i imagine that yes is the only living thing.

Favorite breakfast: granola with strips of dried coconut and banana coins swimming in Sassy Cow milk, one mug of masala chai, one tall glass of pineapple juice, and a piece of fresh fruit. I always eat a big breakfast since I am impatient with lunch. In the middle of the day, there are too many other things on my mind and I rarely find (or make) time for more than a yogurt, hastily scarfed down and not enjoyed. Breakfasts, though, must be unrushed, and it's best enjoyed with This American Life and the Willy Street Co-Op Reader in a chair by the window.

I ran early errands this morning (being out of lovely just-detailed breakfast foods) and found empty streets and crowded church parking lots. The air is crisp and very September, and the sky is aggressively blue the way summer skies aren't.

Going to see Philoctetes at American Players Theatre in Spring Green today.

Most flawless day of the summer.

So far I've dislocated my jaw eating mango leather and sped on my bike back and forth from one side of the Isthmus to the other: Monona-Mendota-Monona-Mendota. High June is here, and it is simply exquisite.

Skeeter is less than thrilled, resentful of the wiry black kitten that roams the apartment freely, unused to the spongy air mattress. He grumbles and growls, but then the window beckons and he stretches out on the sill, unable to resist the cool air.

Summer, truly.

Spring lasted less than five minutes this year, squeezed between March mud and chill and these suddenly warm, sticky evenings. Tonight I walked home with a jug of ice-cold Sassy Cow milk sweating so fiercely it threatened to slip from my curled fingers. That's summer, alright.

May 16, 2011.

My last day being twenty-three. It's been an eventful year.

May 8, 2011.

Just for Mother's Day.

I could live in its growing countries forever.

Sometimes, always hesitantly and with appropriate embarrassment, I am a person who reads “readers.” Right now, I am reading The Edward Said Reader, not because Edward Said’s eloquent and impassioned arguments don’t warrant my extended attention and I only want the highlights in a “best of the Beatles” kind of way, but because I am a busy young woman and sometimes I need an in. I read three books at a time, an old habit dating back to my freshman year of high school. Usually, you can count on me to carry at least two of these three books at all times. As I type this, I realize that this week I am reading four at once (not recommended): Edward Said, Noam Chomsky’s Profit Over People, All the Devils Are Here, and The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (it seems ominous to relate)—a truly lighthearted assortment. Usually, I off-set two heavy-hearted books with one sillier one. Last week, the mix included Chris Hedges’ Death of the Liberal Class, Dani Rodrik’s The Globalization Paradox and Mary Roach’s thoroughly delightful, can't-recommend-it-enough Bonk.

I am itching to read Chris Hedges’ new The World As It Is: Dispatches on the Myth of Human Progress. The waiting list at the library is ten deep. I never used to be a book buyer, but my patience for long waits runs thin. There are too many essential (and immediately essential) reads out there. If I’m convinced that I can’t wait for the substance of a book to hit me, I’ll trek to the Rainbow Bookstore Cooperative and buy it.

Rain threatens tomorrow morning’s farmers market but I’m still looking forward to baking bread, listening to The Civil Wars, running errands on dusty ripped-up Willy Street, and catching up on two weeks of missed Daily Show episodes while I scrub my suddy way through a mountain of dishes. I want a garden of my own, but otherwise I'm content.


What do your weekends look like?

Anxious election night. Sitting on my hands and waiting is not my M. O.

Antsy pants.

Our first spring thunderstorm barreled through last night, unleashing hailstones as big as golf balls that upset car alarms up and down our street, and lightning that made the whole sky flash day-bright.

The weekend forecast teases us with the promise of sunny 60-degree days. Too good to be true after this false wench of a spring.

March 29, 2011.

But there's a strange organ in my chest / It beats for you, it will not rest.

Frigid March.

Still locked down.

Sure signs of spring.

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a sick society."

I am currently incapable of wearing my hair any other way.