I have lots of old love letters, They were not written to me, nor did I write them. They are letters written by my parents to each other while my dad was in the service writing from places like Kansas and my mom was responding, writing from the stoop of the apartment building she lived in with her parents in Washington Heights in New York City. They are sweet and naive, letters that can only be written before dreams were lost, forgotten, shattered, or maybe just woken up to reality.

I’m waking this blog up.

I dye every day. I can’t help it. My fingernails are forever stained with tannin and rust.

Years ago, I used to pack things up- all my supplies so I couldn’t work. I threw away things I made, things I might have kept. Now I keep everything.

Hello again