Being Present

Being present is something hippies talk about a lot, to the point that it almost loses its meaning.

It’s something my therapist tells me.  Be present.  Feel what you are feeling.  Don’t push it away.

It’s something that comes up in meditation – to neither push nor pull at your internal self, but just sit with what’s there.

But, what’s it really about?  What’s it value?  I don’t know, not being an enlightened person myself.  Yet I get this sense that every moment has this unique feeling, similar perhaps, but never exactly like another.  As a child, everything was new and I experienced all these firsts, these feelings, and I didn’t think twice about them because I had nothing to compare them to.  As I got older, I expected things to feel the same as they used to and I often felt disappointment when they did not.

I suppose part of being present is accepting some of the things you felt you won’t ever feel again.  It’s sad, but if you don’t accept that, every thing you feel will always be tainted with this regret or nostalgia.  If you don’t have that regret, there’s no reason why what you feel in the future can’t be as wonderful as what you felt in the past even if it’s different.

The other part, though, for me, is that sometimes my thoughts can feel very similar.  Particularly negative thoughts.  Depression is about having this ever present inescapable terrible feeling.  You have the same thoughts over and over, which trigger the similar feelings over and over.  Often, it’s “why am I so sad?”, “what’s wrong with me?” and “why can’t I just be happy?”

But, part of getting over depression is just allowing yourself to feel different things even if they’re sad, not necessarily trying to force yourself to be happy.  I felt pretty bad after losing my job, but every day the way I felt a little different.  Within a few weeks I stopped feeling sad.  Every day i moved a little bit.  I am still moving.  I am happy now, but I don’t know where I’ll be in another month.  And that’s ok, happy is ok, sad is ok.  Trapped – trapped is problematic.

You’re A Princess

As long as I’d known my grandfather, he’d been a cripple from multiple strokes and a heart attack. He couldn’t walk and he couldn’t talk, but something about his presence made everyone happy.  The children would sit on his lap as he was wheeled about, and his relatives would pay great attention to caring for him.  Despite his impairment, he had a sense of adventure – he always wanted to go everywhere and see everything. Eventually he died of his ailments, and I didn’t understand it at the time, but his absence would never heal.

I was backing up some family video one or two years ago when I stumbled across a video of my grandfather playing with me as a baby.  ”Who’s a princess?” he kept asking me, “You’re a princess.”  He kissed me, and I squealed the way I still do when people kiss me unexpectedly.  It was the first time, in memory, that I’d ever heard his voice.

I still don’t know what to make of that moment.  I played the video over and over again as I cried.

His voice was rough from years of smoking, and his Geordie accent so thick I could hardly understand him.  The words he said sounded alien to me, yet they were the words of someone who loved me in a way that is still beyond my capacity to understand.

Seeing myself so loved by my grandfather made me feel guilty.  It still makes me feel guilty thinking about it.

After he died, I didn’t really feel that sad.  I found out early in the morning in bed when my brother asked my mother “Why did granddad have to die?” which struck me as an incredibly stupid question, a question asked not for an answer but in order to obtain comfort (at that age I disdained such questions.)  I stopped pretending to be asleep, and sat up and asked “Granddad’s dead?”

I wrote a note on it in my diary, which was abstract and rational like the child that I was.  I didn’t really understand why people were so upset – wouldn’t he be happier in heaven where he could walk, and talk, and get his leg back?

Before the funeral, I was excited about getting a new black coat.  I was happy when my parents took me out shopping.  I was happy when I played with my cousins in the street.  And I remember (this is the part I feel guilty about – I find it terribly difficult to write about) talking excitedly to my cousin about how we would get to sit in the front row during the funeral because we were related to him.  I was more concerned with my own specialness at my seating arrangement than I was sad about his death.

My aunt overheard me, and was upset by this.  I did not gather this directly, but from my mother who sat me down and kindly talked to me about how funerals weren’t about where people sat but remembering the person who died.  She tried to explain to me that my aunt had been upset by my comment, and to elucidate to me that what I said would be difficult to hear for someone who had just lost her father.  I didn’t understand.

But, I noticed when I was placed in the second row during the funeral.

After that, I’ve been weird about seating at funerals and weddings.  At Nana’s funeral, I was placed in the front row, and I felt so anxious about it.  I was in my twenties, yet I still found myself wondering if this was a sign they’d forgiven or forgotten the incident at my grandfather’s funeral.  At Jason’s wedding, he had no family in the audience so his friends – including me – sat in the front row.  Is this ok?  I kept asking – are you sure this is ok?  (Yes, my friends kept reassuring me, you’re being completely ridiculous.)

And every time I think about this video of my grandfather, I also remember moment right before his funeral.  I’ve tried justifying it to myself a million times – I was young and stupid, I didn’t understand what death was, I didn’t know what it felt like to live without someone, I didn’t know how far away heaven really was if it existed at all – but it never helps.

I’ve re-watched the video of my grandfather, and he’s so kind and gentle to me I think surely he would understand.  Surely he could forgive me my transgression against him at his funeral, and I genuinely believe he probably would forgive me.  But, then I’m just left feeling unworthy that someone as kind and sweet as all that would love me.

Rationally, I realize I’ve lost all perspective on this event.  Like, actually.  I have no idea how horrible what I said was.  Was it just part of the stupid shit kids say, and have I blown it out of proportion in my mind?  Was it actually a particularly cold and callous thing for an eight year old to say at a funeral?  I have no idea!

Yesterday, I was on a date of sorts, and we were talking about regrets.  I genuinely had a difficult time coming up with any regrets, something I would undo.  Sure, I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve learned from all of them so I wouldn’t want to take them back.

But, I’d take this back.  Sure, I learned from it and seen things about myself and whatever.  But it’s not worth it.  I don’t want to understand this event, I just want to be forgiven for it.

However, I can’t take it back.

So what have I learned?

That when I die, I should arrange the chairs in a big circle so everyone at my funeral can be in the front row.  Because all of us, assholes and all, are princesses really.

Plenty of Time

I was at Cafe Gratitude yesterday with Sarah and Paresh, and I picked up this un-planner called plenty of time.

It’s sort of like a daily planner, except instead of dividing your days into time slots it divides every day into themes – creation, worth, love & acceptance, gratitude, generosity, abundance.  You plan out your day by putting whatever you’re doing into one of these slots, and jotting down the time or order next to it.  Or whatever.

At the bottom of every page, there is a question or suggestion like “What do you love about being extraordinary?” or “What inspires you to start your day off powerfully?”  (There’s a different one for every day.)

It’s sort of hippie dippie (sort of a lot hippie dippie) and kind of cheesy, and more than a little ridiculous.  Yet, using this planner has helped put me in an extremely good mood.  I’ve been fairly down these past few days, for various reasons.  I’ve focused so much on what I’ve lost and how much uncertainty there is in my life that it’s been almost overwhelming.  Yet, just the act of filling out this planner (sometimes I do it retroactively) has called my attention to all the good things I have.

Yesterday’s question was: “Where have you broken your word?” and my answer was “To accept no more sadism from those that I love.  It’s not who I am.”

Today’s question/suggestion was: “Say out loud three times ‘I am the love of (spirit word) in expression’.”  The spirit word I picked was “Fortune” so I said “I am the love of fortune in expression” three times.  I’m not sure I did it right, or if that sentence even made sense, but then again, can you really do something like that wrong?  I was definitely giggling by the end of it.

Tomorrow’s question is “When has a dream come true?” which I haven’t answered yet.

But!  Today a dream came true!  Just in time for me to answer it tomorrow!

Since I’ve moved here, I’ve had this crush on the guy who worked the front desk at my rock climbing gym.  It’s always sort of awkward to talk to him, and I feel super shy and all that stuff.  I’ve had this fantasy of somehow meeting him somewhere where I wouldn’t feel awkward about chatting more, but it never happens.  Then, I sort of berate myself for not having the courage to talk to him at the gym.  And besides, lately things had been feeling less friendly, and I’m canceling my gym membership anyway, so I figured I’d just put the whole thing behind me.

But then, I ran into him at the grocery store – which never happens!  We chatted about my losing my job, and how I needed to cancel my membership and stuff, and how it was a shame and whatever else.

The conversation was reaching it’s natural conclusion, and I was about to go, when I just turned to him and said “You know, as I’m never going to see you again anyway, I might as well tell you that I think you’re really cute.”

And he smiled.  And he gave me his number.  And we’re going to go for a walk on Wednesday.

Which is an event I will definitely mark down in my un-planner!

Morning

“You’re so wet.”
Am I? I don’t ask

A memory.
Who’s bed am I in? Mine?

Glass bottled milk but no milkman
no birds

The milkman’s no loss
Just part of a time and place with unbroken nights

Now night-day has fractured
The pieces muddled
Morning is not the morning

I should go

Honesty

The world sparkles less for me at the moment.  I’ve been here before.  I don’t like it.  So what now?

I’ve spent more than an hour trying to answer this question.  I thought I had one when I sat down to write this post, but nothing I say comes out honest.

I’ve been here before, so many times before, I want to know what the solution is – the way forward, the correct thing to do.  I want to have wisdom, and to give it anyone who may stumble across my blog in a time of need, but I’m coming up short.  I want to be experienced and worldly, but the truth is I’m a scared little girl pretending to be more than I really am so someone will love me.

I want to say something like “Only by looking through the shadow of our darker moments can we see the meaning that defines us” because it sounds so good but it’s empty.

I started reading Foucault, and it triggers interesting ideas, but I’m forced to confront how much will slip through my mind.  I want to be smart enough to understand him, but I’m not.  I can only be inspired by him.

Fuck you, Foucault.

I’m at my limit – the limit of my mind, limit of my maturity, limit of my heart.

And part of me still cries out as I write this, “But I’m still better than them, right?”  I’m still smarter than all those people who don’t read Foucault.  I’m still more mature than all those people who would have a complete meltdown after losing their job.  I’m still more loving than those controlling monogamous girlfriends who won’t accept the pain of their partner’s freedom.

I feel obliged to say here “But I’m not better than them” so I can also console myself by thinking of my humility, but that’s not my truth.

My truth is that these things don’t matter.

 

My truth is that on the inside, I am violent and I don’t know if that’s normal, and I don’t know if I want it to be.

Sad

I have been sad this week.

I was informed that my company had gone under on Monday, so by Monday afternoon I no longer had a job.  I had a first date that evening, which I opted not to cancel, and so at 8 I met up with this other bisexual girl at a dive bar in the Mission.  We were both clearly a little awkward about hitting on each other so we drank until it was no longer an issue.  That was about 4 rum and cokes for me, but they were strong.

I remember making out with her at the bar, going back to her place, and talking with her roommate for a bit about the book she was reading.  It was the biography of a porn star who could fit her fist in her mouth.  I remember getting into bed with her and taking off some of our clothes, but then somehow I just woke up the next morning in this squishy purple girl bed.  I was glad to note I had not vomited in it, but I still felt pretty hung over.  At some point, she cuddled up to me and she was just so soft.

And, like I guess I am familiar with this.  Girls are softer than boys.  But it was just something I couldn’t get out of my mind.

Afterward, I asked Chris why women even dated men – they were so grizzled and hairy and generally uncomfy.  ”Penis power,” he said.

Later, I went over to the apartment of one of my ex coworkers.  We were sort of tense and weird, because we’d both lost our jobs and because he’s about to go on a vacation with this girl he might end up marrying or something.  I don’t really understand the situation there.  Anyway, we ended up fucking before going to our company holiday party.  I got fucked pretty hard, but he was nice to me so it was ok.  The party was strange and depressing because everyone had been fired, but we still had the bookings so figured we may as well use them.  Still, I couldn’t shake the knowledge that it was the last time we’d all see each other together no matter how lighthearted everyone acted.

My ex coworker drove me home at the end.  I said it’d been a difficult day for me, and he yelled at me for saying that.  I told him he was being a dick.  I don’t fully understand why that exchange happened, but I lay in bed thinking about it that night.

The following morning, I drew a bath for myself.  I put in some shower gel I got for free in a 3/2 sale because it sort of acts like a crappy bubble bath, and I lit a candle instead of keeping the lights on.  I shaved, and I washed, then the candle went out and I just sat by myself in tepid bathwater in the dark.

And I started to cry.

For the first time since my company went under, I cried.

I cried for the squishy girl in her squishy bed.  I cried because I’d never have a penis to fuck her with, even as I felt my own vagina ache from the last time I’d been fucked.  I cried full of gender dysphoria at the shape, and softness, and weakness of my own body.  I cried because I felt so ungrateful that I could even think that.  I cried out of resentment of the people who love me physically and find me beautiful, and cried that I could resent them so.

I cried at the coldness of the world, at the distance I felt from the people I loved.

I cried out of uncertainty.

I cried out of fear.

I cried because I’m special and unique in ways I never wanted to be, and in ways that are ultimately unimportant.

I cried because I am a female programmer, and I’m going to have to embrace that all over again.

I cried for no reason at all.

I cried because I have stopped valuing the things I would be good at.  As a little girl, I wanted to be a gymnast and a ballerina.  How did I end up a wrestler?  When did strength become more important to me than flexibility?   It didn’t start that way.

I cried because I’d learned to hate myself, but I didn’t used to.

I cried because I don’t know where to go from here.

 

Then I got out of the bath, and I came over to Chris’ apartment.

Who is the Parakeet?

Ever since waking up this morning, I’ve been preoccupied with the question who am I?  Not deeply, the words just keep rattling about lightly in my head.

When I was in middle school, a student’s pet parakeet escaped and had been on the loose for a few days.  My friend Kasia, who was good with parakeets and had several herself, offered to try to catch the bird for the student.

We found it in a flock of pigeons, eating some sort of bread or bird seed that had spilled on the ground.  Kasia had, in her hand, some sort of special parakeet treat and slowly approached the birds clicking at it.  Whenever she crossed some invisible line the pigeons flew away onto the nearby roof, and the parakeet went with them.  After she backed up and waited, they all returned.

After several unsuccessful attempts to lure the parakeet away, my teacher told her “I think it will be impossible.  It’s just going to follow the pigeons, so even if this bird isn’t afraid of you, the rest of them will stop you from catching it.”  Kasia gave it a few more attempts before admitting defeat.  But, as I watched, I was struck by how indifferent the birds were to their obvious differences.  The parakeet moved like the pigeons, eating the bird seed with the same jerky motions, and flew with them – always in the middle of the pack, never at the front, never at the back.

Who were we to tell this small green bird where it belonged?  If the parakeet didn’t mind, and the pigeons didn’t mind, what business of ours was catch this bird?  We could appreciate it’s beauty, which the pigeons seemed indifferent to, but all we could offer it was isolation in a cage.

These questions of “who are my people?” and “where do I fit in?” have always hung off the question “who am I?” for me.  Where am I from?  I don’t know how to answer that.  England?  Boston?  Virginia?  California?  A generic “Cambridge” as I have lived and spent my formative years in several?  An overarching “America” is generally not a good enough answer for people in the states, but out of the states I’ll alternate between “England” and “America” depending on the context.

But who will claim me when I’m lost?  Where do I “go home” to?

I don’t know whatever came of the parakeet.  Perhaps its differences were too great, and it died somehow – didn’t get enough food, was rejected by the pigeons, flew away and perished on some crazy, misguided migration instinct. Or, perhaps somehow magically it was guided back to its own kind somewhere tropical and perfect, who knows.

But – maybe, just maybe – it found a home with the pigeons.  It camped out with them in the heated awnings of our school during the winter, stealing food from the cafeteria trash.  Perhaps it had been bred to be a pet and drifted so much from the wild parakeets it could never return to them, and like the pigeons, could not survive without the cast out food and warmth of humans.  Maybe the hand of civilization had marked  both parakeet and pigeon so deeply that they were more alike than disalike, and in each other they found a reflection of themselves that cast back truer for the void.

Eventually, even the people could grew to see it.  ”An parakeet escaped a few years ago,” they’d say watching the birds fly by.  ”We tried to catch her, but she’s one of the pigeons now.”

Pretty Things

When I was a little girl in Disneyland with my family, there was a pretty thing I wanted in the hotel gift shop.  It was sort of like a T-shirt, but was cut out in unusual ways and had these tassels flowing from it.  It was a sort of tie dye, purple and blue with some sort of Disney Land related logo on the front.  I thought it was beautiful, and walked by it every day.

Eventually, I worked up the courage to go into the shop with my cousin and ask how much it cost.

“That’s not for you,” the shopkeeper told me angrily, “that’s for a grown woman.”

In retrospect, it was a fairly strange to exist in a hotel gift shop – Disney Land themed T-shirt lingerie – but there it was and I wanted it and could not have it.  Could not even consider having it.  In fact, I was so clearly below it that I was mocked for simply asking the price, which I undoubtedly could not have afforded anyway.

A more compassionate shopkeeper might have smiled at me.  ”Pretty, isn’t it?  Unfortunately, I don’t have it in your size.”

But I did not meet a compassionate shopkeeper that day.  I met a bitter old woman, horrified at the confused sexuality of a ten year old who didn’t fully understand what she was asking for.  And, it definitely was an expression of my sexuality.  I knew enough not to ask my parents for it.  I knew it was feminine in a way I was not, in a way I wanted to be.  If I could only acquire it, it could bestow its power upon me.

But I did not acquire it.

The only thing I got that day, was a memory of that voice that played itself over and over in my mind.  That is not for you.

It played it again when I went to buy my first set of lingerie at Victoria’s Secret.  I went with my boyfriend when I was 16, but I could not cross the threshold of the store.  He went in and got it without me.

And again when I tried on a yellow slip with my friends.  ”That looks so good on you!” they said after sneaking into the changing room with me, “You should buy it.”  It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t buy that cute little slip for myself.

Then again when I was trying on bras with my boyfriend waiting outside.  ”Is she really a full C?” the saleswoman asked him as I tried on bras.  No, bitch.  I am not a full C.  I am, however, uncomfortably snug in a B so I go up a size.  Why do you care if I buy a bra that’s too big?

It’s not just underwear that makes me feel this way though.

There are all these other things I do not feel I deserve, that normal women deserve.

Material care is one of them.  I never expect a man to pay for dinner, and in fact it makes me uncomfortable if he insists.  Once, I stayed for three months in my boyfriends apartment without paying rent and was completely overcome with guilt.  I tried to make myself as invisible as possible and make as little impression as I could.  I tried to not let him put a desk in the corner for me, but he insisted, and I felt bad that I had imposed on him so to take up a corner of his apartment.

Emotional care is another.  When my grandmother died, I didn’t tell the man I was dating at the time.  He had a big work deadline, and I just told him that my family was taking a vacation in England when I went to her funeral.  I didn’t want to inconvenience him with my emotions when he was so busy.

But love, really.  Love is the big one for me.

Even after all these years, I don’t think I deserve to be loved.  I remember, years ago at 151 house, I was walking in the streets with Chris and I  just broke down and started crying in the middle of the street.  I don’t remember what I was upset about, but I remember he gave me a hug and told me I was worthy of love.  And I was so happy to hear it, but it didn’t feel true.  As we stood there, some school somewhere got out and all these kids ran around us on the streets.  How many of them were loved?  All of them, I hope.

Was I loved as a kid?  I mean, I was.  But I was alone a lot.  It was a sort of logical, distant sort of love.  Sometimes, when I felt sad, I’d think to myself that my mother loved me and I’d feel better.  I never went and hugged her though.  She would have, when I was a little girl I did all the time, but sometime after moving to America it began to feel strange.

When Nana died, I remember my mom crying in the airport.  And I didn’t really know what to do – I held her hand, I hardly knew how to touch her.

Sometimes I look at other women, and they seem so weak.  They need to be taken care of so much.  They need someone to make money for them.  They need someone to comfort them when they’re sad.  They need someone to stand up for them when things are unfair – they need someone to fight their fights.  And I need none of these things.

But, I am so jealous of them.  Because despite all their weakness – possibly because their weaknesses – they are so endearing and so lovable.  And I don’t think I could ever be like that, I don’t think I could ever deserve that.

Still, it’s ok.  Sometimes we get things we don’t deserve.

The other day, I was at the mall and had the impulse to buy some girly slip type thing.  Again, I couldn’t do it.  The thought of myself going and trying on slips seemed so wrong – me, with my hair?  My clothes?  That store was not for me.

But, when I got home, I cheated and ordered some things online.  The first girly things I’d ever gotten for myself by myself.  One of the slips was totally wrong, but the other one and the robe?  They seemed perfect.  Completely in line with my taste, and just about as pretty as tie dye Disneyland T-shirt lingerie.

Screaming

I was in a play once, when I was about 12.  The crucible.  I was small and quiet, so I was the sick girl.

During our first run through, when I became possessed, I screamed.  Eyes closed, arms flailing – I screamed and screamed.  And when I opened my eyes, everyone was staring at me.  Rehearsal had stopped.

I thought I was supposed to scream, I said.

You were, we just – weren’t expecting that.

 

It had snowed, deeply even for Boston, and Graham and I went out to walk along memorial drive.

No one was there, no cars were driving.  They couldn’t.  The next morning would be one of the few snow days I ever had at MIT.

We stood, alone, looking at Boston in the unnatural quiet. Then, I screamed.  He covered his ears.  It was so loud in the silence, it echoed – off what I don’t know – but it felt like the city.  It felt like I was screaming loud enough for Boston to be screaming back at me.

 

Dave used to be upset that I never cried around him.  He asked if he could make me cry, and I said I doubted it, but he could try.

So I let him cane me one day.  I got naked, and lay on his bed with my butt in the air.  He hit me in the same place over and over.  After a while, I’d have a surge of anger every time he hit me.  I wanted to swear.  I wanted to stop him.  But I didn’t.  I didn’t make a noise – I hardly moved.

At some point Dave stopped.  You’re covered in sweat he said.  So I was.  It was in still little beads, because I hadn’t been moving.  When I sat up it ran down my body.  But I never cried, and I never screamed.  I wish I had.

 

Dave used to have a girlfriend at some point who used to cry a lot.  Apparently if he spanked her a little too hard during sex, she’d cry.  And I used to be so jealous of her.  She was allowed to be this weak, pathetic human and he still loved her.

I’m so blocked up, I can’t even find out if someone would still love me if I was deeply pathetic.  I have such a difficult time crying in front of people, you can’t even beat it out of me.  Graham and Chris knew me when I was so fucked up I couldn’t hide it, but since then, I’ve been a lot more closed.  And they had a tough time dealing with me.

I suppose to some degree I’ve been afraid.  I’ve seen the effect my negative emotions can have on people, and it’s powerful and terrible.  Like that time I screamed in the play, and opened my eyes to everyone staring at me.  If I express myself completely, I suddenly wake to have ruined someone.  I’ve had multiple boyfriends tell me “You’re not a terrible person, but you do terrible things.”

 

But no one ever does terrible things to me.  No one breaks my heart.  No one makes me cry.

No one stands up to me.

And it’s lonely.

Figs and Joy

I am so happy today!  I am at home, cleaning my disgusting apartment while being watched my cat, and life couldn’t be better.  Tonight, I’m going into Berkeley to sleep in Sarah’s bed which will be fantastic.

My fig tree has ripened.  The first thing I ate today was this huge, sweet fig – bigger than any I’ve ever purchased in a store.  It was so beautiful!  All that time I spent tending to my fig tree, despite my various fuck ups and mistakes, has paid off!  You don’t need to be perfect about these things, just good enough.  I was good enough.

I am listening to music on my speakers that my ex gave me, even though we were already broken up at the time.  They are unique.

Last night, I hung out with a completely random group of people and had a great time!  Some of them were from Sweden, which reminded me of Rebecca, which was good.  Sweden is colder than San Francisco, apparently.

I got randomly emailed by some babe on OKC which was exciting, and fairly rare.

My cat has been biting me in this really affectionate way.  I love being bitten!  Lightly, anyway – it gives me the tingles.  She’s particularly good at it, because her teeth are so pointy, but she never does it so hard it hurts.

I’m going to learn how to sail.  There’s a place in Redwood city that offers classes.  If I go out on the water more, I can figure out if I actually like boating enough to live on one.  I can also join their sailing club and go out with them on some of their various adventures, and perhaps meet people who can tell me more about boats.

The world is so full of possibility!  So many people to meet!  So many things to do!

It’s just like, sometimes you’re just there.  Doing your thing.  Watering your fig tree.  Passing time.  Not really sure if you’re doing it right, or if anything’s going to work.  Then one day, you get figs!

I have a few more plants right now.

My job is one of my plants.  Will it ripen like my fig tree, or whither like my chard?  I don’t know.  I have to wait.  But I have company, within my company, to help me pass the time.  It’s definitely not perfect, but it might be good enough.  It might get there.

My houseboat is my newest plant.  It’s not even really a plant yet – it’s just a packet of seeds.  I’m staring at the picture side of the packet daydreaming about what it will eventually be like.  Sometimes, I can hardly concentrate on anything I get so excited about the idea of having a houseboat.  And I know I’m idealizing it, and I know in a sense I’m being deeply foolish.  But, if I didn’t get so excited about it, maybe I’d never bother to do it.

Maybe I still won’t.

But, I might!  Today, anything seems possible.

Tomorrow will be ours!