The time goes so quickly; the stars shine with this polished brilliance, like the sky has no wish for any traveler to be turned away, and it burns every last lamp to prove it.

“It’s good to have you home,” my mom tells me.

And then she asks me if the clothes on the pool table are mine. “I don’t think so,” I reply, really hoping it’s so–since I don’t have enough space for the clothes I have that are already accounted for.

“Well, they must be,” she reasons. “The jeans are skinnier than my arms and the underwear is very small and strange.”

My mom has a way with words. 

And so I take the ‘very small and strange’ underwear she hands me; I find a place for the super skinny jeans and realize that I guess I did leave some clothes on the pool table, after all.

And, oh! Did I tell you how, the other night, I dreamt (not once, but TWICE!) that I sang on the Ellen Show?

Because I did.

And I don’t normally remember my dreams so viscerally, but this one, I do.

I was right about to walk onto that stage where the couch and the coffee table sit . And there is Ellen, looking adorable in her tailored trousers and cute button down shirt, when I hear this announcement:

AND THIS IS JESSICA LATSHAW. SHE GOES AROUND SINGING, “BABY, YOU AIN’T MY FRIEND.” SHE MUST BE VERY ISOLATED AND HAVE NO FRIENDS.

It sounded like the announcer felt sorry for me, and, honestly, I did, too, once I heard what he said.

But the good news is that I have many friends and don’t feel isolated at all. In fact, I love a little bit of alone time now and then–it’s akin to breathing–meaning, I find it absolutely necessary. And who knows? Maybe I will sing on the Ellen Show at some point. I mean, as my friend John says: miracles happen, so why not to me? That would certainly make my sister pretty excited. And, who am I kidding, it’d make me pretty excited, too.

Speaking of my sister, isn’t she beautiful?

Yes, I think so, too.

It is; it simply is.

Does the turtle feel like it’s particularly hard to be a turtle? No, I think a turtle exists without any commentary on either the hardship or advantage of lugging a shell around. Maybe on really hot days he feels a little more burdened, a little like he wishes he could just dump the shell behind a few rocks for the day. He’d try a swim without it, for a change. But then, I’m betting once a predator shows up, he’s pretty grateful for that shell; pretty glad it’s not hidden behind a rock while his own soft skin is exposed.

I guess my point is, a turtle is a turtle all the time and it would waste time if it questioned the validity of its shell. Better for the turtle to just learn to use it well. Better for the turtle to be the best darn turtle around.

Each of us have a story to tell. Better for us not to waste too much time questioning the validity of that story, I think; better to live a life that shares that story with integrity, generosity, kindness, and truth.

My own story happens to come out a lot. I carry it around like a stone in my pocket. Sometimes the stone feels so heavy; it is then that I steal away to write. To compose. To sing. To dance. To capture the emotions that have turned into boulders on my shoulders and write them down. It is then that something magical happens; the boulders are dwarfed and changed. They become music notes and lyrics; steps and hard work; syntax connected by many semi-colons (some might even say too many. I would say there’s no such thing).

One day my therapist asked me to describe a particular trauma I’ve experienced. I picked the one that is right, well, here. Inside my brain. Written on my heart. It’s confusing because it’s the day that never should have happened, but did happen. The little girl who I once was–with the jagged bangs across a too big forehead and more dreams than pets (and I had a lot of pets, believe me)–still can’t understand it. I try to explain it to her. I also try to tell her that her haircut gets better, too. She says she doesn’t care about her hair and she maintains that dreams come true and love wins. There’s no sense in arguing with her. Just like there’s no sense in telling her to brush her hair.

And love does win. Eventually. Just not in every situation on earth. Just not in the way she anticipated, I guess.

But one day my therapist handed me a sheet of paper and some crayons. “Describe what happened,” she said. “Use sentences to tell me how it sounded and smelled and looked like. And draw it, too.”

I got to work. I am ridiculously excited whenever anyone tells me to draw pictures or write sentences. I am not even particularly great at drawing pictures; I just love to do it. I drew the scene. Like a comic book strip, I drew squares, one right after the other. I showed an empty bedroom, and I explained the sound of the door slamming. I put it down on paper. All of it. In crayon, of all things. What an adult situation to jot down in crayon; if it hadn’t hurt so much, the juxtaposition would almost be humorous.

Almost.

Then my therapist told me to tell her, to show her, to explain. I am not a therapist, so I might get this wrong, but she told me something about how trauma gets trapped in the feeling part of our brain. It’s visceral. A scene that is always just one slight reminder away. But putting it down on paper–in pictures and words–takes it from that part of the brain to another part. The analytical part. So we become reporters. The CSI of our own crime scene, in a way. We lose the extremely raw and overwhelmed reaction as we take it in and describe it. We own the memory, rather than the memory owning us.

The change brings freedom.

The change is oxygen in an airless room.

And, in a way, relaying my story–making my art–does the same thing for me. Not that everything I make or create comes from trauma. No, not at all. But some of it does. And the truth is that all of it comes from my story. My experiences. My feelings. And I am not sure quite how to maintain the balance of telling my story without somehow dragging the other characters in my story through the exposition. Characters who probably don’t want to be mentioned. I do this imperfectly, I am sure.

So, being an artist isn’t hard or easy. Or maybe, more accurately, it’s both. It’s hard to tell my story without somehow exposing other people to ears that are connected to minds that make judgements. And yet, it’s also easy to tell my story. Too easy. Because it happens. All the time, again and again, it happens. Without provocation, it feels, my story comes out. In my songs and words and movements and conversations.

And so here’s to telling our stories with grace and honesty. Here’s to constantly trying to prove that, though I have failed at it before and will almost definitely fail at it again, the two can coexist.

Grace and truth.

Art and story.

But, instead, I am writing.

Because I am feeling some things right now, and I thought I’d write them down. See if I can’t breathe a little bit easier because of it; the way it’s always been since I was a little girl and would write out my feelings until the feelings didn’t feel so big and overwhelming anymore.

I used to be able to see the moon from my window, growing up.

The moon and the treetops. I would stare at that patch of sky for so long some nights. I am missing the moon tonight. I am missing my piano. I am missing a person, too. Not anyone in particular, strangely enough; there is nobody to miss that way. He is gone. Every he that has ever been here is gone. Not that there have been many. But, for me, one has always been enough, anyway.

I think I will sneak down to the laundry room soon; play some music. Practice and write. Last night, my first attempt at this failed miserably when I ended up way too close to a guy with alcohol on his breath. He kept asking me questions and questions and questions. I think he was drunk; I know I was scared. I didn’t like it. So I left and went back into my apartment. And then I was annoyed because all I wanted to do was play music in peace and, instead, I ended up playing 20 questions with a man who does not practice the art of subtlety.

Tonight, I met a guy at this pre-meeting for a fashion designer charity event I am performing at next week. “Where do you like to go when you go out?” he asked me. And I realized something: I didn’t really have anything to say, other than open mics. And studios. And my laundry room. 

But I do go places all the time. I go explore the city. I jump on the subway and see where it will take me. I look for bookshops. Thrift stores. Patches of Central Park I have yet to see. I hear there’s a part with sailboats; I’d like to see that. I just don’t know where the coolest clubs are, I guess. I still feel ridiculous at bars. I never know what drink to order; the music is too loud to speak over; and unless I am playing, I wonder how long is an appropriate amount of time to spend there before I can leave.

But I do love this city. Just today, I was walking through Soho and the little shops all in a row thrilled me. So did the perfect cup of hot chocolate I quietly sipped in the corner of a cafe.

I just sometimes miss the moon.

And I really miss my piano.

And him. No, I don’t miss him. I just sometimes miss…somebody…I guess I don’t know him. And that’s okay. Most of the time, anyway, that’s perfectly okay with me. But then there are nights like this. When I start out missing the moon and all my 88 keys and then it goes to missing a person, too. All those things I am not seeing and feeling right now jump on the bandwagon together,  I guess, and what a bandwagon it is.

What a bandwagon it is.

But the part of life where I am singing a private little concert for some designers and publicists in a sun-lit room with the Hudson at my back?

That part is pretty sweet.

Makes the bandwagon look a little ridiculous, I guess, after all.

Hubbub.

Song.

On itunes.

People I have never met before buying it and using wonderfully expressive language to tell me that, in so many, words: they like it.

They effing like it.

Can I tell you something? In the spring of this year, I packed one polka dotted suitcase, a canvas tote bag that has now sat on the subway floors more times than I care to think about, and a guitar. I said good-bye to my parents and the dogs and got on the Chinatown bus headed to NYC with tears in my eyes. And then on my face. And then on my shirt. I was reading my copy of The Grief Club and I was thinking how just about everything in life seems to point to this one consuming lesson: LET GO. 

Because you just lose it anyway.

And I guess it’s easier to willingly let something go, than to have it pried from your white-knuckled fingers, huh?

I remember thinking, This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be moving to NYC by myself. He should be with me. And forgive me if I don’t mention exactly who he is right now. But the truth is that in one day–one cataclysmic day–he had left. My dream job (touring with the broadway show, A Chorus Line) had ended, and my house was no longer a home. I felt a deep sense of dysphoria. Actually, let me put it bluntly; crudely, even (cause it was raw, what I felt): I felt like everything I loved had turned to shit. 

But, what do you do? You keep being you. You make things and breathe and make jokes and find life interesting and practice kindness and forgive just as often as you need forgiveness, yourself (which is an awful lot, let’s be real); you appreciate the people who are still here and you learn to live without the people who have gone away; you dream, because god knows that if you stop dreaming, you become a robot and I’ve never heard of a robot moving anyone to tears or falling in love (there was that one robot who could read and that other robot who could kill–but still, we’re more than readers of other stories; more than killers of life); you find inspiration everywhere you are, darnit. EVERYWHERE. And if you haven’t found it, then you look harder, because it’s there–it has to be–because YOU’RE there. And you, we, every last one of us, can be–should be!–inspiring.

And you cry.

You let yourself cry as often as you need to; the pillow is well acquainted with your tears and some days you don’t even bother with mascara because it’s just gonna leave a little trail down your face, anyway.

But you also laugh.

You make fun of the mundane until there is a bit of the sublime in it, now that you’re laughing so hard; you realize that every bit of life matters and that, yes, that’s transcendent. The knowledge that every moment builds something that we call LIFE–and that life is all we have. Life and each other. And the God who gave us both.

You realize all this; it builds a reservoir in your heart. You pull from it when you see other people getting the things you dream of. The men who stay. The broadway shows. The charmed existence that really only looks that way from where you’re standing, anyway. But, like I said, that reservoir makes you realize something powerful: you’re on a journey and the story isn’t over. You don’t drive from Maine to Florida and stop off in Delaware for a spell, look around, only to complain about how Florida doesn’t have alligators, after all. You realize that, it’s okay, there’s no alligators yet–because your journey isn’t over. YET. Florida is still coming. Gators or bust!

So, all this to say, this is one heck of a journey. ALL OF IT. The grief and the joy–they each make the other that much more poignant and significant, I guess. And I have to say that I am grateful that I didn’t stop off in my grief and stay there forever, complaining that Florida has no gators, after all, if I can stretch that metaphor just a little bit further.

I am glad I kept on this journey; I have no idea where it will take me, but I never had, anyway. I thought I did, but life was all like, NOPE. So, nothing much has changed. I am on a journey. There are many bends in the road.

And tonight, I did a little dance in my living room while listening to ‘ain’t my friend.’ I danced in the very same leggings I wore in a certain video that has been making its rounds lately, if you wanna know the truth.

Not that I planned it that way, mind you; but what I have found is that sometimes life turns out better than we’d planned. Way better, actually.

It’s funny, when I wrote this song over the summer, I never imagined so many people would hear it, let alone like it. It was just the way I was feeling at the time.

For me, putting my feelings into words and melodies is like a little bit of redemption NOW. A way of saying, This hurts so much, but maybe it’s worth it–cause look. Here’s a song, now, and that’s directly related to what I was feeling. Couldn’t have one without the other.

It doesn’t necessarily make it easier while you’re in it–but pain can produce good things. Worthwhile things. So what I’ve learned is not to run from your pain, but to sit there. Listen to it. And then use it to make things. Just my two cents.

Ain’t my friend:

Chorus: Baby, you ain’t my friend, and I ain’t your last call, nor can I let my heart wonder how you feel about me at all. Cause you got all your fans, people who are on call, but I ain’t one of them, nor can I let myself pretend…
Oh-oh-oh…baby, you ain’t my friend
Oh-oh-oh

See, I don’t really really wanna just be your friend; we’re either gonna play this game or let the game end. I mean, sure, I’ll be polite and wave as I walk by, but it hurts way too much to act like we’re still fly after everything that happened, that happened between us; you’re so good at pretending while I just make a fuss; now, I ain’t saying that it’s now or it’s never gonna be, I’m just saying that this friendship feels impossible to me. And maybe someday it’ll be just fine between us, but that day ain’t today, and maybe there’s some truth to the way they always say that, baby, you’re from mars, and maybe I’m from, I’m from, I’m from Venus.

Chorus

It’s not like you were wrong when you decided that I didn’t belong next to you, it’s just hard to stand here with you, when I’m not really with you, do you know what I mean? Don’t think I’m trying to be mean–no! I think you’re just great! Too great, in fact, that’s why I take a step back; it’s just a matter of survival as I walk through this new trial, don’t take it personally, cause I’m just trying to live free, to take a deep breath now and feel what I feel. As I keep walking, watch me walking, no I won’t stop. Though you ain’t here–stop with all the fear, I tell myself again and again just as long as you say that you are my friend, so…

Bridge: Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); you live your life now and I’ll be busy living mine; Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); I already got quite enough friends now, thank you, yeah, I’ll be fine, fine, fine….

Chorus.

Chords: chorus/rap: C,G,Amin,F,G (with an occasional extra F and G thrown in for good measure; I trust you to figure out when)

Bridge: Amin, C, Amin, F, G

(yes, the chords are simple…have I mentioned I haven’t playing the ukulele for that long…?)

And there you go.

Peace!

And now I feel all shiny and gem-like because of it.

I got to go mail a package at the post office. And listen to a mostly-deaf man try to listen to a post office employee tell him how much it will cost to mail the package he was sending.

“Eleven dollars, sir,” she said.
“HOW MUCH?” the man asked.
“Eleven dollars, sir!” the girl repeated, this time louder.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” shouted the man.
So the lady raised her voice even higher, “ELEVEN DOLLARS!”

“Well, you don’t have to sound so nervous,” said the man, having finally heard her. “And why is it so darn expensive?”

“I AM NOT NERVOUS,” said the lady, “I AM SIMPLY TRYING TO MAKE IT SO THAT YOU CAN HEAR ME, SO I HAVE TO RAISE MY VOICE. AND IT’S EXPENSIVE BECAUSE YOU WANT A PACKAGE TO GET TO CALIFORNIA BY CHRISTMAS. WHICH IS SUNDAY. AND WE’RE IN NEW YORK.”

It was quite a display, let me tell you.

And then, Shane and I played Brooklyn tonight. It was a blast. A lot of people came out–which never ceases to throw my heart into this posture of gratitude and humility.

And while waiting for the L train, there was a musician playing and singing and stuff. He spotted my ukulele at one point, and just said, “Come on, then. Play us a song.”

So I did. And people started gathering around and cheering and throwing dollars into the guy’s case (thinking it was mine). It was surreal. When I finished, the musician guy gave me a cd. “I can have it?” I asked. “For free?”

“Well, you earned me some money tonight,” he said, indicating his case. “So, it’s not really free now, is it?”

And then, once on the train, this kind guy I later found out is named Bryan, lent me his tuner after watching me try and try to tune my uke by ear. So then we got into a conversation. Actually, I got into a conversation with Bryan and his friend, Joe.

“Where are you from?” Bryan asks me.
“Pennsylvania.”
“What part of Pennsylvania,” says Joe, sounding interested now.
“Landenberg,” I say, quietly; ready to explain to him just where, exactly, Landenberg actually is.
“NOW WAY!” says Joe. “I grew up in Landenberg!”
“You did not!” I say. “There were only about five of us, and I was led to believe that most of them were my family.”

So then, as you can well imagine, we talked about both of our hometown. We talked about it lovingly. I told him he was family.

“You know where Elbow lane is?” Joe asks.
“Of course! Right down the road from my parents’ house.”
“I’m going there for Christmas…”

And so, in conclusion: The World is a very small town, actually, with a population of: everybody. People are kind and generous. And singing songs is just about the best way to while away an evening that I can think of.

Anyway, I ended up in Brooklyn. Oh, who am I kidding–I knew I would end up there. See, it’s just because my absolute favorite shop in the whole wide world is there. Cat-bird. That’s what the shop is called. And it holds such wonderful little unique treasures and interesting things. It’s where I found this today.

They always have something unicorn in it. Which is part of why I love the place, I guess. Unicorns and I go way back. To when I was four, I think. Four and sick in the hospital with scraggly blond hair never cut evenly a day in my life, if the pictures tell me anything about it. My two best memories of the hospital are when my brothers all marched in to visit and handed me homemade cards, one after the other. Just dropped them into my lap while I was laying on the hospital bed. I still remember it and it still makes me smile. And the other best memory was my parents, bringing me down to the gift shop and telling me I could pick out anything I wanted from the whole store.

Whoa.

So, I found the unicorn stuffed animal, and he moved from the gift room downstairs to my room somewhere upstairs.

I bought a tiny gift for one of my nieces who’s on my christmas gift list this year. I love to buy something from Cat-bird for someone I love. It’s like inviting them into a very good, very warm place, giving them something from there.

And then I found a vintage store. Of course. And the lady who works there–Francesca–had all kinds of fun dressing me up. “It’s just you can fit into everything, so it’s so fun to finally see these clothes on a body!”

And it was so fun.

Until she made me try on the World’s Tiniest Pants Ever.

“You’re a size ___, right?” she asked me.

“Yep.”

Then she sticks something into the dressing room while saying, “Great. Try these on.I can’t wait to see them on you!”

And then they wouldn’t go over my thighs, so I had to let her down gently. She’s still searching for someone to put those pants on. So, really, if you have exceptionally skinny thighs and no butt to speak of, pay her a visit on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn. Make her day.

She also stuffed my size 8 feet into a pair of size 7 boots.

Which made me feel like one of Cinderella’s step-sisters trying to squeeze into that magical glass slipper.

And I was always hoping to be Cinderella in that story, see, so it wasn’t the best feeling for me.

But I did find a pair of pants that fit like a dream, have this amazing tailored look, and the plaid ain’t too shabby, either. Done.

It was a good time tonight. I enjoy my company. I enjoy other people’s company, too. Like a nice guy I met, who bought me some pizza. I was starving, so it really came in handy. We had a good conversation. We realized that were both in South Korea at the same time. How weird is that?

And now look what I’ve gone and done–totally written a whole blog post. I had told myself I was only gonna post the unicorn card, and be done with it. Maybe say a thing or two about Cat-Bird. Ugh. I am a lost cause when it comes to writing less.

I suppose there are worse lost causes out there.

Oh, but one more thing about Cat-Bird. In it, I saw this apron, fitted with a whole row of pencils on the front of it, with large letters across, saying,

WEAPONS TO FIGHT FASCISM

I like it. Use those pencils. Write. Write your thoughts down. Don’t be like everyone else. Don’t form a government with no factions. Let us continue to sharpen each other with our pointed ideas, friends.

Okay, that’s really all now. Promise.

Is what I heard the seniors at the Julliard School of Dance yell onstage during their performance at Lincoln Center tonight. The whole concert was stunning. I was rapt and on the edge of my seat, hardly wanting to blink, for fear I would miss some nuance of movement that, upon seeing, could change my life.

But, that statement.

Allow me to make it a little more specific.

I like this:

I am rediscovering the color of my hair. I haven’t colored it since, um…the spring, I think. And, gradually, my roots are just now becoming my hair. And it’s so much less expensive this way. I dig it. For now, anyway. I kind of feel like a hippie, so that’s cool. Although, that’s how you know you’re definitely not a hippie: This girl is so high maintenance that she doesn’t color her hair for a while and then calls herself a hippie! YEAH. RIGHT.

I auditioned for a play today. I’ve never auditioned for a play before. “I have no idea what to do to prepare!” I said to Betsy. “Should I put my hair up? If I do–I’ll look like a dancer trying to be in a play. Who am I kidding, I always look like a dancer, so of course I’m gonna look like a dancer trying to be in a play!”

Bets suggested that I try half up and half down. I went with it. I also wore a dress and some heels. The heels made me feel like if King Kong were around, he’d just as soon scale me as the Empire State Building. The dress made me feel kind of pretty, so at least there was that. It was so strange to not have to sing or even drop into a split to get ready for an audition. All I did was read lines. JUST READ. What the heck is a girl supposed to do with all this…body..and voice, then? Gosh, the audition felt too easy. And I felt too tall.

Watching the Julliard dancers move so beautifully. It made me so grateful to my parents for FORCING me to start dancing when I was eight. Thanks for being such tyrants, mom and pop!

Finding a small glass stone with a pretty angel inside it while digging through my purse. And I have no idea how it got there. But now it’s there and I don’t want it to leave.

A little project I am working on for my parents’ Christmas gifts. I love working up surprises for people who I love. And, well, I think they’re gonna like this a lot.

Reading my brother Jonathan’s text about his 6 mile run today. I could hardly be prouder if I’d done it myself. He’s strong in so many ways already, but now he’s just getting even stronger. I love watching the people in my life become better versions of themselves.

And now for I Don’t Like This:

Cramps. I’m not sure this needs any explanation, really.

Two different strangers asking me for a kiss within four days of each other. Call me old fashioned, but that’s just weird.

Going to Central Casting to submit for SAG work, only to realize I need my passport. The one in Pennsylvania. Shoot. Next week, then.

A guy asking for a date, and telling me to refer to him as “Batman Mike,” cause his name is Mike, but he really likes Batman. Although, that one would have to go in the I Like This AND I Don’t Like This category. Because, I kind of like that it’s so funny and weird–but I definitely would not like to date anyone named Batman Mike.

Okay, this list is in no way comprehensive, but it sums up some recent likes and dislikes just fine.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m really just stating facts. Honestly, what’s an adventure without rats, some weather, late nights, and awkward conversations? Not much of one, that’s what.

Throw in being momentarily lost in Chinatown in the middle of the night, and Hey, Ulysses, who’s on an odyssey now?!

Why am I out so late? you might be wondering. Just a magical little open mic that I happened to stumble upon on the lower east side, is all. Lucky Jack’s. But really, I’m the lucky one. Because the place was just vibrant with creativity; buzzing with encouragement.

Of course, this meant they all did some sort of exuberant chanting that sounded like yoga on crack when I got up to play–being a mic club “virgin” and all–but I handled it well, I think. And, like I said, that kind of environment in the room made it hard not to want to share your gift generously.

Oh! But Tarrah Reynolds was the featured artist, meaning she played a set with her band. Her back-up vocalist is currently the lead singer for Bill T. Jones’ latest project (he’s a brilliant choreographer–one of the most notable of the 21st century, really). And Tarrah has performed with many artists who you’d basically give your first child over to indentured servanthood (seven years–not that bad, considering!) for the chance to sing with any of them–Bono being on that list.

That band was perfect. Their sound reminds me of the way people who really love wine describe it–rich and smooth and sexy and, well, intoxicating. Though they sounded nothing like the way I’d describe wine–bitter and dry and not worth pretending to like just to blend in with the adults.

Listening to them in that crowded and colorful bar felt transcendent. Like nothing bad effected me anymore. I read this quote today–something about throwing away anything that is not beautiful or useful or joyous–and it was like I could feel those best and necessary parts of life crowding out the other stuff. Making it almost easy to throw away–the stuff that’s not beautiful or useful or joyous, I mean.

And I met a lot of people. I have so many cards in my purse that I’m  gonna have to sort through in the morning. Wait. It is the morning. You know what I mean. I think I got a gig, too. And I wore floral leggings. But I don’t think those two things are connected.

Oh, and one guy told me that I am a real treat. Ha. A treat. That sounds condescending or something, but this guy didn’t say it like that. He said it like being a real treat is one of the best things to be in life, which was nice. Plus, he has a girlfriend, so he wasn’t trying to get with me, either. Double nice. He had heard me play Boi Boi Boi at an open mic last night, but we got the chance to talk tonight, and he said that he hears a lot of girls talk about how they’re more than just a body, more than how they look, blah blah blah. “But you really are,” he said. “You’re the real thing; and there’s a lot to you.”

I could have kissed him.

You know, on the cheek.

Giving him a respectable kiss on the cheek sounds like a real treat, if you ask me.

Oh, and it was a full moon tonight. I have decided that I will never throw away the moon, because it is so beautiful and so useful and so very joyous.

Well, yes.

And one of these self-evident truths (which is basically a really fancy way to say DUH! Oh, those founding fathers were sassy, no doubt) is my love of color. As I said, it makes me happy. And so, one of my favorite things to do after I’ve put my clothes away (or, you know, most of my clothes) is to look in my closet and see this.

All those colors lined up in a row like some kind of hippie army or something.

Isn’t it exciting?

NO?

That’s fine. I suppose there are some people who, oddly enough, find closets un-exciting. Whatever.

Something else that’s exciting (to me, anyway), is that I found a couple of missing socks and so have two more matching pairs than I had previously. Gosh, when that happens, it’s like encouragement. Like there is a Great Plan for my life, after all, and it will all make sense, eventually. I wonder if the person who first said It’ll all come out in the wash was referring to finding his long-lost socks.

I wrote a song tonight. That’s what generally happens when I try to clean. I start out so good, all focused and stuff, putting away a tutu here and a jumper there, when suddenly I see my ukulele and I’m all MUST WRITE SONG! and the strewn about jumpers and tutus are completely forgotten for the next while.

But I did get a good amount of organization done. I mean, I found two lost socks, people. That kind of boon doesn’t generally happen for the lazy or faint of heart.

And the closet. Now I get to see it all pretty and colorful like that.

Nice.