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and NO ON 8!!!!!!!!!
see you on the other side of our future. we're history in the making.
and NO ON 8!!!!!!!!!
see you on the other side of our future. we're history in the making.
steven meets me in the parking lot of the best western hotel across from the airport. from far away i immediately know it's him. the loping gait, the facial structure with cheeks like my own, a silhouette i saw so many times on the path to my aunt helene's camp. shimmering around him, in vibrant memory is forest, eclipsing the ugly motel walls, the cars, the chlorinated hotel swimming pool.
i spent my summers in the maine woods, in a camp my grandfather built. the surrounding forest was procured from his friend who owned the local mills. for $1, he bought 8 acres of shore front property. the location was prime because it was adjacent to my great aunt marion's camp. marion bequeathed her camp to her daughter, helene. helene was my father's first cousin, and they grew up together. i grew up calling her "aunt" helene.
as a kid, i sat on the floor of the mainroom of her camp, in the middle of a handmade braided rug. i would stare at the bear head on the wall, the snowshoes above the stairs. her sons, charlie and steven, would come to visit, and charlie would play spoons for me at night. steven would take me out in the canoe. when i was seven years old, steven brought his new wife, debra, and her son, jesse, to camp for the first time. jesse and i formed a friendship that i recognize in children's stories, like "bridge to terabithia" or "tuck everlasting". from the minute they arrived every summer, i was down at their camp at 8 am, sometimes not going home for days. jesse would walk me back home, down the path in the dark. we would cling to each other for dear life, and he would give me the flashlight to take home. we would say our protective chant together, to ward off whatever was, of course, inevitably waiting to eat him, and then he would take off at full speed, back down the path in the dark. held in unconditional positive love, treated with respect, and given a gift of experiencing a world of abundance and possibility, i recognized the world of helene and familiy as the one i wanted to create for myself. as time has passed, my memories of them have turned into mythology, and given the negative attitude that my parents have toward helene and steve, i doubted my connection to them, wondered if it was simply the blindness of a naive child.
steven walks me to their hotel room where debra is waiting at the door. she is older, much older than when i saw her 20 years ago. but otherwise, she is exactly the same. then the door opens wider, and there she is. my aunt helene, in her hand knit wool sweater, her glasses, her clothing that i never see anywhere but on old women in new england. i am flooded with sensation...i can smell sweet fern, i can hear the lake on the shore, i can taste blueberries and the little strawberries that grew in the grass around the camp. i flash to the bucket by the front door where we dipped our feet to get off the sand, and the way the creaking of the rocking chairs vibrated through my legs when jesse and i sat on the porch in the evening playing with old games from the turn of the century. my cellular memory is awakened, and new pathways are created as my childhood breaks over the dam and the waters of the past meld into the present.
we talk for a few hours, steven filling me in on the kids, on jesse who disowned the family 7 years ago. they ask me about my work as a psychotherapist and we stare at each other in shock as we realize that the hospice work that the family has been doing with steven's background as an MD is strikingly similar in orientation to my work with gestalt, that their spiritual path as a family is parallel to my own. we are sitting on cheap hotel beds, but we might as well be back at the camp sitting around the big table. every once in a while helene and i catch each others eye, and my heart is filled with sweetness. i am blown away by the fact that i was RIGHT. that my gravitation towards these people as a kid was like a moth to a flame. that my very young psyche recognized something intrinsically sane with these people. that unlike the fear, depression and negativity that i experienced at home, there was a HEALTH here that i tucked away inside my soul, to remember that this is what i wanted to be. this was how i wanted to be. like a dream world that i have been trying to get back to my whole life, i recognized that it was not a dream. that it was very, very real.
it is time to go and i sit next to helene on the bed and put my arm around her. "it sure is good to see you sweet heart" she says. my heart is so tender, i am so overwhelmed, that it is all i can do to not break down. i am filled with thanks, with love, with determination to continue to foster the joy that is stirred inside. like finding a beloved secret treasure that was hidden in the floorboards, i cup this love in my hands and press it to my chest.
thanks for reading, and thank you for all your well wishes for my visit with helene. it happened, and it was good.
great aunt marion
ancestors on the front porch of helen's camp
aunt helene
i spent my summers in the maine woods, in a camp my grandfather built. the surrounding forest was procured from his friend who owned the local mills. for $1, he bought 8 acres of shore front property. the location was prime because it was adjacent to my great aunt marion's camp. marion bequeathed her camp to her daughter, helene. helene was my father's first cousin, and they grew up together. i grew up calling her "aunt" helene.
as a kid, i sat on the floor of the mainroom of her camp, in the middle of a handmade braided rug. i would stare at the bear head on the wall, the snowshoes above the stairs. her sons, charlie and steven, would come to visit, and charlie would play spoons for me at night. steven would take me out in the canoe. when i was seven years old, steven brought his new wife, debra, and her son, jesse, to camp for the first time. jesse and i formed a friendship that i recognize in children's stories, like "bridge to terabithia" or "tuck everlasting". from the minute they arrived every summer, i was down at their camp at 8 am, sometimes not going home for days. jesse would walk me back home, down the path in the dark. we would cling to each other for dear life, and he would give me the flashlight to take home. we would say our protective chant together, to ward off whatever was, of course, inevitably waiting to eat him, and then he would take off at full speed, back down the path in the dark. held in unconditional positive love, treated with respect, and given a gift of experiencing a world of abundance and possibility, i recognized the world of helene and familiy as the one i wanted to create for myself. as time has passed, my memories of them have turned into mythology, and given the negative attitude that my parents have toward helene and steve, i doubted my connection to them, wondered if it was simply the blindness of a naive child.
steven walks me to their hotel room where debra is waiting at the door. she is older, much older than when i saw her 20 years ago. but otherwise, she is exactly the same. then the door opens wider, and there she is. my aunt helene, in her hand knit wool sweater, her glasses, her clothing that i never see anywhere but on old women in new england. i am flooded with sensation...i can smell sweet fern, i can hear the lake on the shore, i can taste blueberries and the little strawberries that grew in the grass around the camp. i flash to the bucket by the front door where we dipped our feet to get off the sand, and the way the creaking of the rocking chairs vibrated through my legs when jesse and i sat on the porch in the evening playing with old games from the turn of the century. my cellular memory is awakened, and new pathways are created as my childhood breaks over the dam and the waters of the past meld into the present.
we talk for a few hours, steven filling me in on the kids, on jesse who disowned the family 7 years ago. they ask me about my work as a psychotherapist and we stare at each other in shock as we realize that the hospice work that the family has been doing with steven's background as an MD is strikingly similar in orientation to my work with gestalt, that their spiritual path as a family is parallel to my own. we are sitting on cheap hotel beds, but we might as well be back at the camp sitting around the big table. every once in a while helene and i catch each others eye, and my heart is filled with sweetness. i am blown away by the fact that i was RIGHT. that my gravitation towards these people as a kid was like a moth to a flame. that my very young psyche recognized something intrinsically sane with these people. that unlike the fear, depression and negativity that i experienced at home, there was a HEALTH here that i tucked away inside my soul, to remember that this is what i wanted to be. this was how i wanted to be. like a dream world that i have been trying to get back to my whole life, i recognized that it was not a dream. that it was very, very real.
it is time to go and i sit next to helene on the bed and put my arm around her. "it sure is good to see you sweet heart" she says. my heart is so tender, i am so overwhelmed, that it is all i can do to not break down. i am filled with thanks, with love, with determination to continue to foster the joy that is stirred inside. like finding a beloved secret treasure that was hidden in the floorboards, i cup this love in my hands and press it to my chest.
thanks for reading, and thank you for all your well wishes for my visit with helene. it happened, and it was good.
great aunt marion
ancestors on the front porch of helen's camp
aunt helene
autumn is here. for me, it has come too soon. the invitation said 6pm, but here she is, ringing my door bell at 4 o'clock in the afternoon. my hair is not done. i've just stepped out of the bath, i have no idea what i am wearing, and fuck the house is still a mess. but there she is, none the less. persephone, with her bags all packed and laughter like cold little bells, grabbing my hand and pulling me out the door. "to the underworld!" she says cheerily.
i am not ready for the underworld. we have had no summer here in the city. we went from fall, to winter, to spring, back to winter, to one week of indian summer, and now back to winter. it's been cold, grey and foggy the majority of june, july and august, and my bones are not retaining nearly enough heat to withstand the descent. "turn back the clock!" i wail, "i only went swimming once this summer! it's too soon!". but there is no stopping the seasons, the wheel. and so the days grow short, and i resentfully pull on my sweater and sigh. god i hate sweaters.
i walk around the streets of san francisco, seeing the leaves drop from the trees, my heart dropping a little with them. it just was such a hard year. i was counting on the brightness of summer to satiate my desires, to fill up my tank, to burn out the last remnants of damp. recently i was opened at a core level by some beatufiul, deep contact with someone special, and the openness has remained although the contact has not. i feel raw and unprotected, wondering what on earth i was thinking, opening all the shutters in the house as the first frost approaches. my mother calls me to tell me that my aunt helene will unexpectedly be in my hometown, visiting from the east coast, to see my father tomorrow. in this state of being flung wide, i am immediately reduced to tears, without even particularly knowing why. my aunt helene, who is 85, who has been on my mind consistently over the past week. i have been aware that it has been too long since i saw her, that i am playing russian roullette with my luck of seeing her before she passes on. my aunt helene, who taught me how to swim. my aunt helene, who secretly gave me "the chronicles of narnia", and later, "little women", the two books that would become the definitive imaginative landscape of my childhood. my aunt helene who taught me to walk through the forest like a native american, and who gave me the gift of understanding, of being truly seen, for a kid who lived with a short supply. suddenly, all inertia around making sure i see her again is gone. whatever i have to do, whether it is drive home tomorrow or make sure that i can connect with her in SF before her flight leaves, it is absoutely imperative that i make it happen. here we all are, my family, my father, my aunt, all of us, at the end of the road. here is where the story ends, the narrative that we have been spinning together, the story that we tell each other. the moment is sharp, acute.
i pause for a moment with leo at the dog park, taking in the blue of the sky, the green patina of a church spire, the fall wind brushing my neck. i look at the brown hills and the houses against the sky and breathe deep. it is a moment of intense gratitude for life, for that moment, for this one. this time here, you and i, together, is so brief. i am so in love with the world, with all it's beauty and pain, the suffering and the magnificence, and i am all too aware, most of the time these days, of just how heartbreakingly precious the opportunity of being alive with an awake and tender heart really is. i wonder what we wait for.
i take in my harvest, my blessings and my sorrows, the plans that came through, the ones that did not, and i collect seeds, my seeds of hopes, dreams, ideas. the ones i will plant, pressing down into the cooling soil, covering with mulch, dried leaves, dried straw. i will hibernate with my seeds. i will weave my future, utilizing the darkening skies to see beyond, letting my eyes adjust to the dim.
and damn i hope we get some heat in october.
i am not ready for the underworld. we have had no summer here in the city. we went from fall, to winter, to spring, back to winter, to one week of indian summer, and now back to winter. it's been cold, grey and foggy the majority of june, july and august, and my bones are not retaining nearly enough heat to withstand the descent. "turn back the clock!" i wail, "i only went swimming once this summer! it's too soon!". but there is no stopping the seasons, the wheel. and so the days grow short, and i resentfully pull on my sweater and sigh. god i hate sweaters.
i walk around the streets of san francisco, seeing the leaves drop from the trees, my heart dropping a little with them. it just was such a hard year. i was counting on the brightness of summer to satiate my desires, to fill up my tank, to burn out the last remnants of damp. recently i was opened at a core level by some beatufiul, deep contact with someone special, and the openness has remained although the contact has not. i feel raw and unprotected, wondering what on earth i was thinking, opening all the shutters in the house as the first frost approaches. my mother calls me to tell me that my aunt helene will unexpectedly be in my hometown, visiting from the east coast, to see my father tomorrow. in this state of being flung wide, i am immediately reduced to tears, without even particularly knowing why. my aunt helene, who is 85, who has been on my mind consistently over the past week. i have been aware that it has been too long since i saw her, that i am playing russian roullette with my luck of seeing her before she passes on. my aunt helene, who taught me how to swim. my aunt helene, who secretly gave me "the chronicles of narnia", and later, "little women", the two books that would become the definitive imaginative landscape of my childhood. my aunt helene who taught me to walk through the forest like a native american, and who gave me the gift of understanding, of being truly seen, for a kid who lived with a short supply. suddenly, all inertia around making sure i see her again is gone. whatever i have to do, whether it is drive home tomorrow or make sure that i can connect with her in SF before her flight leaves, it is absoutely imperative that i make it happen. here we all are, my family, my father, my aunt, all of us, at the end of the road. here is where the story ends, the narrative that we have been spinning together, the story that we tell each other. the moment is sharp, acute.
i pause for a moment with leo at the dog park, taking in the blue of the sky, the green patina of a church spire, the fall wind brushing my neck. i look at the brown hills and the houses against the sky and breathe deep. it is a moment of intense gratitude for life, for that moment, for this one. this time here, you and i, together, is so brief. i am so in love with the world, with all it's beauty and pain, the suffering and the magnificence, and i am all too aware, most of the time these days, of just how heartbreakingly precious the opportunity of being alive with an awake and tender heart really is. i wonder what we wait for.
i take in my harvest, my blessings and my sorrows, the plans that came through, the ones that did not, and i collect seeds, my seeds of hopes, dreams, ideas. the ones i will plant, pressing down into the cooling soil, covering with mulch, dried leaves, dried straw. i will hibernate with my seeds. i will weave my future, utilizing the darkening skies to see beyond, letting my eyes adjust to the dim.
and damn i hope we get some heat in october.
i am 4 years old and you are 14. it is june and the nights of our new northern california home are warm and lovely.
i follow you outside to where you have set up the chaise lounge chairs. one for you and one for me. i am amazed at the brown flannel sleeping bags that lay before us in anticipation. it is my first introduction to the concept, and i marvel at the pictures inside the sack, of hunting dogs and ducks flying away. you tuck me in and then get in your own. our mother interrupts the moment to coat us in "OFF" mosquito repellent, and despite my protestations that it smells toxic, she thoroughly covers each arm and my face. i am astounded at all the things adults know...about how to keep away mosquitos, sleeping bags, the multiple uses of lawn chairs.
mom turns all the lights out in the house and you lay beside me and tell me that now we get to stargaze. i ask you how to do it, and you tell me to just look up at the sky, that maybe i'll see a shooting star. you teach me the poem for wishes and show me the big dipper. i am soon asleep.
i wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, but quickly soothed by the sound of your snoring. it is so comforting, and the feeling is familiar. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky.
i am 35 years old and you are 45. it is june in colorado where you now live, and the sky outside is stormy and there is thunder in the distance. you are unconscious and an oxygen machine hums next to you. i am laying beside your bed on a couch, taking in your jaundiced skin, your bloated stomach, your parched lips.
soon you are snoring, and i am completely transported back to our childhood. i have not heard this sound in 28 years, but i instantly realize that it is a sound i constantly ache to hear. the loneliness that rides on my back is brushed away, the tenorous sound of your breathing stitching back together the wide wounds, the sorrow that took the place of your presence when you left home.
the next day it is time to say goodbye. you have awakened for a moment and tell mom that you want to kiss me. i lean down for the last of all good nights. this is not the moment for settling the score, it is for creating a bridge between our childhood and our present. the simplest and most honest thing i can tell you is that you are the best brother i ever could have asked for. your heart blooms wide open and we both cry. it is a totally fucked up situation, but i have to walk out the door knowing i will never see you again. i don't know how to do it, but i just do, amidst your soft protests for us not to go.
mixed in among the broken heart of grief, one thing remains true. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky. i love you matthew. thank you for being my wonderful brother.
RIP Matthew Good, June 9 2008
i follow you outside to where you have set up the chaise lounge chairs. one for you and one for me. i am amazed at the brown flannel sleeping bags that lay before us in anticipation. it is my first introduction to the concept, and i marvel at the pictures inside the sack, of hunting dogs and ducks flying away. you tuck me in and then get in your own. our mother interrupts the moment to coat us in "OFF" mosquito repellent, and despite my protestations that it smells toxic, she thoroughly covers each arm and my face. i am astounded at all the things adults know...about how to keep away mosquitos, sleeping bags, the multiple uses of lawn chairs.
mom turns all the lights out in the house and you lay beside me and tell me that now we get to stargaze. i ask you how to do it, and you tell me to just look up at the sky, that maybe i'll see a shooting star. you teach me the poem for wishes and show me the big dipper. i am soon asleep.
i wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, but quickly soothed by the sound of your snoring. it is so comforting, and the feeling is familiar. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky.
i am 35 years old and you are 45. it is june in colorado where you now live, and the sky outside is stormy and there is thunder in the distance. you are unconscious and an oxygen machine hums next to you. i am laying beside your bed on a couch, taking in your jaundiced skin, your bloated stomach, your parched lips.
soon you are snoring, and i am completely transported back to our childhood. i have not heard this sound in 28 years, but i instantly realize that it is a sound i constantly ache to hear. the loneliness that rides on my back is brushed away, the tenorous sound of your breathing stitching back together the wide wounds, the sorrow that took the place of your presence when you left home.
the next day it is time to say goodbye. you have awakened for a moment and tell mom that you want to kiss me. i lean down for the last of all good nights. this is not the moment for settling the score, it is for creating a bridge between our childhood and our present. the simplest and most honest thing i can tell you is that you are the best brother i ever could have asked for. your heart blooms wide open and we both cry. it is a totally fucked up situation, but i have to walk out the door knowing i will never see you again. i don't know how to do it, but i just do, amidst your soft protests for us not to go.
mixed in among the broken heart of grief, one thing remains true. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky. i love you matthew. thank you for being my wonderful brother.
RIP Matthew Good, June 9 2008
HAPPY SPRING!!!!!! 
for your viewing pleasure....some of you old skoolers might know what this is in reference to, but it should just be enjoyed, regardles. ♥
[VIDEO]
[/VIDEO]
i went home last weekend and visited my folks at their new assisted living apartment. it's kinda like a posh hotel, and it's not exactly what i would choose for myself, but the decor, the environment and the general atmosphere is very uplifted. my parents, for the first time in probably 15 years feel like they are part of a community...albeit created for difficult reasons, but community none the less. they eat three meals a day prepared by a chef who considers my folks "his favorites" and they often share tables with the other tenants. i met phyllis, who, despite having introduced him 8 times as "leo" kept calling my dog "joe". there was myrna, who talked onandonandonandonandonandonandon, until my father used the muscles that aren't paralyzed to make funny faces at me showing how bored he was. he and i stifled giggles while my mom kept up a polite facade (we got a talking to afterwards). i had some very bittersweet moments with my father, who at one point turned to me all bright eyed and said, "when i get out of here, when i can walk again, and if i have any damn money left, let's take a trip. would you like that? just go on a plane somewhere and rent a house?" i suggested we go to the cornwall coast in england. "oh yes, let's do that. let's go to cornwall". i don't know if he'll ever walk again, but for that brief moment, we pretended like everything was ok and that there was enough hope in the world for miracles.
here we are fucking around with photobooth:
i took several drives while i was up there to look for wildflowers. spring still has it's chin resting on it's fist...it's in the "hmmmmm....i think i'll start blooming..." stage. but i got some great shots. i also found a pioneer cemetary.
blue lupin
red bud
killed by indians
dorothy was 10
cat tails
apple blossom
yesterday miss bliss and i went to the "BYOBW" race. that, folks, stands for "bring your own big wheels." we wore matching outfits and bliss wore heels, and we skidded our way down the crookedest st. in SF. NOT lombard street, the steepest and crookedest is actually vermont st.!
i'm the super slow one that goes by on the left right after evil knevil bites the dust. the guys in the tobogan were my favorite. as well as the guy wrapped in bubble wrap. next year we are going to bring cheerleaders and wear capes.
i was slow, but i still crashed twice and got road rash on my elbow and ass.
and finally, i have a new tattoo that i just finished getting colored in.
by gordon at braindrops in SF
tell me about your spring adventures.
for your viewing pleasure....some of you old skoolers might know what this is in reference to, but it should just be enjoyed, regardles. ♥
[VIDEO]
[/VIDEO]
i went home last weekend and visited my folks at their new assisted living apartment. it's kinda like a posh hotel, and it's not exactly what i would choose for myself, but the decor, the environment and the general atmosphere is very uplifted. my parents, for the first time in probably 15 years feel like they are part of a community...albeit created for difficult reasons, but community none the less. they eat three meals a day prepared by a chef who considers my folks "his favorites" and they often share tables with the other tenants. i met phyllis, who, despite having introduced him 8 times as "leo" kept calling my dog "joe". there was myrna, who talked onandonandonandonandonandonandon, until my father used the muscles that aren't paralyzed to make funny faces at me showing how bored he was. he and i stifled giggles while my mom kept up a polite facade (we got a talking to afterwards). i had some very bittersweet moments with my father, who at one point turned to me all bright eyed and said, "when i get out of here, when i can walk again, and if i have any damn money left, let's take a trip. would you like that? just go on a plane somewhere and rent a house?" i suggested we go to the cornwall coast in england. "oh yes, let's do that. let's go to cornwall". i don't know if he'll ever walk again, but for that brief moment, we pretended like everything was ok and that there was enough hope in the world for miracles.
here we are fucking around with photobooth:
i took several drives while i was up there to look for wildflowers. spring still has it's chin resting on it's fist...it's in the "hmmmmm....i think i'll start blooming..." stage. but i got some great shots. i also found a pioneer cemetary.
blue lupin
red bud
killed by indians
dorothy was 10
cat tails
apple blossom
yesterday miss bliss and i went to the "BYOBW" race. that, folks, stands for "bring your own big wheels." we wore matching outfits and bliss wore heels, and we skidded our way down the crookedest st. in SF. NOT lombard street, the steepest and crookedest is actually vermont st.!
i'm the super slow one that goes by on the left right after evil knevil bites the dust. the guys in the tobogan were my favorite. as well as the guy wrapped in bubble wrap. next year we are going to bring cheerleaders and wear capes.
i was slow, but i still crashed twice and got road rash on my elbow and ass.
and finally, i have a new tattoo that i just finished getting colored in.
by gordon at braindrops in SF
tell me about your spring adventures.
"your life is an occasion. rise to it."
this little phrase is what i will see every morning from now on when i wake.
i have been so shattered by grief that rather than remember the truth of a phrase like this, each day has been simply filled with the effort to get through. and then i forgot that i was just getting through and the shattered-ness began to feel like normal. and with the normalcy of coping has come the remembrance that there is more to life than sorrow and tragedy. and with the remembrance has come just a little more room in my heart to let the magic back in.
my father will not recover from his stroke. he is still alive, but his quality of life is gone. he is paralyzed on the left side of his body and is bed-ridden. he and my mother have moved out of our little home in the country and are living in an assisted facility, a little apartment. things have not reached a place of stasis, new problems with his health keep cropping up and my mom is about to lose it. but what has occured is a clearing of dust. at least for me, i am remembering that there is nothing for it but to keep on living. not just getting by. i have been so depressed, and at least for right now, i am ready to be something else.
finally obtaining an ipod has helped a lot. now wherever i go i have my own soundtrack. oh oh oh! i did not realize what i was missing out on. it's absolutely wonderful.
so i've been putting on my ipod and listening to music by yann tiersen, or sufjan stevens, or coco rosie and going out and taking pictures like this. it is spring, after all. time to emerge from the dark soil and reach for the light.
i've also got two new myspace pages:
for my burlesque troupe
for my accessories line "gibson girl antiquities"
and check out http://www.etsy.com/gibsongirlshop for my etsy shop too.
thank you for reading and thank you for all your sweet comments on my last blog. LOVE YOU!
this little phrase is what i will see every morning from now on when i wake.
i have been so shattered by grief that rather than remember the truth of a phrase like this, each day has been simply filled with the effort to get through. and then i forgot that i was just getting through and the shattered-ness began to feel like normal. and with the normalcy of coping has come the remembrance that there is more to life than sorrow and tragedy. and with the remembrance has come just a little more room in my heart to let the magic back in.
my father will not recover from his stroke. he is still alive, but his quality of life is gone. he is paralyzed on the left side of his body and is bed-ridden. he and my mother have moved out of our little home in the country and are living in an assisted facility, a little apartment. things have not reached a place of stasis, new problems with his health keep cropping up and my mom is about to lose it. but what has occured is a clearing of dust. at least for me, i am remembering that there is nothing for it but to keep on living. not just getting by. i have been so depressed, and at least for right now, i am ready to be something else.
finally obtaining an ipod has helped a lot. now wherever i go i have my own soundtrack. oh oh oh! i did not realize what i was missing out on. it's absolutely wonderful.
so i've been putting on my ipod and listening to music by yann tiersen, or sufjan stevens, or coco rosie and going out and taking pictures like this. it is spring, after all. time to emerge from the dark soil and reach for the light.
i've also got two new myspace pages:
for my burlesque troupe
for my accessories line "gibson girl antiquities"
and check out http://www.etsy.com/gibsongirlshop for my etsy shop too.
thank you for reading and thank you for all your sweet comments on my last blog. LOVE YOU!
JANUARY 2010
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OCTOBER 2009