For many years, I posted a photo of Tiki or Bamboo any time I managed to squeeze at least a half-hour of writing into my day. Dubbed my Cats of Creation, they chivvied me from bed to writing nook for nearly a decade, where they listened to me read chapters aloud and offered their meeps of approval and salty Siamese commentary.
When I was a girl, all the pockets would simply rip out of my clothes because I was always stuffing them full of rocks. Odd-shaped rocks. Olivine. Quartz. Shiny bits of mica. Pahoehoe lava with ropy, iridescent swirls.
At Burning Man in 2017, I found myself reading tarot cards as a part of Circus Combustus. Our camp sat next to the Esplanade, the main inner road that rings the temporary city in the middle of Nevada's Black Rock Desert.
If all you knew of me came from this site, surely you would have thought this project defunct. After all, my last post was two years ago. Life happened.
Death happened too. I said goodbye to more than seven people in 2016-- including my father, aunt, dear childhood friend, and next door neighbor.
