imageMeet Pincushion, my new study/laptop/reading buddy. My sister sent him to me as a small souvenir from a Japanese botanical garden she visited up in Oregon. He is an adorable wee thing!

So why, might you ask, is his name the term for the unfortunate inanimate object that holds sewing pins? When I first squealed in delight at his small size as well as his lovely plumage pattern, my younger sister was the first to ask what his purpose was since her gift had been a distinguishable keychain – a slightly larger blue rabbit made with the same material but a different pelt pattern. Baffled, I considered a few ideas – well, one actually – a minute hackey sack. My younger sister however proposed the horrifying idea that he was originally intended to be a pincushion; I felt even more betrayed when my mom started to agree. Fortunately for the little owl, he will not suffer such a fate. Despite having escaped that destiny, the term stuck; I’d like to think he is laughing at his original fate by taking up such a namesake.

Curiously enough, he seems to be quite protective of the rising stack of books I have yet to read. Goodwill pricing beats any kind of retail clearance pricing!


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Being easily distracted has its benefits from time to time.

I wandered aimlessly around the front of my house and snapped some pictures with my iPhone; I played around with the filters because I thoroughly enjoy different color palettes. For some reason there were quite a few cars driving on the street today so I wouldn’t have been surprised if the passing drivers were amused to see me taking pictures at funny angles. Kids these days…


Front Yard “Session”


Focus your focus

How my mind works in 183 words.

Concentrate…concentrate. No time to check the time. Wait, what is that noise? Papers shuffling? The whirring of the noisy air conditioner? No, focus. Focus. Look at the notes. What have you written down? Nothing. No, not nothing. There. See? It’s 5:39…now it’s 5:40. It was most definitely the air conditioner.

Okay, now focus again. Notes, notes, notes. Read them now. Autorhythmicity, spontaneous cycles of depolarization and depolarization in these tissues results in a rhythm independent of external stimuli. Oh look, there is a parenthesized word (automaticity). Focus. Excitability, characeristic is both good and bad. Why are they both? Oh right, shades of gray, not black and white. More specifically, they can transmit arrythmias and other abnormalities.

The clock, the clock. It calls to me. Stop it. Stop looking at the clock. Why do I get so distracted so easily? Oh, how I wish I could just be whisked away from all of this! Ah, my sketchbook…finally, I have an idea of something phenomenal – monumental even – to put on paper and I have to focus on my focus.

Okay, come on now: concentrate.


Love. Listen. Repeat.

Sometimes you hate music, you think to yourself. It woos you, calls out to you, encourages you to come closer. But for what gain?

Some songs pull you down into its abysmal, slippery depths and it becomes difficult to dig yourself out of that hole. When you finally do save yourself, you realize that it was your fault – you had put yourself in that hole in the first place and you had allowed yourself to be consumed by that haunting melody, those sickly sweet notes. When the mess inside your head finally starts to settle down – fragile paper snowflakes inside an even more fragile snow globe – you ask yourself over and over again: Why did I do that to myself?

You have the answer to that question too – you want to wallow in self pity, in love lost, in words never spoken. You want to feel that aching pain bubble up from your abdomen into the very core of your chest, into the very being of your heart. People ask you why you would want to do that to yourself: Doesn’t it hurt? Doesn’t it defeat the purpose of moving on? Do you enjoy feeling this way?

Yes, it hurts – it aches, it belittles, it cuts too. Perhaps in this pitiful state of mind, it allows you to feel something. You reason that if you feel this misery, it means that at one point you truly did care. And is it not better to have cared than to have never cared at all?

But being the hypocrite that you are, now you do not care. You smile blithely. Both your voice and laughter have grown still, caught in the back of your throat. The laughter you do bestow so graciously upon others mocks their failures and the voice you do decide to grant to others curses those who have more fortunate lives. You do not shed tears for the struggles of the ones who mean the most to you; you have your own problems too. You do not care if it cuts too deep or if you cut others too soon. You do not care if someone else is feeling miserable because you love the company. You view the world as harsh and unforgiving. You hate to open up your eyes to the garish light of the sun because it just means that you have to get through another day. You do not care if it becomes a vicious cycle because the songs you listen to encourage you to be this way.

This goes on for days which turn into weeks which turn into months…until finally, one day, a new song floats into your mind by some random chance.

It speaks to you in volumes even more so profound than those excruciatingly depressing songs you kept on repeat. It speaks of loneliness in the sense of being comfortable in the confines of your mind. It speaks of love in the sense of loving yourself wholeheartedly as there is no greater love than self-love.

You actually feel the corners of your mouth curve upward, beginning to form a smile. Sometimes you love music, you think to yourself.