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this weekend was crazy. i made 4 new friends. i fell in love with a three story resale bookstore. (couple pictures, taken on phone. i apologize for the pictures taken on my phone: i bought a camera online hopefully it comes tomorrow..)

phone pictures

i went to a wedding. i hung out with my best friend. i found out a new favorite starbucks drink; (besides venti earl grey tea misto+vanilla, iced green tea lemonade, and occasionally zebra iced coffee)  mango naked juice blended with green tea (powder?) and strawberry frap base=2.90. keeper!

that is all. kudos.


yum. lunch with friends today was that. i love the ackwardness that we experience together and still love eachother despite ketchup spilled on shirts, “frozen sugar bom-boms”, milk with a little coffee added, brazillian roast chicken and honey mustard chicken sandwiches, asking permission to ask naive questions, laughing, lusting after the waters’ dreads, trying to understand that dulce de leche did not mean “flan”, bellpeppers or no bellpeppers, overall ackwardness.

i mean, overal loveliness. this is a conversation we had.

me: “hey, so, i found something out about myself.”

cally+ban: “oh no. what?”

cally: “that you are bi?”

me: “no! that i like french movies.”

ban: “ohhh”

cally: “thats even worse.”

me: “but i like them! i like subtitles.”

then we proceeded to petco to buy some more fishes, since all but one of mine died. i didn’t end up buying any. ban parked way too far away from the store anyway, they would have died in the heat.

i am falling more in love with you every day, friends.


I can’t express myself sometimes in words, and I often borrow the words of others; others that have had so much more experience then I have; others who I look up to. Here is some excerpts from the book, A Circle of Quiet, which is by Madeleine L’Engle. She is my favorite author. Please, sit back and bask in these words.

I like hanging sheets on lines strung under the apple trees—the birds like it, too. I enjoy going out to the incinerator after dark and watching the flames; my bad feelings burn away with the trash. But the house is still visible, and I can hear the sounds from within; often I need to get away completely, if only for a few minutes. My special place is a small brook in a green glade, a circle of quiet from which there is no visible sign of human beings. There’s a natural stone bridge over the brook, and I sit there, dangling my legs and looking through the foliage at the sky reflected in the water, and things slowly come back into perspective. If the insects are biting me—and they usually are; no place is quiet perfect—I use the pliable branch of a shadblow tree as a fan. The brook wanders through a tunnel of foliage, and the birds sing more sweetly there than anywhere else; or perhaps it is just what when I am at the brook I have time to be aware of them, and I move slowly into a kind of peace that is marvelous, “annihilating all that’s made to a green thought in a green shade.” If I sit for a while, them my impatience, crossness, frustration, are indeed annihilated, and my sense of humor returns.

I suppose the perfect isness of anything would be frightening without the hope of God. An oak tree is, and it doesn’t matter to it—at least Sartre thinks it doesn’t; it is not a thinking oak. Man is; and it matters to him, this is terrifying unless it matters to God, too, because we are sufficient unto ourselves—I am not: my husband, my family, my friends give me my meaning and, in a sense, my being, so that I know that I, like the burning bush, or the oak tree, am ontological: essential: real.

When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we also escape out self-conscious selves. The Greeks had a word for ultimate self-consciousness which I find illuminating: hubris: pride: pride in the sense of oneself in the center of the universe. The strange and terrible thing is that this kind of total self-consciousness invariably ends in self-annihilation. The great tragedians always understood this, from Sophocles to Shakespeare.

The kind of unself-consciousness I’m thinking about becomes clearer to me when I turn to a different discipline: for instance, that of playing a Bach fugue at the piano, precisely because I will never be good enough pianist to play a Bach fugue as it should be played. But when I am actually sitting at the piano, all there is for me is the music. I am wholly in it, unless I fumble so badly that I perforce to become self-conscious. Mostly, no matter how inadequate my playing, the music is all that matters: I am outside time, outside self, in play, in joy. When we can play with the unself-consciousness concentration of a child, this is: art: prayer: love.


a special ingredient that is scrumptious in watercolor.

the painting of this sketch


Out of my hand the pieces of your letter blew
Out into the dusk
I never read it
That how the song always goes
And it seems useless

The post it flew between us
The letters grew to thirteen pages long
The post faltered and faded away
The emails, the emails!
The talks full of happiness
The shine soon faded

But we knew we had something, back in the 2005’s
And the ink grew dimmer everyday
The ink, I hope stays bright!
I never know, but I kind of want to fight
For those letters in the post
The letters in the post

Now I think of you with fondness
Your name associated with the old days
Now I remember
How we used to joke about the guts spilled on the page
Why does it end like this all the time
Why does it end?
Why does it end

But we knew we had something back then
And the ink still grows dim
The ink probably won’t stay bright
I know the memories stay mine
Oh, those letters in the post


*and more. :)

You would never think to make kale into chips…it is weird to cook and to eat. At least, it was the vegetable that my mom would buy and then cook like spinach and we would gulp down quickly.

Anyhow of course I was reading a back issue of Bon Appetite and read this and thought it would be yum. I was right. Beware, they are addicting.



a bunch of kale, rinsed, dried, cut lengwise in half, center ribs and stems removed

1 tablespoon of oilve oil

Preheat oven to 250. Toss kale with oil in large bowl. Sprinkle salt and pepper. Arrange leaves in single layer on one or more baking sheets. Bake until crisp; about 30 minutes for flat leaves and up to 33 minutes for curly leaves. Eat. Yum.

Craftiness of my sister Clara: (i love love love it!)

felt cases

She’d make you one for your phone or iPod or mp3 player if you wanted.

Penelope the Fish graced this earth with her presence for only a short time; one day. Her gold scales shone and her beady eyes darted from side to side with as much grace as one can allow to a goldfish. Her characteristics included peacefulness, a remarkable ability of blowing bubbles underwater, and the refusal to eat the pink flakes of food that were so generously sprinkled on the surface of her home. One can not decide whether she died of shock or of natural causes. Yet in the goldfish hall of fame, her fin-print will always be reguarded with reverence.

Out with the pickle jar, in with the fish bowl:



Today I went to a baby shower and the theme was Noah’s Ark; therefore I inherited four fish from the decor on the tables from the numerous other gold fish that were going to be used for cat food when taken back to the pet store. Friends helped me pick out the names. Penelope was originally Portia. But we loved the name Penelope.

meet my family in the pickle jar:


Leopold has a mustache, Pierre is the angry grey one, Max is the nerdy gold one with the clear tail, and Penelope is the plain gold one.  (can gold be plain?)


Penelope rolls her eyes at the boys.


a good look at Leopold’s mustache and Max’s tail.


haha, Pierre’s angry face.