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Another Woolf that doesn't look like Woolf. I need to sharpen these colored pencils.

She's been taped inside my crayon box for a long time; I don't know why. But now, here she is in colored pencil, with too much everything.

Collage on cover of my math notebook, 2002. Was I really so creepy? It heartens me to think so

I jogged to the cemetery today, truly the perfect picture of an old and creepy one--headstones illegible with moss and erosion, broken and falling over--perfect except for the busy road that runs past it, the living whizzing by the long dead, and a lone lady standing sweaty, squinting, looking for the edge of the world.

A rainy day, with no reason not to finger paint.

Keep thinking about how skin is always dying, we are always growing, wiggly little proteins are unfurling inside us, and it'll all probably work itself out.

I am trying: to focus, to be kind, to keep myself from picking at the horrible mutant zit to the left of my nose.

Today it rained, and I watched a loop of jellyfish footage my friend took at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, over and over.

Our baby has learned to hug, or sort of, intentionally lean, in an affectionate way, and we are over the moon.

Sometimes a good friend comes around and makes you feel at home and inspired, and then, monklike, you sweep the basement floor.

Does it count to write a sentence in my head? (No.)

Instead of getting ready for bed, I just watched a video I have seen at least thrice today, of my baby pretending to eat a kleenex and laughing at my exaggerated disgust.

I thought I would commit to writing one sentence here each day, and I am having the hardest time with it.

I am trying to write a simple sentence and I hate it--I want to hide behind my purpleness and meanderings and dependent clauses.

Learning is hard.

2-min moan

Two more minutes. I am sitting in my kitchen and instead of just trying not to eat ice cream, I'm listening to Baby Z moan softly in her criblet. If she persists, I will go up and nurse her back to sleep, tho I hear a firm but kind pediatrician in my head telling me not to.

I went. That sugar-bean is asleep again and so should I be. Goodnight kitchen, goodnight stairs, goodnight cuties everywhere.

A Longing for Morning

Then again, when I walk past the open cupboard and bend my head in the direction of the coffee beans, I feel a longing in my heart for morning. Addiction? Sentimentality?

Often I feel that I should not make diary entries in the evening because I am too melancholy. In the morning, suffused with hope and energy, I would maybe have a zippier outlook.

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