My Voice (Yodelay-ee-oo)

My voice.
(Mine.)
Whispers in my ear
expresses through my fingers
wants, by the bend of my knee.
(Mine.)
My voice.
Pushes with its elbow
in the small of my back
when it thinks I’m not listening
(Mine.)
[..Yes.
I am yours
You are me
and mine...]
(MINE.)
My voice.
Struggles to KNOW
strains to feel
hopes, above all
(Mine.)
My voice.
Mine.

Seriously, Who Dropped the Cookie?

My ego wants to be beautiful
My ego wants to be respected
My ego wants to be heard
My ego wants to be Audrey Hepburn
(And also Myrna Loy)
My ego wants to be desired
My ego wants to be loved
My ego wants to be needed
My ego wants to be Susan Sontag
(And also Lerner & Loewe)

My soul wants me to know
That dancing is more important
And singing
And laughing
And taking a picture of that ridiculous cookie on the sidewalk
(Seriously, who leaves a cookie on a sidewalk, and
Just where were all the squirrels?)

The rest is noise
(You know this)

Do Cats Dream of Tender Vittles?

Gilda Radner talks in her sleep. Her ears jerk in crazy trembles and she smacks about like heaven is one big bag of Tender Vittles.

I’m not getting a kick-back from Friskies. I don’t owe Morris a thing.

Cats

I picture them dreaming of flying fish.

I wonder what cat dreams look like? Or anyone’s dreams, really, other than my own. Does Gilda dream of floating bowls of cream or mice with wings? Or lizards on roller skates zipping past the crack of the door?

Sometimes she shoves her sister-cat, and it reminds me of being a kid and having to share a bed with my younger sister and her flying elbows.

I used to dream about boxing matches and wake up with my sister’s elbow in my ribs.

But they purr and snore on, never minding the occasional elbow. For the most part, neither did I.

Do they still make Tender Vittles?

Donuts and Castor Oil

See No Evil

Tell Me When It’s Over

I’ve been thinking long and hard about my virtual footie-print…

Ok, that’s a lie; I’ve been procrastinating hard and thinking a little, mostly about shoes, the Carrie Cosmo, and strawberry Pop Tarts).

… like what the hell should I do with this space, for starters. I started it with the idea of pulling together my various bits and pieces and having an easy way to share them. Mission accomplished, I think.

But it’s time to focus.

Like a lot of other people, I have virtual fingers in The Big Three Pies of social media:

  • Pinterest! (Look At This!)
  • Facebook! (Look At Me!)
  • Twitter! (Squirrel!)

I had a little convo going on Twitter about The Big Three. I compared them to Freud’s concept of Id, Ego, and Superego. But I’m probably over-thinking it.
(Ya think?)

Facebook: I share the least about myself here. You’ll get a good beat on some of my interests, but I rarely say anything about myself, to say nothing of hopes, dreams, or struggles. God. No. On the rare occasion that I do share some of my insides, they don’t really generate that much conversation. So what’s the point?

Twitter: Brain waves, pure and simple. But I’ve experienced the best conversations here and have made meaningful connections with writers in India, France, and artists in Austin, London, and San Francisco.

Pinterest: The Cherokee in me recognizes that I’m giving my soul away. Pinterest says the most about me. If you look closely, you can know me. The pictures are my personal hieroglyphics. Damn it! I’m also one of the only women not sharing wedding tips.

Mirror, mirror on the wall… say, where did you get that cookie recipe?

And then I started thinking about what information I was consuming, particularly on Facebook.That’s when it got scary.

“High Fructose Corn Syrup. GMO Corn. Amateurs.” Mark Zuckerberg*
* Zuckerberg didn’t actually say this. But he’s probably thinking it.**

** I don’t know if he’s thinking it. You can’t prove that in court.

I can sum up Facebook in less than 140 characters: it’s either donuts or castor oil.

“Mmmm… donuts.” Homer Simpson

Kitten videos. Astronomy. Literature. The awesomeness of nature. Anything by Colossal. All good. All fun. Very Krispy Kreme. Tasty when fresh. Open all night. Illuminating, frequently. Hilarious, sometimes.

Politics. Religion. Vague status updates. Passive-aggressive salvos. Most of it is like sour cotton candy* — ephemeral, yet somehow leaving a lingering bad taste.

* Unless it’s lemon spun sugar. Why hasn’t anyone tried making a lemonheads version of cotton candy? Maybe it could be my Snuggie!

So, why do I keep eating it?