"It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds." This line is from a song that never fails to make me cry. I asked my students to analyze this line today, and their responses surprised me. It seems to me that I would have been able to connect to this idea even at the tender age of 16. But then again, that's a memory dependent on a faulty camera in my mind. It's a scary thought to think that I have the ability to distort the truth that once existed in the world. I'd like to think that I'm evolved enough to let the past rest on its own merits. Is it even possible? Am I--are we--all destined to shift reality in our minds? I don't know. What I do know is that the concept of time is very real in my life right now. It's understandable, given that certain experiences are bound by the seconds of a calendar year. The struggle, for me, is the space between wanting to embrace the seconds--as fleeting as they may be--instead

The next three weeks are already set up to be a whirlwind of activity, and I will be a very happy woman on the morning following homecoming. But you know what? I'm glowing right now. The happiness that swirls within me is very real...rushing through my veins. I've found my muse in the most unlikely of places. I'm relishing the connectedness I feel to myself. Speaking of muses, tomorrow I will be performing some old and new works. I'm also working tonight on a very interesting display method for the new stuff (stone and sandpaper...oh, my!). In the process I found new members of my tribe. It's a beautiful group. Okay, so I don't want to start sounding like a scene from The Hangover. It's just a beautiful place in my world now.

It's Friday night. I'm sitting here in the midst of a very, very dirty house. I'm staring at my computer screen. I'm fighting a losing battle with all the words and ideas in my head. I'm supposed to be writing. Last month I accepted a part time position as a writer. So I've been writing. What I'm learning is that writing for someone else--on a schedule--is a challenge for someone who prefers to be free from the shackles of another person's agenda. But everything within me tells me that I need to do this. It's a sacrifice of my most precious commodity--my time. It's humbling to have someone else critique my work and offer suggestions. It's exhausting to deal with the panic that washes over me as I struggle to find the right way to express ideas about topics that are still a bit foreign to me. And I still have a regular job to do. It takes a lot of work, and I brought a good deal of that work home with me this weekend. On top of that, I three a

I called one of my dear friends early this afternoon and announced, "Every once and a while I have a moment that reminds me how different I am from everyone else." He laughed as I regaled him with the story of my first trip to the local Brazilian supermarket. It all started when I was in the local American supermarket and discovered they no longer carried my favorite Brazilian coffee. As I wailed and bemoaned this grievous offense over the phone to my dear friend, he tried to convince me that one of the Cuban brands would suffice. There was one problem with this logic. Once you've tried Brazilian coffee, you cannot go back. Just the fact that he could not grasp this fact forced me to drive over to the Brazilian store. I've wanted to stop in since I first noticed it along the edge of the road, but time and--more recently--a fear of running into a certain South American have kept me from wandering the aisles in search of imported delicacies. Today left me wi