This.

Dreamiest couple ever. Ever.

Decorate your sweltering home this summer with an abstract, inexpensive, really cute snowstorm.

At a friend’s suggestion, I read A Ring of Endless Light over the weekend. Beautiful in that deep-thinker, deeply-wholesome L’Engle way. And it contains this old poem, which I’d never before read, and now love:

If thou could’st empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,
And say, “This is not dead,”
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes He says, “This is enow
Unto itself–’twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.

Yes.

Jo Nesbø. I’m a recent convert to crime fiction. Nesbø’s work is everything that I (until a few months ago did not know I) want in a crime novel: A good-hearted, smart, tough protagonist who’s a raging alcoholic and often finds himself utterly humiliated by his peers and superiors alike; plots twists I can’t see from the first chapter; sparse, tight, funny and un-dramatically emotional writing, with mentions of Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello and other musos I love.

Also, it likely doesn’t hurt that Nesbø is seriously hot. And in a band. (And an economist?) And in case you wondered, it’s pronounced “Yoh Nesbyoo.”

Besides interviewing a rock star (link coming soon!) and working like a boss (ha, get it?) and working on my own book, and of course my boys, Jo Nesbø is pretty much it for me lately. Yeah. I know. Still, not a bad way to pass the hours between 11 and 11:30 p.m.

Recuerdos de Mezcala

Estas memórias tienen todo que ver con los cinco sentidos. Por ejemplo, el olor
del verde zacate del potrero. El aire tan limpio, tan fresco, casi dulce. El sabor
del agua, traída desde el poso, casi dulce, como el aire. Recuerdo el sonido de
las lluvias que llegaban rápidamente, y que rápidamente se iban.

Recuerdo al paletero que salía cada tarde, gritando “¿Cuantas paletas?
¿Cuantas, cuantas?” Las campanas del templo que anunciaban la hora. Los
cuetes y las bandas que se anunciaban cada año para las fiestas de Agosto. El
sonido metálico de la puerta de la calle en la casa de mis abuelos. Las voces
de los vecinos que entraban, casi siempre sin tocar, diciendo “¡Buenos días!”
o “’Tardes…” y, muy de vez en cuando, “Buenas noches.”

Recuerdo el sonido de la risa de mi Papá Cacho, llena de travesuras y sabiduría.
Y a Doña Chepa, que seguido venía a la casa a cortar guayabas. Y a Don
José Gregorio, que todos los días pasaba, serio y digno, montado en su
burro. “Buenos días, mi’ija,” me decía al pasar, y yo me sentía muy importante.

Recuerdo el sonido de la nica sobre el mosaico del piso. Y la sensación de ese
mismo piso, frío bajo mis pies. Recuerdo las noches que se sentaban a platicar
los adultos en el patio, con tazas de té de naranja. Yo me sentaba con todos. Me
encantaba escucharlos. Cada persona tenía su forma de contar una historia.
Recuerdo los grillos. Los gallos. Las vacas que ordeñábamos. La caña que nos
comíamos. Recuerdo que caminaba por las calles empedradas y cada cuando
alguien me decía, “Tú eres la hija de Ramón, ¿verdad, mi’ija? Te pareces mucho
a tu mami.”

Recuerdo un gran sentido de libertad. Allí podía jugar todo el día sin tener que
reportarme. Podía ir a donde quería, jugar con cualquier chiquilla en cualquier
casa. Me imaginaba yo que era la protagonista de un libro divertido, más o
menos la versión femenina de Tom Sawyer o Huckleberry Finn.

No deseo, con todo esto, romantizar al pueblo de Mezcala. No me interesa pintar
una escena sin defecto. Simplemente, estas son mis memorias favoritas de ese
lugar en esos tiempos. Con cada año que pasa, veo más claramente que mucho
de la mujer que ahora soy, tiene que ver con lo que recuerdo de Mezcala.

LDG

I want to lock you up in these pastiches

like gorgeous strawberries in cut-glass jam jars

open the lids and breathe deep

your photo-developer, stuffed-animal breath

stroke your small, soft cheeks and hear you laugh

right now, last year, since the beginning

all of the people you’ve been

all of you.

Even as I marvel at everything you are,

utterly unassisted,

even as you grow more perfect

each day.

Dawn breaks, and

I miss you already.

Scenes from a benefit

(@sandrajapandra and I hit Los Feliz for Sending Love to Japan at Fresh Pressed.)

Many happy returns

At the risk of incurring the wrath of the hyperbole police, I’m happy to say that being on Twitter has changed my life, unequivocally and for the better. What initially seemed to me a hyperactive and undisciplined side effect of modern life quickly became modern life itself.

I joined Twitter in the fall of 2008, when I realized it wasn’t going to go away and that I needed to make an informed decision to be able to address the questions I figured would come my way soon enough, from the clients I didn’t yet have. (I like to plan ahead.) I joined, followed a couple of people, typed out a few tweets. And then it clicked. The 140-character constraint meant that everything, more or less, needed to be a tagline. And thus was I sold. (OMG TAGLINES.)

A couple of months later I was laid off from a job I’d been trying to leave in order to focus on writing and brand identity full-time. Problem was, I didn’t have enough samples to prove myself as such, and my resume was a hodge-podge; lots of drive and personality; not a lot of sexy. Here’s what happened next:

• Someone on Twitter started recommending me as a copywriter, based on the blog I had then
• I got a ton of clients from her recommendations
• Which built up my portfolio very, very quickly, thereby getting me more clients
• I met a local bunch of Twitter people and teamed up on work with one of them
• Because of Twitter’s “exploding branches” growth pattern (I did, in fact, make that up!), I met many, many outstanding people/leaders in their fields
• And made the acquaintance of a couple of very well-known people I admire
• Which led to more exploding-branch action, as well as
• Air fare to Toronto, where I met up with one of the exploding-branch people, who’s now a dear friend
• A full magazine staff, in 4 days’ time
• Excellent gift suggestions for Mr Gibson, who is remarkably difficult to shop for (he will deny this, but he will fib under duress)
• Contact with a former friend, which aided somewhat in patching things up
• A photograph of one of my favorite musicians, taken by a Twitter friend on the other side of the world, who attended the same event as said musician
• Several offers of lodging in various parts of the world (most notably New Zealand! Hi, friends!)
• Almost-instant reassurance that several friends were safe after the recent natural disasters in New Zealand and Japan
• More encouragement, goodwill, comfort, and helpful advice than I would have envisioned, ever

It’s difficult, now, to imagine my life without this seamlessly-cobbled community. And it’s difficult for the people in my life who don’t use Twitter to understand how and why I do this. They’re strangers I’m talking to? Like, all the time, or something? Yes and no; mostly no. In my mind’s eye, the people with whom I interact on Twitter are twinkling lights across the globe: Toronto, New York, Asheville, Chicago, Austin, Vancouver, Auckland, Wellington, London, Tokyo, the suburbs, the small towns, the islands off the coasts of small towns.  They’re people I know. People I trust. Okay, look: they’re people I love.

Happy 5th birthday, Twitter.

Highlights from an overnight stay at an overpriced resort*.

• “You keep that up and I will hit you in front of all these white people.”
• “Oh my gosh, it’s been so long since I drew a benzene ring!”
• “Have you ever had Justin Bieber played in your house, over and over again? Yeah, so shut up.”
• [After much wine] “What was up with Grenada, anyway? There was something paramilitary going on with us and Grenada.”

There was also this snowman, yes.  Later, @RellaC made him even cuter and more welcoming by Photoshopping someone’s head onto it.

*I got a crazy-good deal on it and made it a happy birthday/happy being-done-with-the-California-Bar-exam gift to my best friend.

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

“…group activities were confusing for me as a little kid, because little kids are jerks. If I’m no longer confused by group activities it’s not because grown people are any better. Isn’t that what growing up is? Learning to ignore the hell that is other people?”

- Julie Lauren Vick