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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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gingerbread men and low self-esteem
Spent most of Saturday making cookies with my mother, Max, Selena, and SelenaMom. We made gingerbread cookies (little men, dinosaurs, rhinos, elephants, and reindeer) and sugar cookies (same shapes), spritz cookies (I call them, though I don't know if that's their right name--they're the cookies you can shoot out of a cookie gun), and walnut crescents (which are really Mexican wedding cookies, but it's probably less intimidating to call them walnut crescents). We make about three hundred cookies (at least). There were one-hundred and forty iced cookies alone. Everyone iced, but I did a lot because it didn't bore me or exhaust my creative icing juices. (there's a mixed metaphor for you.) Towards the end, I started to play around and really enjoy decorating the gingerbread people like little characters in things like grass skirts, bikinis, tube tops, etc., with little buck-teeth and big toothy grins. Also giving the elephants little toothy smiles really cheered me up, they looked so damn silly. It was a really long baking day ultimately, and after, Max, Selena, and I went out for Chinese food (Sel has to have the po-po platter in all its flaming-sterno glory each time we go, and this time she got an extra treat, as I let her have both BBQ'd ribs). Now she is spending the night, sleeping on the couch, having insisted as she always does that the bathroom light be left on for her. So, I got online to check mail, etc., but also because I wanted to write in this diary. I wanted to say something which was keeping me awake, but now that I'm here, I can't think of what it was--or can't articulate it enough to type out into this tiny little box. I know it has something to do with cleaning the bookshelves (Damn shelves!) and that ultimately its related to the personal diaries/writing/jounal entries that I've been coming across--I think it's that I seem to have squandered some part of my life that those journals record, some part that I'm never going to get back, that I wasn't sure I needed, but now I'm not so sure that I can't live without. I seem to be at an all-time creative low at this point in my life, and though I can trace this back to all sorts of origins (switching to a science-based education, having no time/energy to nurture my creative side and all that crap), I can't seem to fix it. Maybe I don't want to fix it. Maybe I should just mourn it, let it go. Right. That's not going to happen, but I need to start doing things that bring me 'round to it again. (It being some creative thinking, activity, etc.) I don't want to lose this part of myself. I can't afford to lose this part of myself. I can't let decorating gingerbread men at christmas become my only creative outlet.
More lies:
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