Defined.

I recently discussed nature vs. nurture with some of my friends who are currently teaching and/or studying to be teachers.

We came to no solid conclusion.

But let's just say as a baby I preferred to propel my small body around the floor of my childhood home upside down.

Using only my toes I would slide around our brown carpet on the top of my head, upside down, creating a distinct bald-spot, and earning myself the nickname "Scooter."

I've come to no solid conclusion

but I have my hunches...

(Me. Age 4. Post Watermelon Massacre.)

...figuratively, not literally.

I gave my favorite photograph of myself to someone who couldn't even see me.

I mean that...

It is a Little

known fact that I.....

... have seen While You Were Sleeping over 72 times
... took ice-skating lessons at Charles Schultz icerink and would see him drinking his morning coffee
... haven't finished reading a book in over six months
... have a nightmare at least once a week
... hate Nicholas Sparks yet almost always want to see his shitty shitty film adaptations
... suffer from memory-loss about significant moments in my life
... dislike most poetry and poets
... once pet a porcupine
... get scared very easily with the right amount of nighttime + scary stories
... have a crush on Tom Hanks.

Nature Lovin'

Today I needed to see snow.

So I did:

(I took this picture)

Also, this photograph of an owl is damn near perfection, don't you think? BBC.com was having a bird photography competition which initially had me muttering "laaame" but then I stared at this for a solid three minutes.
I had to rethink my opinion on bird photography.

(I wish I took this picture)

Brilliant.

Months Ago

A breeze snatches at smoke that waterfalls from his nostrils.
She contemplates the burning tip of the cigarette - that dangerous thing whose beginning is already long gone.



Everything compressed, rolled into each other, has less than a minute left.

Poem ofthe Week

The Sudden Appearance of a Monster at a Window
By Lawrence Raab

Yes, his face really is so terrible
you cannot turn away. And only
that thin sheet of glass between you,
clouding with his breath.
Behind him: the dark scribbles of trees
in the orchard, where you walked alone
just an hour ago, after the storm had passed,
watching the water drip from the gnarled branches,
stepping carefully over the sodden fruit.
At any moment he could put his fist
right through that window. And on your side:
you could grab hold of this
letter opener, or even now try
very slowly to slide the revolver
out of the drawer of the desk in front of you.
But none of this will happen. And not because
you feel sorry for him, or detect
in his scarred face some helplessness
that shows in your own as compassion.
You will never know what he wanted,
what he might have done, since
this thing, of its own accord, turns away.
And because yours is a life in which
such a monster cannot figure for long,
you compose yourself, and return
to your letter about the storm, how it bent
the apple trees so low they dragged
on the ground, ruining the harvest.