Waste not, want more

No variations on a theme.

The Second Person Sin

There are days where the world stops.

And   it    stops    hard.

At least it does for you. Everyone and everything else, generally, marches on. You can almost feel them marching on. And you may keep in step, or look in step. But you’re much, much further away. At a distance that you just can’t recover.

It’s an affront. A powerful aftershock. Don’t they know? Isn’t it written on your face that you will never forget this date? That it is etched into you as few things can be?

(But it’s just another day. There’s humility in that, when it hits.)

On those days, relatively rare, there’s a drop of happiness in the sad. A sense of taking stock. A feeling of truly living. Without the distraction of gossip, advertisements, or fried chicken.  Just you, your thoughts, and those you are most inextricably linked to. If you’re lucky. But even then, lost in yourself, there is great solitude.

That drop of happiness makes it bearable. That tiny hope of better days that can well up from almost nowhere. Somehow, it may just be okay that you will re-enter the world behind. Changed.

They are big, heady days.


July 30, 2012 Posted by | Hypotheticals, Mr. Lonely, Photography, Self-reflection, Writing | , , , , | 6 Comments

Breaking up with Studenthood – Politely

Dear Studenthood,

We’ve had a long run, Studenthood. There were those early, confident years where I basked in your educational sunshine. I’d never known a more comforting embrace than yours. Math races, Canada’s capitals, weather patterns, silent reading, story time, poster contests, school plays, and in-class performances – I could not get enough. You fostered long-lasting friendships, too. Sports day was always awkward but we powered through. The next day we were thick as thieves, seeking scholastic achievement again. Those were the glory days, SH; the spring of our relationship.

Things got a little tougher in high school. Do you remember, SH? The jerks were a little scarier and a lot bigger. They’d throw pennies occasionally. But even they couldn’t take the shine off of many classroom moments. There was poetry and science, the intricacy of the atom and the shameful history of Catholicism. As long as we avoided the topic of physics, there remained much love between us. You showed me greater freedom and student service. You gave me my weekends to do as I pleased. You respected my autonomy. The dog days of summer could be hard, but it was a great time.

Come to think of it, we’ve had a good run, you and me. As summer turned to fall and I began my university life, we remained close. I was poorer and had to work much harder, but I still loved you then. You woke my passion for knowledge; you inspired me. You drew connections in the world I had no idea existed. I added a degree thinking I could not get enough of you. But our energies waned. You grew demanding. I grew depressed and lazy. We couldn’t be everything to each other; it wasn’t sustainable. We closed out just shy of the Dean’s list. I was angry then. And exhausted. We barely said goodbye. I fled the country soon after knowing it would be years before I saw you again, if at all. I never thanked you.

For a few years I didn’t give you much thought. It was like a long, still winter without your glow. Then, one day, I took a test – a “likes” test of all things. You were drawing me back but I didn’t know it at the time. I accepted the challenge, studied and wrote yet another test. I remembered the comfort of tests. Just me, the stress, and the page. Writing. Insular. I applied for school, unsure whether you’d be there to pick up the pieces. It was months before I knew if we’d meet again. I didn’t know if I would take up the call. Should I work? Live life? Let you go? But when the call came I couldn’t let it be. The opportunity, and the risk of regret, seemed too great. I accepted.

We had found a new spring. I was passionate again, excited, electrified by the privilege of your educational embrace. The material, the ideas and the understanding all seemed to fit. But self-doubt crept in far too quickly. I couldn’t trust you as before. Am I good enough? Can I do this? How on earth will I survive once it’s time to let you go? And that’s the perennial problem between you and me: Studenthood, you are my comfort zone, my four-month cycle of self-loathing. You make room for my linearity but also my quest for change. You’ve become my crutch, SH. I am deathly afraid to leave you behind. It can’t be healthy, this fear, this sense that I am a square peg in an ever-narrowing round hole. I used to think I could do, now I’m not so sure. You have me convinced that I can only survive in your arms. I think about making organic baby food more often than not now. The blossoms are wilting before they bloom.

It’s not right, SH, and I must move on. I’m not sure where I’ll turn in times to come. I may look for you again in that space between life and dreams, but I need time. So I say goodbye to your flexible schedules, your always predictable cycle of stress, your grades, your affirmation and your rejection. I will draw a wage, I will get two weeks of vacation, I will learn on the job. I will do. Wish me luck, Studenthood. It’s for the best.

Gratefully Yours,


January 7, 2012 Posted by | Books, Childhood Complaints, Photography, Self-reflection, Writing | , , | 10 Comments

California Part 3: lived myth

The trip from Yosemite back to the coast (Monterey) was mostly uneventful. Mostly:

Not an event exactly, but warranted u-turns and picture-taking

Once we reached Monterey, and thereafter, I was no longer in completely uncharted territory. I felt so veteran, so in touch with being a tourist in California.

Therefore, having spent a total of 12 days in California in my life I am qualified to write as a California know-it-all. In my presumptuous Canadian fashion, I’m about to tell you what California is. Conclusively. No really. I’m positive I understand it all. By “all” I mean the coastal portions along the remote, harrowingly winding roads of the number 1 highway, with grazing cattle, crazy post offices, and pavement known only by those who spent way more time in the car than, well, anywhere really. Ready to learn?

California stings

Monterey Bay Aquarium lion's mane jellies

California educates

California  mystifies

Seahorse magic

California emancipates

California inspires fashion

California thrills

Santa Cruz beach carnival along the boardwalk

California disappoints

In my carousel inexperience and excitement, I picked a dud horse

California nourishes

Yummiest store ever with reasonably priced foodie options of all kinds

California goes under cover

I promise, it's the Golden Gate

California glamourizes

California hollows

Drive through a tree? Check.

California ensconces

The hospitality of ancient wood

California awes

Looking up a lightening scar

California dominates

California ends

Finally someone else taking a picture of a state sign

I can’t say much for the urban pulls of California. Seascapes, rolling hills, rock formations, and endless remoteness bowled me over. For a state with so many people, there’s a heck of a lot of space to just be. I am grateful for the utter miracle that is the expanse of undeveloped, or little developed coastline. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.

October 6, 2011 Posted by | Doing it the hard way, Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Travel and intrigue | , , , | 4 Comments

California Part 2: Yosemite

Unfortunately, we reached Yosemite at the point in our adventures where trip burnout was sinking its teeth into my smelly flesh. My cranky-meter was going off a fair bit and I wasn’t as able to fully appreciate the famous Yosemite National Park. What might I have appreciated more on another day in another time?

  • The two and a half hours of campsite searching. Despite all warnings, planning and good intentions, these hours were spent hot, hungry, smoky and desperate with a car making loud weed-wacker noises through several otherwise idyllic and quiet campgrounds. There may also have been chasing cars and a general sense of frenzy.
  • The hilarity of the gas station inside the national park being mounds cheaper than the gas station just outside the gates – the one we used. (Only in America do National Parks have gas stations, multiple gas stations.)
  • The dry and dusty two mile Mariposa Grove trail through a variety of magnificient and huge Giant Sequoias. This was beautiful and I actually enjoyed it immensely considering I was a slave to the last shuttle of the day (bad planning on my part). There was little time to take photos and actually enjoy the trees. We brought no water, the trail was darn steep and I literally ran most of the way back down. I may have used expletives most of the way up.
  • A good old fashioned full day hike. I was just too burnt out to take the time to enjoy a good hike. It’s sad.
  • The family that poached/shared our campsite while we were away all day. We had heard stories of people sharing campsites in desparation, but were a little surprised to learn that we’d driven past our campsite in the dark because an entire surprise family of 5 was bustling around the fire blocking the view of our tent. I was very sympathetic until they pretended they couldn’t understand us and were doing us a favour by letting us stay. Things warmed up after that and I realized I was just really tired. Eventually, we were offered blankets after realizing the parents were keeping their kids warm with towels.  They left in the middle of the night.

What would I probably never appreciate?

  • The acrid smell of forest fire and consequent smoke all through the famous Yosemite Valley
    • I get that the forests have to regenerate and all, but that doesn’t mean I have to love wheezing it in.
  • The mounds of people. Yosemite is just too darn close to thriving metropolitan areas. It’s no Yellowstone, which was still busy, but not like this. Note to self: go again, go often, but don’t go in August.
  • The couple that was every so grateful that at least we were from a neighbouring country and spoke English unlike all those real foreigners who surrounded us. Actually, this was the only anti-tourist/foreigner comment we got the whole trip so I was pretty impressed.

I will, however, always appreciate the couple who saw us driving around looking desperate and waved us into their site. After giving us an interpretive tour of the site’s many bonuses: next to the outhouse, has its own stream, far from people, visiting bear, tent in morning shade, picnic table in morning sun (they were like campsite realtors); this lovely couple recommended some of the top to-dos and merrily got into their Prius and drove into the afternoon sun.

Gremlins are withholding my captions (grr). Choose your own adventure:

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

October 3, 2011 Posted by | Hiking, Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Travel and intrigue | , , | 6 Comments

California Part 1: the central coast

Being masochistic and heat-hating, we continued a lengthy drive from Salt Lake City to Las Vegas by driving all the way to the outskirts of Los Angeles. This meant we managed about 690 miles or 1,100 kilometres in a day. Next up? Coastal life was on the menu, from Lompoc to Salinas along the coast.

Still recovering from desert punishment, I was mildly perturbed (steaming mad) when I missed the “Welcome to California” sign and got only this:

I am Canadian. Cacti crack me up. Especially cacti that look like fraggles.

My interest in the law had little to do with how cool this courthouse in Santa Barbara was:

I can only dream that this light actually lights up when court is in session:

Thinking optimistically that I would be keen to cook vegetables on the road, I could not wait to hit the famous (overcrowded) farmer’s market in San Luis Obispo:

And who knew roasted corn had so many condiment (ewww) options?

Eventually we made it to William Randolph Hearst’s castle and ranch to see what it’s like to be rich, love art and cultural objects, and be crazy. These are just a couple of the dozens of ceilings he collected. L’il ol’ me didn’t know you could collect entire ceilings, walls, or fireplaces.

If I had my own movie theatre, I guess I’d have something like this lighting the way:

One of hundreds of statues contemplating nakedness:

or contemplating a visit to a roman bath:

Getting in touch with my Mediterranean roots, except not really:

Next stop, off the ranch, I managed to catch an elephant seal in something other than the “I’m dead” position. I wish you could see how they move. Imagine jello doing the worm.

One of the many views at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park

And finally, the requisite crazy coastal bridge with fog coming in or out, as it did most of the day. This, of course, has nothing on the upcoming Golden Gate fog.

Next stop: Yosemite!

September 28, 2011 Posted by | Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Travel and intrigue, Wild Animals | , , | 5 Comments

Utah: Another blip in the Minor American Roadtrip

I admit that this is painful installment 4 of 74 of my boring summer vacation. I somehow feel the need to document. I understand if you somehow feel the need to ignore me entirely.

I had already entered Utah in my last Minor American Roadtrip post. The state, to some, is the new “it” place. Where people still sound un-mainstream for going and there’s tons of cool, outdoorsy things to do. It was pretty easy to understand why. We planned to go back before we even got there so our 30 or so hours in Utah didn’t entail much except a promise to return. Its national parks are still calling my name.

The next stop (after the Bluebird Cafe) was Antelope Island just north of Salt Lake City, apparently referred to as just “Salt Lake” when you’re  in Utah, not to be confused with Great Salt Lake, which is the actual lake where Antelope Island is. Confused yet?

I had read about Antelope Island before we started our trip. Somehow I pictured some sort of uber-Okanagan wonderland with piles of kids just pouring out of doors, windows, holes in the ground and beer cups; 20 year olds in boats and hip bathing suits sounding ever-so-vaguely obnoxious on the water; lots of retirees; and a healthy dose of sunscreen and goofy hats. Maybe I had Antelope Island confused with a Kissime St. Cloud commercial mashup with a Florida-style spring break. At the very least, I thought, being 45 minutes from a city in the dead of summer would mean there’d be some traffic and maybe even a full campground. I was pretty dead wrong. P.S. This is always okay by me. People are minor irritants at the best of times. I love seeing everyone out enjoying beautiful places, I really do, but I love near solitude even more.

After 7 miles along a narrow causeway, we reached the actual island. I had never seen a campground like ours; the photos are pretty inadequate to show the surreal views of the lake, cheeky sunflowers dotting the landscape, and blessed metal shelters giving my pale skin a refuge. Aside: the downside of the metal is that creatures arriving in the night sound an awful lot like a band of toddlers playing jingle bells on pots and pans. After setting up good ol’ Mr. Wet Tent, we ventured to the lake for a swim.

The rumours are true. Great Salt Lake is greatly salty, and consequently stinky, but also very warm. It was great fun to swim in and a huge reprieve from the heat that day. That said, I did gain an appreciation for freeze-your-toenails-off glacier fed lakes. They feel and smell so incredibly clean and have a crispness that you just can’t buy in that heat!  Post-swim we were on the hunt for bison and antelope, which the island still has both of, strangely. I may or may not have driven around screaming “Home, Home on the Range.” Probably not. The relaxing, warm evening with accompanying sunset was just what the doctor ordered.

In classic bad tourist fashion, the next morning we moseyed to Salt Lake for a quick glance at the capitol building and Temple Square, the Mormon complex with piles of volunteers guiding tourists around the awe-inspiring grounds. I then got religio-skittish and we drove like we were getting paid…all the way to L.A.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

September 17, 2011 Posted by | Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Travel and intrigue | , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Now featuring a few hours in Idaho/Entering Utah

The next installment in the documentation of the Minor American Roadtrip:

A trip always means choices. On some trips, that choice means driving straight through Idaho twice without much regard for Idaho’s self-worth and what it has to offer. Sorry, Idaho. I’m quite certain you have your charms and wonders, but I’ll have to explore them another time.

What little I did experience of Idaho was pretty fun and memorable though.

Well, not the sign part, but the rest of it. We had a visit with the jerky man whose name I can’t remember. He and google have not yet met up, sadly. He sold elk and bison jerky as well as plain old beef. With a set up like this, we couldn’t help but stop:

I sneakily tried to take his picture as he got right to work on  his sales pitch. As I was digging for the camera, spy style, he yelled out for the little lady (that’s me) to come out, too: “I’ve got saaaam-ples!” he bellowed. This guy was something else. So excited we stopped, he cut small samples from about 12 different kinds of jerky. And he had a system. You start with plain bison, then go to plain elk (it has more flavour and will ruin your pallet for the bison), then you move into teryaki, spicy, extra hot and goodness knows what all else that I can’t remember. Once we disappointed him by buying only one package he launched into the second part of his work: giving directions on the most scenic and entertaining way to get to Salt Lake City, UT. This guy mapped it out for us and we followed his instructions to the letter.

  • First stop: The Montpelier Oregon Trail Centre. Now when I say we followed his instructions, I mean we drove by, slowed down like annoying tourists, and took pictures. I’m sure the Centre had a lot to offer, but as I say, travelling is choices (I’m a big, touristy ass).

  • Second stop: St. Charles (only on the map if you scroll in) for the famous “best” raspberry shakes. I was off dairy so instead I entertained myself in other ways.

  • Third stop: Viewpoint of Bear Lake. He was right yet again. This was beautiful and worth a stop, though the picture doesn’t do it any justice. Technically at this point we’ve already entered Utah, but I’m using my artistic license (not yet expired) to talk about the rest of jerky man’s recommendations within the Idaho post. Idaho really does get the shaft.

  • Finally, the climax: The Bluebird Cafe in Logan, Utah. Jerky Man said that this was the place to get lunch. I believe he said something along the lines of, “a neat little place with a lot of character.” So after a stop at the Logan  Temple, we headed to the Bluebird. Guess which one is which.

What I failed to factor in at this point is that, as lovely as the man planning my day was, we may not have the same taste in restaurants. He really got me with that whole “character” thing of his. And he was right, it was a different sort of place, with murals of Logan’s history, cheap food and a diner style menu. We went in looking like people who hadn’t showered in a couple of days, because we hadn’t, and they stuck us in a back room by ourselves. I was a little uncomfortable but probably also weird looking, so I thought that was ok. Unfortunately, my nose is a little in the air when it comes to food and my meal didn’t thrill me. It was, however, good for a laugh.

Cheers to the Jerky Man, he made our day in more ways than one. Next Post: Utah Continued!

September 15, 2011 Posted by | Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Travel and intrigue, Wild Animals | , , , , , | 4 Comments

Next Stop: Wyoming

As will become increasingly obvious, I didn’t spend enough time anywhere along the journey. What I saw of Wyoming was pretty incredible, but I was only in the western-most sliver. There’s really something to be said for places just east of the rockies, foothills and the like, where you’re far enough to get perspective on the mountains on one side and the prairie on the other. I had only experienced that southeast of Calgary before, but the feeling continues further south. I can’t remember exactly, but we crossed the continental divide an insane number of times, back and forth in Yellowstone National Park and weaving through some crazy valleys later.

My poor calculations about how long it would take to get to Yellowstone from Glacier National Park meant that we arrived at the park gate at about 11pm. A deer had dashed out in front of us, lightening flashed ominously ahead of us, I was keenly aware that we didn’t know the area well and that the park road would not be a freeway. Yet we plowed on, not willing to give up our campsite in the height of summer. Right after taking the first picture, of the park sign, we stopped to consult the map and ran into a ranger. He pulled over to ask us how we were, my paranoia must have been heightened, I thought for sure we were in trouble for something. But we were free. After about 10 minutes of driving my traveling companion passed out and I began imagining grizzly bears dish-like faces appearing in my windshield right before driving of the edge into the ominous darkness on one side of the road. I eventually had to shake the passenger seat to get back to sanity. It was an hour and a half of torture before we got to our campground.

An aside: I’ve begun to realize about myself that pure “nothingness”, as us civilized types might see it, actually sends me into panic. On the one hand, I suppose it just indicates that I’m aware of my weaknesses, my dependence on technology, people who know how to do things, etc. On the other hand, I think it’s sad that if I’m in a remote enough place and there’s only one other person around, I have no sense of security or peace. Lights, structure, and additional people all give me great comfort but my intellectual self says I should just enjoy the wildness.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Our last stop in Wyoming was Jackson (the hub of the famous Jacksonhole valley), a Banff-like town embedded in the foothills. In the middle of everything and nowhere all at once. Elk racks and wagon wheels decorate the wide streets. In the summer, it felt like a party.

September 9, 2011 Posted by | Doing it the hard way, Irritated, Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Self-reflection, Travel and intrigue, Wild Animals | 3 Comments

Featuring Montana

For no good reason at all, other than maybe being extremely indulgent and thinking that anyone cares, I’ve decided to do a brief highlight reel of each state I spent any amount of time in during the recent U.S. excursion.

First stop: Montana. No offence Idaho and Washington, but given that I only stopped to use the facilities, you don’t seem worthy of a post, unless it was about rating washrooms around the world a la George Castanza. If you’re actually curious about the route through Montana, this was it approximately. This is not the efficient way to get to Yellowstone when leaving Glacier National Park at 1pm, if you’re curious.

It was around the Montana border that I started to realize that those crickets that were following us throughout the trip were morphing into weedwackers and were in fact engine sounds. The sound persists. One day I’ll care to find out what it is and then not do anything about it some more.

What I saw of Montana was pretty stunning. I had been hearing this recently but was eager to see it with my own eyes. I’m partial to the mountains of southeast BC, Rockies and otherwise, so Glacier National Park did not disappoint. Unfortunately, I didn’t spend much time there. I will have to return to do the Iceberg Lake hike, and others, and spend more time talking to people. What I’m saying is that I have very little to say about Montana.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

September 7, 2011 Posted by | Bad TV References, Hiking, Minor American Roadtrip, Photography, Travel and intrigue | , | 3 Comments

The Trials of Usedvictoria

I’ve blogged a couple of times about the joys of Freecycle (like here and here). There are of course trials as well. Not shockingly, Usedvictoria isn’t much different, except that there’s money involved.

I decided to peddle my 35mm slr camera (given with much love by my mother, sold to her by a local rip-off artist) after buying a digital slr in Kuala Lumpur.

Petronas Towers, KL

Abandoned, the camera was sent home without me, along with some presents for family. It arrived about a month after my return, or 2 and a half months after being sent to Canada. Maybe customs found something of interest, like cheap presents, but I digress.

Not long after moving to Victoria, I posted the old camera on usedvictoria. It has been there for about 2.5 years. For a year and a half I got no bites on usedvictoria. Hint to Rose: your price is too high, stupid. But there are some hardcore types on usedvictoria. As soon as I lowered the price someone who had been creeping on it emailed me and asked me if I would take $20 less. I said no, I could only go $10 less and buyer #1 faded into the woodwork.

I heard from buyer #2 in May of this year. He emailed asking for camera details. I responded. He made an offer. The type of offer that some of my more free-spirited friends would jump on, full of whimsy and trips to far-away lands. Me, I was mildly creeped out. He offered to trade the camera for a stay in a cabin/bunkhouse on his property (bad horror movie, anyone?) or some of his art, which he displays weekly at Salt Spring Island’s world famous farmers market. The cabin appealed to my whimsy, but only momentarily. I expressed interest in the art. I had visions of wee little paintings that I could use in some capacity in the new home. Granted, the value of the camera was not going to = much art. We agreed that I would bring the camera to the island in August, when I was scheduled to visit.

Now, being me, though I was excited by the devil-may-care nature of this arrangement, which I worked hard to map out to the degree possible, I was also very  nervous. What if I did not like the work (guilt)? Must I talk to him and tell him the trade wasn’t a go (awkwardness, confrontation, more guilt)? Could I walk away without saying a word (dishonesty, cowardice, even more guilt)? I batted this around in my brain for months. I googled him in the hopes of an image or two of his work, but to no avail. Such is my life.

In August, I went to Salt Spring. For some reason, this excursion is never as relaxing as I think it will be – especially not on the Saturday when I try to go to the market, get hungry, lose my compatriots, and wander around in crowds short, blind and lonely, unable to find anything I need. A perfect state of bliss: fright. I had emailed the artist/buyer #2 in advance of the trip. He told me to look for the table with carved trees growing out of rocks. Sigh.

I found him and his table. My camera safely and innocuously tucked in my bag. “No camera trader here, nope.” The trees were in fact beautiful, though not necessarily the sort of item I would have spent cold hard cash on. I liked them and thought they would make a great “conversation piece” (I vacillate between attraction to and repulsion with this phrase) as well as being aesthetically pleasing (can you tell I talk about art a lot? Me so sophisticated).

I found other hypothetical people who live in my house (eventually) and asked them if they liked the work. I received a short and definite “no”. That question resolved, I moved on to “what do I do now”? I did the only mature thing I could think of: I ran to the car and asked that we never speak about this again. TALLY – Catholic Guilt: 1. Rose: -2.

Buyer #3. I received a cryptic email on Monday. It asked condition, age and availability before 3 that day in one big long run on sentence. As I reread it I realize, it wasn’t all that cryptic, but for some reason, strangers emailing me in unpunctuated lower-case questions freaks me out. It sounds curt, grumpy and somehow disturbing. Lest you should think I am scared of everything, I am in fact usually quite  nonchalant about this sort of thing. But for some reason this time I had a bad feeling. I was the only one home. I was painting. It was very sudden and the email address included the words “dance” and “partay”. I am a pillar of rationality.

Anyway, we emailed back and forth a couple of times and arranged for Partay to come at 3:30. I found the camera and put it by the door. I forwarded someone the email thread in case I disappeared or died. I then continued with my painting. At 3:20, I started to get ready, depainting myself and waiting for the buzzer phone to ring. At 3:30 I realized that I had unplugged the buzzer for Paint-o-Mania December 2010. I ran downstairs with the camera and headed outside (to defend myself against any raid-the-building-use-of-force, which makes perfect sense, I must say). I waited for about 10 minutes and headed upstairs thinking that I had missed Partay. Minutes later, someone knocked at the door. I looked out the peephole fearful. Young man, alone. Hmm. I opened the door and he said, “there’s a mother and son downstairs talking about a camera. The buzzer’s not working, or something.” I thanked him (he seemed annoyed) and headed down with the camera.

I saw the mother and son and all my anxiety disappeared. They looked relieved to see me coming down holding camera-like things after being unable to get a hold of me. Partay was about 14, accompanied by his mother. They were kind, soft-spoken, and unassuming (i.e. I LOVED them and wanted to invite them in for cake, which I didn’t have. I restrained myself) The boy looked over the camera. He said he needed it for photography (heart melt). He was happy to see it was in good shape (you bet, I took care of that bad boy except for abandoning it to the Pacific Ocean for 3 months). He handed me the money and I skipped happily though somewhat shamefacedly (for assuming the worst) home. My bad feelings are often misguided. This was the “right buyer”.

December 22, 2010 Posted by | Brackets, Consumption, Doing it the hard way, Irritated, Photography | , | 2 Comments