all the stars. and some tiny scars.: 11 things that make me happy-JULY

and one to grow on! yes, it is that time again for the things that make me happy. I might start doing this twice a month. or weekly. i really need to focus my mind on happy things. but don't worry, i will still do the 10 (or 11) things that make me angry to keep it real. cuz...i'm keepin it real, dog.

here they are:

wine. i used to be picky about it. now if it is in front of me, i will drink it. red, white, pink. life is too short to be snobby about wine. i even put an ice cube in my chardonnay....cuz i don't care. and it is good. and it makes me happy. and how rad are these wine glasses?

this foofy poofy puffkitten. this sunshine ball of fur. this makes my heart explode.

these summertime photos. i am in love with images that feel like summer. Polaroid's filled with sun. faded beachy colors. warm evening light. i LOVE rose and olive stuff....here is their flickr page.

robert downey jr makes me very very happy.

gazpacho! gazpacho wins! step one: go to local farmer's market and get tomatoes, green bell pepper, sweet onions, cucumber, basil. step 2: put in food processor with a splash of white wine vinegar and a drizzle of olive oil. step 3: garnish with avocado and salted almonds. step 4: fall deep into summertime food bliss and feel happy and oh so healthy.

scrabble. travel scrabble. play it any time, anywhere. i am slightly obsessed with playing.
here we are at gasworks. dan just said "well... i see here you have 'gonut'...."

needlepoint

stephen dunn poetry

Essay on the Personal

Because finally the personal
is all that matters,
we spend years describing stones,
chairs, abandoned farmhouses--
until we're ready. Always
it's a matter of precision,
what it feels like
to kiss someone or to walk
out the door. How good it was
to practice on stones
which were things we could love
without weeping over. How good
someone else abandoned the farmhouse,
bankrupt and desperate.
Now we can bring a fine edge
to our parents. We can hold hurt
up to the sun for examination.
But just when we think we have it,
the personal goes the way of
belief. What seemed so deep
begins to seem naive, something
that could be trusted
because we hadn't read Plato
or held two contradictory ideas
or women in the same day.
Love, then, becomes an old movie.
Loss seems so common
it belongs to the air,
to breath itself, anyone's.
We're left with style, a particular
way of standing and saying,
the idiosyncratic look
at the frown which means nothing
until we say it does. Years later,
long after we believed it peculiar
to ourselves, we return to love.
We return to everything
strange, inchoate, like living
with someone, like living alone,
settling for the partial, the almost
satisfactory sense of it.