson: don’t get so indie that you can’t recognize good music anymore.

Anyway, the art! Well, mine, not hers. So, I tried carving into my painting this week, and I’m not sure how I did. It was very difficult, my hand is killing me, and the letters are almost illegible, but I kind of like how it looks… like it was lost in the fire?

Let me know what you think of all my thoughts, and like and follow if you so desire:)