I’m not good at bios.
I’m good at rambling words,
I’m 98% dark matter.
I live with my two slightly feral daughters,
and bunch of beloved furry creatures,
in an old house full of music, art, and memories…
I over-think absolutely everything. I am happiest when I can make things and work with my hands – scarred from scrapes & burns, with ink and paint and garden soil lingering somewhere around the nails. I carry home feathers and pebbles that call to me from the ground.
I forget to feed myself when I am doing important things. I don’t like to watch people work. I take deep joy in scrubbing things clean and making things new. I’m fiercely independent, yet I could easily spend my life barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen… With a book of poetry or theology or history propped open on the counter, a quiet friend drinking coffee nearby, and music playing so I can dance. I want to bake cookies for neighbor children and wipe their noses and read them stories about things no one believes in anymore.
Every time I get to be in the ocean I go out as far as I can and look away from land and let myself go under the waves and then I feel well again… And if I could die a “horrible” death, I would want to be swept away in the sea… Because I think it would feel like going home. Like Reepicheep in his coracle. Yes. I think about such things. I also know where I’d hide the bodies.
I’m either very quiet or loud. I think I talk more with my eyes than my mouth, but most people don’t understand that language. It isn’t something that can be taught or learned. I write things down in little notebooks and on scraps of paper I carry about. I write on my hand or arm to remember.
I over use the ellipsis… and I don’t care.
See. I told you I was good at rambling…