True happiness is not wanting anything.

Keep it Up!

My life is perfect.

–imperfections included, this little ball of blossoms tick-ticking away in little floats and little blossoms from the sweetest little trees of Spring are nothing more than my same little seconds floating away; blossoms tick-ticked off, and blossoms gone.

My life is so, so perfect.

*     *     *

An over-flowing bowl of fresh veggies, avocado and spinach bolani bought from the farmers market. A half-full bottle of Black Toad dark ale to go with it. Iron & Wine playing in the background. Wearing my favorite jammies in all the world: yellow “wish” sweats, and of course I.’s flannel. It’s 8:30pm.

Love. In. my. Heart.

What an amazing, simple thing just caring for someone is. To care about someone; To know someone cares about you.

Satisfying work! A challenging, forgiving, creative, and flexible job. Great coworkers. Mostly self-sufficient now, lunch with my manager, lunch with the VP of Marketing – possibilities await.

A new book to read. Tooth-deep in Stendal’s The Red and the Black – yum.

My iPhone finally synced with my work calendar – the joy! The horror! The joy! The horror!

A man. Walking home. With bag and bottle. I watch.

Words, here, at my disposal: Toothpick verbs and fat slobbery bricks of noun. A big, open lake, winking lights. And a birthday – another testament to not being yet dead! – is fastly approaching, and with it the knowledge — the cold hard fact — that with every passing year of my life, I love life more as it passes.

*     *     *

I cannot be sure I’m not in love with my ex-boyfriend. In fact, I’m certain I am, but it doesn’t matter, does it? He is gone. Only love remains.

My cat is dead. My brother is dead. My best friend is dead. My grandmother is dead. My grandfather is dead. My friend is dead. 29 years’ worth of  old selves – all dead. Everyone I know is getting older; Everyone I know is inching closer to death.

My beautiful bouquet has wilted. My freewrites go unwritten. My one-woman-show goes un-performed.

I have people at my back who believe in me. I, miraculously, believe.

*     *     *

I have So Much. I have Sunshine. I have Home. I have Life — freshly born, freshly served –every, fucking, second. I have Death, arching around my memory, curving around every living hour, and I am grateful for it.

I wake, and I am grateful.

Who do I thank for all this perfection? Who? Who do I throw myself before, en-knee, promising absolute devotion? Who do I honor? Before what God do I bow: humble, naked, pure, worshiping, grateful, grateful, grateful?!

I don’t have an answer, and so, to every person I meet, to every person I pass by, to every person that is: I will imagine it’s you.

…post

Hike. Beautiful. Art. Bridge. Family. Love. Celebration. Sing. Children. Rest. Gentle with self. Sunshine. Early bed:

(Happy 50th, Don.)

My cat died and I am sad.

I have a new friend: Esme

[Big ups to I.G. for the name]

Esme looks at herself in the mirror

“Hi Shannon:

We are pleased to offer you a spot in our level I troupe. Training starts on next Thursday – March 11th.”

Today I auditioned for an improv troupe training!

There is nothing more common than unhappy people. Do the world a favor and ruthlessly, relentlessly, uncompromisingly run after what makes you happy –and never turn around to look back.

Amazing how, day after day, I manage to love more — humanity, the world, myself, and this strange, fluid substance we call life.

Thank you to everyone out there: you are included.

Slinky’s on! Easy Bay style.

Get your creative mojo going.

Bring a poem, a doodle, a song, a performance, needlepoint, a watercolor, found art, an idea. Anything that inspires.

Saturday, March 20th
Noon:30-5ish
Lake Merritt, Oakland.

For an “official” invite, comment here or email me.

(Want to learn more about Slinky?)

I know this guy who was dating this girl named pandora. But he broke up with her because eveyone told him not to go near her box.

Happy birthday, Elizabeth.

It’s funny how two blogs are just too much for one girl.

I started a “creative blog” with a few other friends — the idea to get ourselves to do one simple, creative thing a day. The funny thing is, I had already promised myself to post on NKS everyday… and we see how well that’s going (I give myself a B+)

I wonder, though, what one’s Recommended Daily Dose of creativity is. Can one overdose on too much art? Bet it’s happened before. Especially with that living-savant-garde*-performance-art shit.

The thing is, the more creative things I do in a day — be it writing, taking pictures, or even trying something funky with the outfit — just makes my life… better. Happier. More… like art. Art imitating life. Life imitating art.

My goal is to get to the point where you can’t tell the difference.

* “savant-garde” meaning: brilliantly innovative art… or, “don’t do experimental art stupidly”

The Power of the Brand as Verb in the NY Times, for your naming pleasure.

…Another busy Monday, another uneventful post.

Still here.

Valentine’s weekend: check. Next up: slinky, St. Paddies, and turning 29.

Foggy morning. Jasmine tea. Reading chair. Freewrites at Peet’s. Brazilian dance. Fog clears. iPodding. Hummos lunch. Alone time. Panda brings an orchid. Panda time. Walk around the lake. Saxophone. Cherry blossoms. Ambling couple. She: “How come you didn’t pick me no flowers?” Jumping into action: “Oh, here man, I gotcha covered.” He: “You saved my ass! Thank you.” Laughs. Kisses. Get dressed up for a dive. Head-sized burrito. X-mas lights. Fake flowers. Corona toasts. “To Germany!” (And to Chris). Take a movie in. Cucumber water. Cozy. Best friend.

Now that’s what I call a perfect Valentine’s.