What Does Water Smell Like?

The clean wash, the rinse of taste out of my mouth, the salty and the sweet of  lunch swept away until only the taste of water remains. The smell of the taste of salt on the ocean, each breath inhaling the waves, in and out. I'm having a hard time with these prompts, pretending to ignore them most of the time, halfheartedly reading them at other times. I think it's the reading of everyone else's responses on facebook that makes me feel like I have to write to impress. Write for others' satisfaction or response. (What would you do if you knew you could not fail?) I know that I love the smell of water. The smell of my lake, standing on the rocks and feeling my family stretched all around me, the creaking rot of the boathouse, the musty smell of the bunk beds they built under the garage. The smell that encompasses spiders and columbines and back alley bridge; the microwave with the rotating numbers--spin them up, watch them count down; the pantry that still holds the phantom smell of prune juice and oatmeal and whiskey; the pictures of grandma and grandpa and his biggest fish; the raccoons who used to live in the tree outside the window by the dining room table--waiting for grandpa to put peanut butter on the pine-cones. All of it surrounded by the smell of the lake shore, the calm lapping of the waves, the thin mountain grass on the protected shoreline.  The smell of being young and hugging my grandma on the beach; roasting marshmallows and toasting my cold legs by the bonfire; being a teenager and putting on deodorant and body spray in the bathroom with my cousin, practicing being cool, practicing knowing everything I thought I needed to know about life and sex; coming up on an odd weekend with my first love to do laundry and watch the waves while the dryer spun and shook; even this summer, the smell of our mini-moon, the half week of resting in the bed that was my great grandparents, cuddled inside the cabin, listening the to rain plinking on the roof, dripping into the water, the smell of the lake on my wedding dress, rob's wedding suit. the red and orange petals from the roses we brought with us spinning out onto the clear green water, under our feet and over the dock. The smell of the lake, dancing and laughing inside me--breathing in and breathing out. 

Eat All the Foods

Cheese. Korean Ovalette Noodles. Bread. Cookies. Muffins. Butter. Ice Cream. Oatmeal. Olives. Pickled Radish. Pickled ginger. Earl Gray Tea. Good Earth Original Tea. Custard. Doughnuts. Vietnamese Style Coffee. Coffee. Battambang's Special Noodle. Bleu Cheese Dressing. Strawberries. Pineapple. Horseradish. Potatoes. Garden Fresh Lettuce. Mint Tea. Irish Cream. Rum. Kahlua. Margaritas. Broccoli. Biscuits. Tomato sauce. Huckleberries. Cheesecake. Dirty Dirty Dirty Martinis. French Fries. Thick Yogurt. Raisins Covered in Chocolate. Pretty Much Anything Covered in Chocolate. More Cheese.

Look out the nearest window. Describe what you see.

I see the grey white of a sky threatening to snow again, for the third
time so far this winter. Sky normally ashen gray in Seattle, pushing
us all into our passive aggressive pastimes. This isn't what I want to
write about it. I shouldn't have read the facebook posts of others,
the better ones, the ones who can write already, who haven't forgotten
their own plots--are so busy knowing their syntax, their arias and
auras. But here I am, Sweet Mozart, forgive me for trying to match my
keystrokes to your brusque musician delivered sounds. Here is a window
I want: the one that faces the garden, the garden filled with
vegetables in full blush, kiwi fruits thick on the vines. The garden
with overflowing lust--dripping with flowers and heavy with bees. The
garden with a muslin draped arbor, a chair in the shade. Tea on the
table in perfect china cups. Another window: the art studio in the
corner of the garden, looking in from the tall windows in front. A
painting on the easel that is begs to be touched up, altered, changed
and changed again. My sewing table draped with cloth--shelves of
fabric along one wall. Bins and drawers and glass jars with bits of
ribbon and shelf upon shelf of scissors and thread and paint. Here is
the window I wish I wanted: the one I can see right now, reflecting
back at me a better version of myself. One who doesn't spend her time
avoiding herself. A reflection of a better woman--prettier, skinnier,
successful, and smart. I wish I wanted to be here and be better, but I
don't. I want the garden and the art. The space to make and make and
make and read and draw and laugh. I want parties and new friends and I
want to feel brave and get over feeling fat. I'm tired of feeling
myself hustle and hustle.

Pick Out 3 Things That Are Beautiful

1. The beautiful grace of the philodendron, sitting on the corner of the accounting desk in my stuffy little office; it's bright lime and apple green stripes.

2. The triset wedding photo that Retardo put together that I'm having printed right on my updated credit card so that I have a reminder that love and relationships are more important than things and stuff.

3. My work rocks. The pile of them placed by my fan, especially the hole-y one from the Columbia River Gorge and the smooth ones I inherited when I moved from small room to small room in this office.