Do you ever feel like your body is too small to hold all your emotions? Yeah, me too.
Designer babies are a very real possibility. Some IVF clinics are publicizing their pending ability to manipulate hair, eye, and skin color, not to mention sex and height. Plus – Coming soon! – intelligence, creativity, everything.
If the “marrow” Thoreau speaks of is the secret meaning life holds at its core, then words are the tools that crack life’s bones wide open. And me? I am studying to be a butcher.
G*ddamn you, Joss Whedon.
Someone told me a true story the other day. It’s about a librarian and a ghost: perfect for Friday the Thirteenth.
Last week, I found a holy space. My small body hidden amid a crowd of thousands, I felt the spirit roll through me on waves of sacred music. I raised my arms triumphantly into the air and swayed, lifting my eyes to the sky. My soul was soothed. My mind was filled with one crystalline thought: “I believe in this.”
I’m a collector of fine rap lyrics. My recent favorites include, “She’s my Sleeping Beauty, I’ma put her in a coma,” and, “Our conversations ain’t long, but you know what is.” There was also one back in the day, a true classic: “Her booty was packed just like a lunch pail.” Holla!
It’s Friday. My brain’s fried. But I want an excuse to hang out with you guys, so here are two terrible things and two wonderful things I learned in the last week.
I spent Memorial Day weekend in Chicago celebrating the 80th birthdays of both J’s paternal grandparents. We didn’t know it when we flew up, but this year also marks the 67th anniversary of their first meeting – they’ve known each other since they were 13.
Two weeks ago, I went into hiding. I erased Jennie Saia from my blog, from Twitter, from the public parts of Facebook. I even changed my URL. […] For two weeks, I’ve felt like I can’t breathe. It’s hard to inhale when you’re holding your breath, scared that someone might see you. Here’s how I found my breath again – and with it, the power to speak.