There are ways I know you are not my other half.
When I do not see you for months,
I do not despair.
I continue rolling along on my own,
With the quiet thought of you alongside me,
And your memory, without touch, making me smile
Every once in a while.
When I hear love songs
Praising, adoring, crying and dying,
I do not think of you
I do not think of weddings.
Without you I am not incomplete.
You do not make me weak in the knees,
You will never make me say please,
Stay, I’ll do anything.
Neither of us are steady.
I run off when I hear distant music,
You have your nose buried in other worlds.
We are not a knot,
We cannot bind ourselves together,
We are ever growing,
We would suffocate.
This is how I know you are not my other half.
This is how I know you do not complete me.
This is how I know that if I am sometimes a wave,
You are sometimes an otter.
This is how I know that we are both anchors
On our own ships.
This is how I know that if there is one
Who would roll alongside me
And let me be whole,
If there is someone like that
In the world,
I know
It would be someone a lot like
You.
Don't steal my shit, you know.
image
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Sea Witches & Silver Warriors
Frank Frazetta's fantasy world, a main component of mine. And the soundtrack always playing in my dreamland, by the righteous babe herself:
Monday, August 26, 2013
Black Henna & Nose Rings
Once again, I am born anew.
The first thing I have to say is holy jesus do not ever try to henna your hair alone. You might have a mini breakdown and end up taking cute pictures like these in the process.
Other things you must not do:
1. If the instructions say you can use either rubber or latex gloves, it means use latex gloves. Using rubber gloves to henna your hair is like trying to play piano with mittens on.
What it looked like with the suggested amount of water added to the powder.
2. When the instructions say use either a tint brush or a 1 1/2" paintbrush, take their advice and don't throw caution to the wind and use a 1/2" paintbrush.
What it's supposed to look like.
3. You must also not assume that because you've dyed your hair by yourself plenty of times with normal hair dye, you should also be able to henna it by yourself, right? No. Henna is not built for the consumer. You are painting clay onto your hair. This is not quick and dirty, squirt it in your gloved hands and smear it all over your head hair dye. This will make you call your mother begging for help halfway through because you've realized there's no way you can paint the back of your head.
The whole process took me about 4 hours (I have a lot of hair, but still), including preparing the concoction, applying it, waiting an hour with that plastic turban on my head, and washing it all out in the shower. This is about 8 times as long as it used to take me to dye my hair. Do I regret it? Hell no. It's so good for your hair and now my tresses are black as night. But will I ever do it by myself again? Also hell no. This is something I would actually pay to have done.
But I will take in the same product, because it worked wonders.
Black henna: henna (red by default) mixed with indigo. Gave me slightly blue-green ends on the bleached part of my hair.
A couple days after this ordeal, yours truly went to finally get her nose pierced.
Me saying, "let me see this hollow needle you speak of."
I couldn't have had a better experience. I went to Fatty Zone in Mountain View (half head shop, half piercing place). The guy who pierced me, Mark, has been doing this shit for 20 years, so I wasn't worried. There was moderate pain for like 5 seconds and then it was over and I had a lovely little gem in my right nostril.
With each of these "modifications" (though when I say that I think of things more along the lines of, like, corset piercings), I felt a little more like myself. A work in progress, an unfinished art piece, a project in self-fulfillment. As if I'm an image in a coloring book, slowly filling myself in (and often scribbling outside the lines).
xoxo
Juliana
The first thing I have to say is holy jesus do not ever try to henna your hair alone. You might have a mini breakdown and end up taking cute pictures like these in the process.
Other things you must not do:
1. If the instructions say you can use either rubber or latex gloves, it means use latex gloves. Using rubber gloves to henna your hair is like trying to play piano with mittens on.
What it looked like with the suggested amount of water added to the powder.
2. When the instructions say use either a tint brush or a 1 1/2" paintbrush, take their advice and don't throw caution to the wind and use a 1/2" paintbrush.
What it's supposed to look like.
3. You must also not assume that because you've dyed your hair by yourself plenty of times with normal hair dye, you should also be able to henna it by yourself, right? No. Henna is not built for the consumer. You are painting clay onto your hair. This is not quick and dirty, squirt it in your gloved hands and smear it all over your head hair dye. This will make you call your mother begging for help halfway through because you've realized there's no way you can paint the back of your head.
The whole process took me about 4 hours (I have a lot of hair, but still), including preparing the concoction, applying it, waiting an hour with that plastic turban on my head, and washing it all out in the shower. This is about 8 times as long as it used to take me to dye my hair. Do I regret it? Hell no. It's so good for your hair and now my tresses are black as night. But will I ever do it by myself again? Also hell no. This is something I would actually pay to have done.
But I will take in the same product, because it worked wonders.
Black henna: henna (red by default) mixed with indigo. Gave me slightly blue-green ends on the bleached part of my hair.
A couple days after this ordeal, yours truly went to finally get her nose pierced.
Me saying, "let me see this hollow needle you speak of."
I couldn't have had a better experience. I went to Fatty Zone in Mountain View (half head shop, half piercing place). The guy who pierced me, Mark, has been doing this shit for 20 years, so I wasn't worried. There was moderate pain for like 5 seconds and then it was over and I had a lovely little gem in my right nostril.
With each of these "modifications" (though when I say that I think of things more along the lines of, like, corset piercings), I felt a little more like myself. A work in progress, an unfinished art piece, a project in self-fulfillment. As if I'm an image in a coloring book, slowly filling myself in (and often scribbling outside the lines).
xoxo
Juliana
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Perfect Fermented Dill Pickles
I am so stoked because...MY PICKLES TURNED OUT!
But let me begin at the beginning.
The very beginning: I love fermenting and canning food. One of my fundamental beefs with cooking and baking is that, well, things expire. Since my girl E and I are the only ones in our apartment and we generally buy and cook our meals separately, I'm buying and cooking for one person. So, say I want chicken one night. Since it's basically impossible to find uncooked single servings of chicken breast/thighs, by buying the 7 or 8 thighs or breasts I'm committing myself to eating chicken for the next two or three nights. And what if I'm not home? What if I REALLY REALLY don't want chicken?
Not taken by me, obviously. Who has a shadowless white background lying around for food photoshoots?
Not a serious problem, I know, I know. A *grocery* problem. You know the kind. In short, I'd love it if I could roast a whole chicken and eat it slowly over a few weeks. Better yet, and endless supply of forever fresh fish. Ah, a girl can dream.
So if I can somehow find a way to make food last longer, and make it more delicious in the process: that's me striking gold. Enter fermenting, canning, preserving, the works. If it's in a mason jar, I'm down. Enter jams, jellies, salsas, and...pickles!
The even more fundamental beginning: I love pickles. Tangy, crunchy dill pickles. Mmmmmm. I *don't* love long, complicated recipes. So when I found a recipe for pickles in a book I was reading that was about 4 sentences long, I was there. And I shall now pass it on to you, in a slightly more structured but equally vague way. I'll let you come up with exact amounts of ingredients based on your taste and the pictures. I made enough to fill 2 mason jars.
Ingredients:
1 big bunch of dill (I used a lot as it's my favorite herb)
5-6 persian cucumbers (smaller and a little sweeter than regular cucumbers)
10 cloves of garlic
4-5 large grape leaves
Brine - enough to fill jars
Directions:
1. First off, make the brine. If you've never made brine before, it's easy at its simplest: just salt and water. I recommend you read this how-to for optimal brine making. I used kosher salt, so the ratio was 1 1/2 - 2 cups of salt per gallon of water (kosher salt, lacking iodine, weighs less than table salt).
2. Tear up the grape leaves. Why grape leaves, you ask? They have tannin, which helps keep the pickles crunchy. I wish I could tell you where to buy grape leaves, but alas, I just took 'em from my grapes growing in the backyard.
3. Chop/don't chop the cucumbers. I made one jar with whole cucumbers (2-3 fit in the jar) and one with sliced ones. If you're only making 1 jar, I recommend slicing them, as it's easier to see their progress during the fermenting process.
4. Dice the garlic.
5. Chop the dill. I cut off most of the stem and slice up the rest of it almost to the point of mincing.
6. Stick everything in the jars! With the whole cucumbers, you kind of have to stuff it all where it'll fit. With the sliced ones, you can be more creative with your layering process.
7. Finally, cover it with brine and seal the jars.
8. Now, very important: put the jars in a storage place with a constant temperature of around 75 degrees fahrenheit. Plus or minus 5 degrees is fine. Leave to ferment for two weeks. This is the optimal temperature/time combo. If the temperature is cooler, they will take longer to ferment, and vice versa.
My lil pickles just after preparation.
After about a week and a half, this is what mine looked like:
Once everything in the jar is this shade of muted green and the pickles are mostly translucent, depending how thick you sliced them, they're ready! Remember that once you open the jar, their new home is the refrigerator. I'm serious, fridge 'em.
A uniquely Juliana snack: one pickle slice on a tiny plate.
You should know these are going to taste different than store-bought pickles, because unlike store-bought pickles, these are not pickled in vinegar. These are real live fermented pickles, folks (the difference can be confusing - read this!). So they have a softer taste, less sharply vinegar-y and more sweetly tangy. I didn't know if I would like it, honestly, but I DID. Thank goodness. I might never go back to store-bought if I can help it.
How do I know I'm not crazy? My mother loved them. Aaaannnddd success.
Enjoy, y'all.
xoxo
Juliana
But let me begin at the beginning.
The very beginning: I love fermenting and canning food. One of my fundamental beefs with cooking and baking is that, well, things expire. Since my girl E and I are the only ones in our apartment and we generally buy and cook our meals separately, I'm buying and cooking for one person. So, say I want chicken one night. Since it's basically impossible to find uncooked single servings of chicken breast/thighs, by buying the 7 or 8 thighs or breasts I'm committing myself to eating chicken for the next two or three nights. And what if I'm not home? What if I REALLY REALLY don't want chicken?
Not taken by me, obviously. Who has a shadowless white background lying around for food photoshoots?
Not a serious problem, I know, I know. A *grocery* problem. You know the kind. In short, I'd love it if I could roast a whole chicken and eat it slowly over a few weeks. Better yet, and endless supply of forever fresh fish. Ah, a girl can dream.
So if I can somehow find a way to make food last longer, and make it more delicious in the process: that's me striking gold. Enter fermenting, canning, preserving, the works. If it's in a mason jar, I'm down. Enter jams, jellies, salsas, and...pickles!
The even more fundamental beginning: I love pickles. Tangy, crunchy dill pickles. Mmmmmm. I *don't* love long, complicated recipes. So when I found a recipe for pickles in a book I was reading that was about 4 sentences long, I was there. And I shall now pass it on to you, in a slightly more structured but equally vague way. I'll let you come up with exact amounts of ingredients based on your taste and the pictures. I made enough to fill 2 mason jars.
Ingredients:
1 big bunch of dill (I used a lot as it's my favorite herb)
5-6 persian cucumbers (smaller and a little sweeter than regular cucumbers)
10 cloves of garlic
4-5 large grape leaves
Brine - enough to fill jars
Directions:
1. First off, make the brine. If you've never made brine before, it's easy at its simplest: just salt and water. I recommend you read this how-to for optimal brine making. I used kosher salt, so the ratio was 1 1/2 - 2 cups of salt per gallon of water (kosher salt, lacking iodine, weighs less than table salt).
2. Tear up the grape leaves. Why grape leaves, you ask? They have tannin, which helps keep the pickles crunchy. I wish I could tell you where to buy grape leaves, but alas, I just took 'em from my grapes growing in the backyard.
3. Chop/don't chop the cucumbers. I made one jar with whole cucumbers (2-3 fit in the jar) and one with sliced ones. If you're only making 1 jar, I recommend slicing them, as it's easier to see their progress during the fermenting process.
4. Dice the garlic.
5. Chop the dill. I cut off most of the stem and slice up the rest of it almost to the point of mincing.
6. Stick everything in the jars! With the whole cucumbers, you kind of have to stuff it all where it'll fit. With the sliced ones, you can be more creative with your layering process.
7. Finally, cover it with brine and seal the jars.
8. Now, very important: put the jars in a storage place with a constant temperature of around 75 degrees fahrenheit. Plus or minus 5 degrees is fine. Leave to ferment for two weeks. This is the optimal temperature/time combo. If the temperature is cooler, they will take longer to ferment, and vice versa.
My lil pickles just after preparation.
After about a week and a half, this is what mine looked like:
Once everything in the jar is this shade of muted green and the pickles are mostly translucent, depending how thick you sliced them, they're ready! Remember that once you open the jar, their new home is the refrigerator. I'm serious, fridge 'em.
A uniquely Juliana snack: one pickle slice on a tiny plate.
You should know these are going to taste different than store-bought pickles, because unlike store-bought pickles, these are not pickled in vinegar. These are real live fermented pickles, folks (the difference can be confusing - read this!). So they have a softer taste, less sharply vinegar-y and more sweetly tangy. I didn't know if I would like it, honestly, but I DID. Thank goodness. I might never go back to store-bought if I can help it.
How do I know I'm not crazy? My mother loved them. Aaaannnddd success.
Enjoy, y'all.
xoxo
Juliana
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Blue Moon, You Saw Me Standing Alone
Happy blue moon tonight y'all!
My super high res phone pic of last night's moon, before we got hit by super weird dry lightning.
No, you say? Poor Juliana, she doesn't know what she's talking about? A blue moon is the second full moon in a month, and this ain't it?
*Actually*, as I discovered recently, that's not the original definition of what a blue moon is. Check it.
When I looked it up a few days ago, that was the only article that showed up. If you google it now, you'll find that in the past day or two everyone has jumped on the blue moon bandwagon. Hmmm.
The gist of it is--I'm paraphrasing from that article here--that there are typically three full moons in a season. If there happen to be four, as there are this summer, the third one is called a blue moon.
So anyway, this:
And, in honor of the occurrence's colloquial use in the phrase "once in a blue moon", maybe take this opportunity to do something you've been wanting/waiting to do for a while. I, for one, am getting my nose pierced.
xoxo
Juliana
No, you say? Poor Juliana, she doesn't know what she's talking about? A blue moon is the second full moon in a month, and this ain't it?
*Actually*, as I discovered recently, that's not the original definition of what a blue moon is. Check it.
When I looked it up a few days ago, that was the only article that showed up. If you google it now, you'll find that in the past day or two everyone has jumped on the blue moon bandwagon. Hmmm.
The gist of it is--I'm paraphrasing from that article here--that there are typically three full moons in a season. If there happen to be four, as there are this summer, the third one is called a blue moon.
So anyway, this:
And, in honor of the occurrence's colloquial use in the phrase "once in a blue moon", maybe take this opportunity to do something you've been wanting/waiting to do for a while. I, for one, am getting my nose pierced.
xoxo
Juliana
Saturday, August 17, 2013
You Sucked My Brain Out
Sometimes, after a couple days of laying in bed feeling sorry for myself, I have to remember that I am a whole.
Not a half, waiting for her other.
Not a half, having separated herself from her other.
Not a bureaucratic sphere filled partly with me and otherwise dedicated entirely to the working world, regardless of whether the "me" part of the equation wants to be there or not.
A whole, with plenty of nicks and cuts. Sometimes I have to remember how my flaws get me into trouble.
Sometimes I have to write to remember.
Sometimes I have to remember that the choices I've made speak to some kind of strength within me.
Sometimes I have to listen to Ani DiFranco and drink a shitload of coffee.
Not a half, waiting for her other.
Not a half, having separated herself from her other.
Not a bureaucratic sphere filled partly with me and otherwise dedicated entirely to the working world, regardless of whether the "me" part of the equation wants to be there or not.
A whole, with plenty of nicks and cuts. Sometimes I have to remember how my flaws get me into trouble.
Sometimes I have to write to remember.
Sometimes I have to remember that the choices I've made speak to some kind of strength within me.
Sometimes I have to listen to Ani DiFranco and drink a shitload of coffee.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Alright. That's it. This is my real name:
Hey y'all.
Since I started my blog, I've been using the name "Maralah" to identify myself (it means "born during an earthquake", which is a reference to the environmental chaos that's been going on for a long time and that I was born into).
While I did that in the name of anonymity, which is often a wise decision when conducting personal business online, the name thing has started to be confusing (at least to me). So I'm changing all this stuff to my real name, which is Juliana, and which I love. And my profile picture, though not exactly hi-res or recent, is now this, which is not a picture of me walking away from you but an actual full-frontal picture of my face.
So hi guys, my name is Juliana. Nice to meet you for real.
xoxo
Juliana
Since I started my blog, I've been using the name "Maralah" to identify myself (it means "born during an earthquake", which is a reference to the environmental chaos that's been going on for a long time and that I was born into).
While I did that in the name of anonymity, which is often a wise decision when conducting personal business online, the name thing has started to be confusing (at least to me). So I'm changing all this stuff to my real name, which is Juliana, and which I love. And my profile picture, though not exactly hi-res or recent, is now this, which is not a picture of me walking away from you but an actual full-frontal picture of my face.
So hi guys, my name is Juliana. Nice to meet you for real.
xoxo
Juliana
Thursday, August 8, 2013
On Tattoos, Changing Minds
Well, I'm at the point I feared I'd be: I'm rethinking the tattoo that, two weeks ago, I was 110% sure I was going to get.
Actually, I've 110% decided I'm not getting it anymore.
It's a disconcerting feeling, being told "I told you so" by your own conscience. I was just itching so bad to just get it already and convinced myself that the design I had was the perfect one. And that the bodily location was final.
'twasn't.
I told a couple people about it and showed them the design, and I think I might've jinxed it. So, in the spirit of sharing and perhaps unjinxing, here's the tattoo that never happened.
Here's why it made sense:
1. I've always wanted a triple spiral or triple moon, representative of the maiden/mother/crone cycle and the triple goddess. (side note: I actually like the triple moon better, but came up with the reasoning that it was flawed because it only represented the mother phase as whole, and maiden and crone as slivers, as if they meant less. Then I realized that the slivers are just the visible parts, that the whole is still there, and that I would rather get a triple moon than spirals...sigh, my head)
2. I love the look of roots, and have always identified with them strongly, as I associate them with family.
3. I like to think I'm good at drawing leaves.
4. I designed/drew it myself, so it was original, goddamnit. I wanted it to be unique, not just the triple spiral so many people have.
Good reasons, right? But four fourths don't always make a cohesive whole, apparently. Even though I loved it, it didn't speak to me. I thought it would look good on my upper right side, around where a swimsuit could hide most of it, but the truth is, I don't really want a tattoo there. It's just the most reasonable place to put something larger that you don't want everyone to see. Socially acceptable, in other words.
So here enters the dilemma between what speaks to me and what speaks to society.
My head tells me to get tattoos where I can easily hide them; my side around my breast, my hipbone, perhaps behind my ear.
My heart tells me to get a triple moon around my bellybutton and a Pocahontas-like armband around my bicep.
The coolest (official) Disney princess next to Belle. Did you know she's the only DP to have two love interests? Props for acknowledging that not everyone meets a prince at 16 and lives happily ever after (nor does everyone want to).
The problem is my head is very persuasive and logical and does not back down easily. It says, think of your parents! Think of the work world, of that boss who won't hire you! Think of never being able to hide it!
So I come to you, blogosphere. Do you have visible tattoos? Have they affected your professional life? Do you worry about what your parents or your grandparents or your children will think?
I'm leaning towards my heart right now, but neither side tends towards surrender.
xoxo
Maralah
Actually, I've 110% decided I'm not getting it anymore.
It's a disconcerting feeling, being told "I told you so" by your own conscience. I was just itching so bad to just get it already and convinced myself that the design I had was the perfect one. And that the bodily location was final.
'twasn't.
I told a couple people about it and showed them the design, and I think I might've jinxed it. So, in the spirit of sharing and perhaps unjinxing, here's the tattoo that never happened.
Here's why it made sense:
1. I've always wanted a triple spiral or triple moon, representative of the maiden/mother/crone cycle and the triple goddess. (side note: I actually like the triple moon better, but came up with the reasoning that it was flawed because it only represented the mother phase as whole, and maiden and crone as slivers, as if they meant less. Then I realized that the slivers are just the visible parts, that the whole is still there, and that I would rather get a triple moon than spirals...sigh, my head)
2. I love the look of roots, and have always identified with them strongly, as I associate them with family.
3. I like to think I'm good at drawing leaves.
4. I designed/drew it myself, so it was original, goddamnit. I wanted it to be unique, not just the triple spiral so many people have.
Good reasons, right? But four fourths don't always make a cohesive whole, apparently. Even though I loved it, it didn't speak to me. I thought it would look good on my upper right side, around where a swimsuit could hide most of it, but the truth is, I don't really want a tattoo there. It's just the most reasonable place to put something larger that you don't want everyone to see. Socially acceptable, in other words.
So here enters the dilemma between what speaks to me and what speaks to society.
My head tells me to get tattoos where I can easily hide them; my side around my breast, my hipbone, perhaps behind my ear.
My heart tells me to get a triple moon around my bellybutton and a Pocahontas-like armband around my bicep.
The coolest (official) Disney princess next to Belle. Did you know she's the only DP to have two love interests? Props for acknowledging that not everyone meets a prince at 16 and lives happily ever after (nor does everyone want to).
The problem is my head is very persuasive and logical and does not back down easily. It says, think of your parents! Think of the work world, of that boss who won't hire you! Think of never being able to hide it!
So I come to you, blogosphere. Do you have visible tattoos? Have they affected your professional life? Do you worry about what your parents or your grandparents or your children will think?
I'm leaning towards my heart right now, but neither side tends towards surrender.
xoxo
Maralah
Monday, August 5, 2013
Unknown Outpaces Known...
Like to-do outpaces done.
A line from the book I just finished, The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball. First order of business: read it if you have the time (which, if you're anything like the author, you don't). It's about a city girl who started a farm with an infuriatingly passionate vegetable farmer. I won't say anything else--in case you have the pleasure of reading it--except that my god, farming is really hard, and that it taught me some things about the value of hard work and the magic of, literally, eating the fruits (and veggies and meats and cheeses and grains) of your own labors.
And, of course, that post-opening quote, which I had never really thought of before and provided me with a newfound sense of peace. Once I read it, I kind of hit myself in the head. Well of course, you can never really be done. Of course, with each new thing you learn, even more doors are opened to the unknown. The idea that, until the day you die, no matter what you do, you will never truly be finished and can never hope to be, is strangely comforting. Life is a process. You are always moving. The more you know, the more you realize how much you don't know. And the hungrier you get to know it. Simp.
In the spirit of expanding, I picked up another book, The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, that I read 20 pages of a few months ago and then stopped. It had been reviewed as being "equal to Lord of the Rings", so I went into it somewhat bitterly and expecting a lot (equal to Lord of the Rings...pffffft, please), and was not impressed. It was slow, it was dreary, it was dark.
Of course, after forcing myself to continue on, I realized that those first 20 pages are meant to be slow and dreary and dark to contrast with what's thrown at you next. So it's really good. Really really good. Not sure yet if it's on the same level as The Greatest Books Ever Ever. I'll keep y'all posted.
So there are two book recommendations.
Just got back from ten days in Montreal and Quebec City, Canada. Lots to say about the trees, the rivers, the clothes, the socialist agenda of the Canadian Museum of Civilization, the layout of the cities, everything maple, the French language...etc. Posts in the works! Here's a taste:
And jesus, is it August already? Less than a month 'til I'm back in my beautiful beautiful Santa Cruz. My heart jumps a little every time I think about it. In fact, I might just post a countdown...
xoxo
Maralah
A line from the book I just finished, The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball. First order of business: read it if you have the time (which, if you're anything like the author, you don't). It's about a city girl who started a farm with an infuriatingly passionate vegetable farmer. I won't say anything else--in case you have the pleasure of reading it--except that my god, farming is really hard, and that it taught me some things about the value of hard work and the magic of, literally, eating the fruits (and veggies and meats and cheeses and grains) of your own labors.
And, of course, that post-opening quote, which I had never really thought of before and provided me with a newfound sense of peace. Once I read it, I kind of hit myself in the head. Well of course, you can never really be done. Of course, with each new thing you learn, even more doors are opened to the unknown. The idea that, until the day you die, no matter what you do, you will never truly be finished and can never hope to be, is strangely comforting. Life is a process. You are always moving. The more you know, the more you realize how much you don't know. And the hungrier you get to know it. Simp.
In the spirit of expanding, I picked up another book, The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, that I read 20 pages of a few months ago and then stopped. It had been reviewed as being "equal to Lord of the Rings", so I went into it somewhat bitterly and expecting a lot (equal to Lord of the Rings...pffffft, please), and was not impressed. It was slow, it was dreary, it was dark.
Of course, after forcing myself to continue on, I realized that those first 20 pages are meant to be slow and dreary and dark to contrast with what's thrown at you next. So it's really good. Really really good. Not sure yet if it's on the same level as The Greatest Books Ever Ever. I'll keep y'all posted.
So there are two book recommendations.
Just got back from ten days in Montreal and Quebec City, Canada. Lots to say about the trees, the rivers, the clothes, the socialist agenda of the Canadian Museum of Civilization, the layout of the cities, everything maple, the French language...etc. Posts in the works! Here's a taste:
And jesus, is it August already? Less than a month 'til I'm back in my beautiful beautiful Santa Cruz. My heart jumps a little every time I think about it. In fact, I might just post a countdown...
xoxo
Maralah
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