I got a haircut today. It was time. After the last haircut which I didn't like at all, I said, fuck it, I'm just growing it out and so it grew and grew, duh, what hair does. So now it's all flowing grey locks with curl and product and I feel fabulous. Too bad I have nowhere to go with my wondrous hair except for the dog park.
I downloaded an interview I conducted with a midwife pal that my buddy Clark transcribed and it's 23 pages long. Yikes. Fortunately, she's a brilliant and insightful person, but geez, Clark has five more interviews to go. This bit is hard, waiting for interviews, conducting interviews with midwives, practically impossible. And then I procrastinate. Ha.
My writing group is interesting. I drive all the way to Duvall, a far place to me. We sit on the floor of a yoga studio and write from prompts. I'm finding that I 1) want to make myself look good and 2) I don't have patience with prose. However, poems spring up afterwards.
With this hairdo I will look good on Sunday when I go to Duvall again.
Yesterday, sweet Rosemary came over and assessed my house for salability. Sigh. It's time, like a haircut, it's time to divest. This big old house is too big and too old. And I must have smaller and cheaper and more secluded. Or I think more secluded. I'm fantasizing about 'small house backing a greenbelt' versus co-housing versus a condo in an old old brick building versus 2 acres with shack and painting studio on Vashon Island. The thought of packing, moving, starting over etc makes me totally terrified. By myself. At least I figured something out. As a once homeless teen, home is very important and never a sure thing. And I have to be protective and fierce and closed up so I'm not out there again with no roof and no family and no resources.
I can't afford this house forever unless I work til I die. And I'd rather go to Burma.
Rosemary said that mostly my house needs a bit of cosmetics. After I'm done paying for the exterior paint job and the furnace, I can tackle the eye shadow and mascara.