sigh. i just finished reading Miranda July’s short story collection, No one belongs here more than you. (as modeled by Mr. Deuce). i was super excited to snatch up a copy when it was first published in 2007, but i was addicted to the library back then, and the book had about one gazillion people on its waiting list. when i remembered to stalk it, i would pop into a bookstore, but it was always on some sort of waiting list – or, i guess i was the one on a waiting list.

after awhile, i began to resent the book, and tried to put it out of my mind. i succeeded until a couple weeks ago when i became ravenously hungry for a good read, and though to myself, Oh, there’s such a thing as the interwebs, and i can order whichever book i like and it will be delivered to my doorstep like a newborn baby swaddled in a stork beak. hurray, no waiting list!

Miranda July loves her characters; yes, she lets their minds wander – no abbreviation, just pure meandering rawness; she lets us listen to this unfiltered goodness and badness; after they snap awake from their inner dialogue comas, we hear them censor themselves – comparing, judging, accepting, rejecting, squeezing into; we hear human beings in fragment, and we hear her cobble them together. that gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling. like a good cabernet.

i ate up the words as quickly as possible because they tasted so damn good, but now i’m left with that sad, empty feeling that comes after you’ve finished unwrapping all your presents. the good thing is that words like hers make me want to write. i like when that happens.

i felt like drawing a goat today, so i drew one.

for as long as i can remember, photographs of Jenny Lake and the Tetons hung in thin, engraved metal frames above my parents’ bed. the photographs looked like postcards – saturated blues and greens, snow caps perfectly etched into the mountains; you could almost hear the quiet of Jenny Lake, and smell the crisp piny air.

my mom fell in love with Jenny Lake in 1970 while she and my dad honeymooned in Wyoming’s Grand Teton National Park. forty years, five kids and six grandchildren later, my parents decided to retrace their honeymoon steps (minus the camping) by returning to the Tetons for their anniversary this past june.

my parents visited us a couple weekends ago, bringing along two photo albums, one of their recent trip, and the other of their honeymoon. it’s been a long time since i’ve seen their honeymoon photos, and i have to say, i am completely enthralled with them – maybe because i’m now 10 years older than my parents are in the pictures or because the warmth of the weathered photos holds an inherent nostalgia, or perhaps, like any kid studying photographs of their parents as young adults, i am struck by the simultaneously strange and familiar faces staring back at me.

they’re in Milwaukee here, just outside my grandparent’s house, about to leave for their honeymoon. mom still stands like this when she’s feeling shy about getting her picture taken – head cocked inward, one hand hiding in the other; my dad still stuffs random pens, paper and other accouterments into his breast pocket, and lots of times, stands proudly, hand on hip.

isn’t my mom’s flower blouse so pretty?

this picture is amazing. and not because of the buffalo in the background.

i absolutely love this picture of mom. i love her red striped shirt and her cute canvas shoes. mostly, i love the way she’s squint-smiling at the camera.

dad feeds a cute little mountain creature.

here’s another pretty one of mom.

dad at Jenny Lake.

a little windswept on the tundra.

i love that mom was taking photos of flowers even then. the woman takes more photos of flowers than anyone i know. i wonder what she does with them all?

mom in a bug.

dad on the trail.

i like the silliness going on in these two pics.

dad conquers the west.

on the back of this photo, in large cursive letters, my dad wrote: “Isn’t she pretty!!!!”

even without the inscription, this one – like most of these photos, feels like a stolen secret between my mom and dad.

sometimes, it’s hard to believe there was a short time when my parents were free from my siblings and i – and i don’t mean “free” in a sigh-of-relief kind of way. once, there was a dream of us. we were only hypothetical kids that would join them some time in the future. but that’s all we were then – faint, pretty dreams.

more immediately than us, there was a dream of the kind of life they wanted to share – the things they would accomplish, places they’d experience, cities they’d live, people they’d change, people who’d change them, houses turned to homes, people they would become, love that would steady and shape. life was vast and bright and malleable. it was theirs alone.

i marvel at these two people who, at this photographic & magical slice in time, are on the brink of their lives.

first anniversary

40 years together… love you, mom & dad!

you got cinnamon peepers
spicy little saucers in your sockets
when you smile, your peeper holders crinkle
down, down, down
cute crow’s feet stompin’
happy stomps stompin’
down to your cheeks

you got cinnamon peepers
spicy little saucers in your sockets
i wanna pop ‘em in my mouth
i wanna slip ‘em in my pockets
save ‘em for later
savor them forever
your lovely, loving spicy cinnamon peeps.

i lay my finger across
the alcove above your chin
and rock it back and forth
gently, just to make sure it fits

rock, rock, rock
sure enough, it fits.

it’s a sunny day
and you are driving
“look at that cloud,”
you say pointing.
“it looks like a giant penis.”

i look at the cloud
sure enough, it does.

swish, swish, swish
go the tails of the horses
in the blurry fields.

the sun just hid
behind a cloud that looks like a cloud.
but i know it will come out again,
sure enough.

i woke up this morning
and ate two blueberry pancakes
with maple syrup
agave nectar and butter.

i had about eight sips of metropolis coffee
and read celebrity gossip.

i love the way your neck feels
between my palms while i kiss your face.
you have big soft lips
like the blueberries in my pancakes,
which is probably why i always
have to fight the urge
to bite them.

i said goodbye to you while
you were getting out of the shower.
you had little water droplets
all over your body.

i wanted to squoosh them.

in the summer of 2006, i wrote the first draft of my novella, Yesterday, in Lotus Shoes: an epic of tiny proportion, an allegory-adventure about Lotus Girl. all along, i intended it to be an illustrated novella. four years and many iterations of illustrations later, and still not one set of drawings or paintings has seemed quite right for the job. i pick the manuscript up every now & then, edit a little bit, and then let it marinade a little longer. one day, i’ll finish it!

i made this series of six pencil drawings shortly after i wrote the first draft. i kind of like these as stand-alone drawings.

Bring That Here Before We Lose It

She Didn’t See It Coming But It Came Anyway

I Escaped Through the Bedroom Window

Can You Suspend the Truth Just a Little Longer?

This is What She Meant

This Time I Left

in high school, i became obsessed with drawing gymnasts – in a way, drawing from the photographs in International Gymnast (IG) magazine was my version of a life drawing course. thanks largely to Eileen Langsley, there were so many gorgeous action shots to draw and study. i learned proportions, how musculature works, how our bodies move and bend.

sadly, save for a drawing of Dominique Dawes, which was printed in the high school yearbook, i’ve lost all of my high school gymnastics drawings.

the drawing above is a portrait of Gina Gogean, a Romanian gymnast who competed in the late 80s and 90s. she was such a beautiful gymnast, both graceful and dynamic. i always thought she had such a pensive look about her.

dated 1994 (note my silly signature), i must have been about 15 years old when i drew it. i found it snug in a sketchbook – it got quite smudged over the years!

i was really into drawing hair for awhile there.

the other day, i started rummaging through my old portfolios and sketchbooks, which is a really fun but strange trip back in time. in a sketchbook from sometime around ‘96 or ‘97 (i was 17 or 18), i found this series of hand drawings. i guess i’m in a sort of nostalgic mood lately, because i’ve been reading a lot of my old writing, too – which, by the way, more often than not is one of the most masochistic things a person can do. i’m pretty sure i sport “scrunchy face” the entire time while reading my old words.

anyway, here’s an excerpt from one of my old essays – it’s a silly little companion to these drawings.

My fingers are skinny and long, and if you didn’t know me well, you might guess I play piano (but you would guess wrong). I have weirdly wrinkled knuckles, a trait I share with my oldest sister. I have flat fingernails, a trait I share with my brother. The left side of the top knuckle on my right ring finger is numb and knobby because ever since I could hold a pencil, I have held it incorrectly, a bad habit documented by my pre-school teacher on an evaluation sent home to my parents (I think she feared it would inhibit my writing and drawing skills).