%***

Wrapped in the Weekend at Unicorn Bunny. What else is new. Reading WASTED voraciously and investigating the School for Designing Society, Dr. Carl Hammerschlagger at the Patch Adams conference last night made my brain juices spurt in a way thats been a while.

Left to the SanFran Bakery. Love the glittery punk kids that slosh out coffee, saturated sugar things. The girl with the half-shaved red hair with a flower on it, let my ogle her cat flower tat, kid-art-esque line work. Lovin it.
I read the New York Times Travel Section.
Portugal.

There was a girl with straight brown hair and glasses, reminded me of my mother. She snapped at my Friday. My father called this morning to say someone my brother knows killed themselves. I think of them, my mom quiet, compassionate. My father, the bipolar biker. Me, the perfect synthesis, AlcoholicArtistic.

I hate the word artistic. The Corwin in my head. ITS TOO EASY. These sort of things remain. I hate when people say they are artists. EASY. As Easy as the Pretension of Wagner. AHA.

All this Hornbacher has gone to my head. Perfectly obsessed. This stream of babble narrating my every move. This analysis of emotional pack-rat-ism that is far too overwhelming. Can't I just watch the True Life marathon. Must the world crash down on me Getting in the Way.

I swear there is always a different amount of cream cheese on these bagels, I am wondering, do they size you up, decide oh you do not need anymore sister friend, or do they think, oh I'm sure YOUU want a TON.


Plotting, Planning, so the thoughts stop racing.
This I know is true.
So much plotting.

Canceled my interview for the arts organization in St. Paul I had for Tuesday. I am going to the island whether they will have me or not. Mostly, it is the thick gray air I imagine on the tide break. The pink polka dot rain boots I will tromp in through the forest. The purple sea stars I will perch on my palms and knee caps as I smile into the gauzy cloud lightness.