Day One.

A mask called The Snowstorm. It goes with a poem of the same name.

Now it's time for dinner.

30 Days of Creativity.

Starting Officially June 1.

Make something every day, take a photo, post it here.

Get ready. set. Go.

I've never ventured to call myself a writer before, not really. Beyond a few poems I wrote in elementary school that now reside in obscure and expensive anthologies, I have nothing published. So, I have always said simply, that I write.
I write poems. I'm working on a play--really working on it, slowly but surely pulling on the threads of something. Perhaps short stories will occur.

I've been collecting inspiration all my life--I'll make useful, make it mine. And then, hopefully, people in the world will make it useful, make it theirs.

So, if only in my own mind at this moment, I am a writer.


Half the battle of life is claiming space--I've claimed. The sign on the door says Caitlin. The windows are letting the sun in; I can see the ocean.

Namaste.

I visited my grandparents this week in Arizona. I hadn't been in five years, since I was fifteen, and it looked exactly the same. There's something comforting about that--some things remain intact. I collected stories of relatives now long gone--my swedish and Irish ancestors. I drank tea everyday out of a teapot, made cake from a recipe Nana's carried around for fifty-eight years, discovered the magic of Greer Garson, reconnected with Danny Kaye as Hans Christian Anderson, fell in love with ballet all over again.
I hooked up a VCR, finished a book, introduced veggie burgers into a formerly carnivorous house, frosted a cake, became friends with my family, and watched Lawerence welk for the first time.
I have been interested in boundaries lately, boxes. The phrase that comes to mind most often is "war with architectecture." Fighting fate with muscle.

I want to write a play about the masks we wear, the different people we are on any given day. I am an old house, a tower of building blocks. They rearrange, fall down.
And memory loss. the kind that comes with not speaking.

I'm letting it simmer.

good night whoever you are. sleep well, dream of love.

--Rebellious, wished for child.

Let's play. I'll grab the dominoes, you get the board.

I was talking on the phone with a dear friend today and I felt my filter rush right out of my body. It was like a bird that's been sitting in my mouth and I heard it's tiny little wings fly by as it left it's cave and fly right out into the sky. Just fluttering by. a tiny little trickle of wind and then it was gone. See ya. maybe not forever. but for today. and it felt so indescribably liberating and beautiful that I just wondered, why haven't I been doing this all along?
The answers for that are, of course, the logical (or irrational, depending on how you want to see it) ones. everthing that has to do with psychology and ego. and all of our unique and not so unique complexes that enter into our bodies as we grow into ourselves.
So. there it is.
Now, tell the truth.
Let's just try it. Not the momentous truth, or the secret truth, just The Truth.
and people will react how they will and we will react back how we will. and neither of us is responsible for the other person's reaction. We are. and they are. and we happen to exist together in the same time on the planet.
So let's bump up against each other, let's make noise, play, get messy, Fall down.
Let's Live.

That's the hope and the experiment. from day to day. one day at a time.
Cause I've got sixty years to figure it all out.

Here I Am

I've been gone quite a while, writing and reading, chasing boredom in my leggings and socks. And now I'm here. If I've learned one thing over these past few months and years, it is this: Plan to be surprised. I've got sixty more years to do all the things I want.

So here's what I want to know now: What is the history of all of our stuff?

I have a whole life full of things and I don't know where any of it comes from. How did the glass I'm using get here, to my cupboard? How many miles and hands did it take to go from sand to glass to the cup I just drank my milk in?

I'm astounded by the amount of questions I have about the things existing in our world.
Where does the water in the pipes in my building in seattle come from?
and if it comes from a reservoir, where is it?
Who built it? and when?
Were they paid fairly?

And after all that, it goes back to the politics of the city, to the government of whatever nations were involved.

It goes back to history.

I don't have an answer and I don't expect to be handed one, but I think it's important to discuss.

Because how can we, as a people, know who we are, and what to do next, unless we know how we arrived?

lots of worlds

I just want to be seen.