"...and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible;
but adorable to walk with on a morning like this."

virginia woolf
mrs. dalloway


image: jerry yoon photography

last night. in 140 characters {more or less}

so last night i twittered: subtle, quiet relief. suddenly saw things in a different light & no one knows but me. not sure how i'll feel tomorrow..but somehow it's ok.

then later i wrote.. 4:28am. sometimes people let you down.

and then.."arrange whatever pieces come your way." virginia woolf

followed by.."life is in between the trapeze bars" helen keller

then..and tonite it was time for plan b.

and finally...."one of the great discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do." henry ford

oh ya, then i posted the post before this one, that says..



......and so goes any typical day {or late night} in the life of moi, up - down - twittering - around the corner - and back again for more.


images: 1}leigh, jkldesigns 2} julia galdo 3} debi treloar 4} katya de grunwald

dear abby

robyn glaser

i confessed to abby, one of the 12 year old girls that i tutor in writing, that i'd never finished reading the book island of the blue dolphins {that was back in 4th grade, mind you} she looked at me in disbelief, "you mean you never found out what happened to her?!" abby was reading the book again {on her own accord} for a second time. she proceeded to pull a copy of the book out of her bag, "i have two, you take this one so you can read it again and finish it" and she put it on the table in front of me. and so, i will be reading island of the blue dolphins. the whole thing this time. i'd say i learned my lesson, but really, the reason i so firmly remember not finishing the book, lies in the fact that this was when, at a young age, i discovered my own reading style. i don't generally read for the story, i read for the words, the crafting of the sentences, and if i can't get something out of almost every sentence, i'm often not compelled to continue reading it. and if i do get something out of almost every sentence {virginia woolf!!}, i read each sentence over and over, and forget what was happening in the story. this sort of reading i like to call métro reading, as i often read the same book in the métro {mostly virginia woolf} because i could get distracted, the lights could do that momentary dimming thing then come back on and i'd be right back on enjoying the same sentence. {hmm..writing this now, i hesitate to wonder if this could potentially be deemed a.d.d. reading, but i dismiss this thought, because i do in fact concentrate on every word, often getting lost in the rhetoric somewhere under the streets of paris...}


julia galdo

anyway. i'm in the middle of maybe 15 books and enjoy them all in their own moment. this is not to say that i never read books for the story, and that i never finish, because on occasion i do both. but all through high school and college as a dramatic art and english major, i don't recall finishing many books. one night i had a paper due the next morning on shakespeare's love's labour's lost, and though i'd acted in it, i'd never fully read the text {but talk about a writer whose every line can stand alone} so, at about 2am i decided to write the paper on the placement and meaning of the apostrophes in the title. we proceeded to spend the entire next class researching and discussing the importance of the apostrophe in this play's title and the professor was very pleased. this was more of a creative attempt to get that paper written without finishing -- or even starting -- the reading process, and it was a time issue more than anything, as i adore shakespeare and getting lost in his sentences... and really, i've seriously been know to take interest in the use of apostrophes... but this is neither here nor there.


julia galdo

i just have the image of abby handing me the book and i was so enthralled and delighted with the fact that there's a 12year old out there who reads for pleasure, who doesn't live to spend every free moment on that wii thing, who adores writing as much as i do, and who {as i came to discover} reads multiple books at once and enjoys them all in their moment. we both believe that we get something different from the same books every time we read them. when abby and i work together, i sit across the table from her in the cafe where we meet, and i see myself in her, and know exactly how the spinning mind in that shy, genuine, sweet head is mulling over the details and the fantasy, the spectacle and wonder of everything that dances before her in her reality and plays in the imagination....but anyway, i should go, i have another book to read...

"I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in."

v i r g i n i a w o o l f

edged with mist

I’ve been experiencing sometimes debilitating, chronic, nearly daily headaches for the past two years. Like for instance, in this moment, 4h30 in the morning and unable to sleep because the headache is so great. But if I lay in bed trying to sleep, the pain is all the more apparent. I need distraction. So I’m sitting in the dark, my computer screen is at its dimmest, and I have my big, dark Tom Ford sunglasses on... (so I look gooood, haha just kidding ) often writing takes some of my attention from the pounding in my head. Sometimes I’m able to just sleep...but tonight, I’m bored, restless. As always I walk around the house in my sunglasses, put a sweatshirt hood over my head, listen to my migraine play list, and take two Fioricet every five hours.

"...and he could be intolerable, he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this." Mrs. Dalloway

My doctor says it’s been medically proven that thinking of happy moments and memories will help lessen the pain (of the headache, au moins) and so I search for instances where I’ve truly felt happy, warm, hopeful even, a thought, perhaps, with a strength that can take me away..and often you come to mind.. and for a breath or two, I find some level of peace within my grasp.

"...when we sit close we melt into each other with phrases... we are edged with mist." The Waves

As a consolation through this, I happened to discover that Virginia Woolf also suffered debilitating headaches. I sincerely believe her work is brilliant, genius down to the last word she wrote. Every sentence she crafted means something to me, each and every word, even out of context, brings me pleasure, inspiration, admiration; speaking to me, with eloquence and sentiment from another place and time, the very thoughts that clutter my mind; the precision with which her words casually flow off the page lulls me into another world, and gives me hope in the prospects of my continued pursuit of writing.

“...in a sunset mood of benignant reminiscence, which it would have been hard to disturb had there been need.” Night and Day

And in the end, she did fill her pockets with rocks and walk into the river to rid herself and her loved ones of the burden they all endured (she suffered from more than headaches). A meditated relief from the struggle. I’m looking to write a different ending for myself, but I suppose we must wait and see where life takes us. Until then I relish her words and with them I find my escape. Modestly I wish to one day, possess even one hundredth of her talent in expression, her agility and tenderness, her subtle ability to weave words into phrases that run together by accident and calculation, creating moments of elevated meaning and discovering the compliments and contradictions amongst which such words were destined to wander.

"...for they might be parted for hundreds of years, but suddenly it would come over her, if he were here with me now, what would he say? Some days, some sights bringing him back to her calmly, without the old bitterness; which perhaps was the reward of having cared for people; they came back in the middle of St. James park on a fine morning." Mrs. Dalloway

je réfléchis

“The charm, which he had tried to disown, when under the effect of it, the beauty, the character, the aloofness, which he had been determined not to feel, now possessed him wholly; and when, as happened by the nature of things, he had exhausted his memory, he went on with his imagination.”

Virginia Woolf, Night and Day