Makeup =identity.

Self-perception is a funny thing.

The party line: define yourself.
Be yourself.
Be true to yourself.
Don’t betray your roots (but if you’re a girl, go ahead and touch them up).
Find yourself.
Don’t lose yourself.

We’re pelted with little cheerful and helpful messages by these blowguns spitting little wadded up projectiles from self-help books.

But then we sometimes have these strange opportunities to see ourselves like others see us.

If others see us in a way we don’t wish to see ourselves, does that invalidate our search for self? Or does it just make it that much more pressing?

Do we get to blow spit-and-paper bullets back?

What if the person who stares back at us from the mirror and in photographs and funny stories and family accounts turns out to be a stranger?

Don’t forget yourself: life is made up of separate and unique moments, but they can all be stitched together with Photoshop.

Do I need a reason to share a bit of pretty?
I’m going to go with, “no.” But just in case you need words to accompany your pictures around these here parts, think of the moon: is it possible to be indifferent to it?
I’m sure it is, but physics agrees with me: because of its close proximity to earth, the moon has a small but significant gravitational pull over bodies of water– we call this phenomenon, tides.

We are bodies made of water. The moon affects us even if we believe ourselves immune to that power.

And sometimes, quite inexplicably, we feel that pull. Strongly.

Watch out for that full snow* moon coming up. You might feel a pull.

_________

*Native Americans used to call this upcoming moon the full snow moon. Because, apparently, it used to snow around here in winter.

Hah.

One of the works we saw was by Minor White and titled simply “Sequence 4.”

We stared politely and then the professor urged us to comment.

Staring back at us was a series of images featuring long, narrow crevices; things that looked long, and narrow; hard surfaces; things that looked splattered and smeared.

Holes, holes, holes.

Do you have any guesses as to the nature of his work? I think refrigerator bulbs were being turned on across the auditorium, slowly but steadily. (Click here for a hint.)

But there was nary a peep.

There is a weird politeness that permeates an environment minutes or seconds before somebody blurts something that society perceives as inappropriate.

And then there is a release, and the inappropriateness comes gushing out and we can all explode together in shock and laughter.

I can only imagine there is a similar release when you reveal a small or big truth about yourself.

Thank goodness life tends to happen to us all in spite of ourselves, because otherwise I would spend more time than is dignified in the fetal position, hugging my knees and wondering where I could better hide so as to avoid pain, irritation, and further humiliation.

But my self-doubt –ever-present, unwelcome, and comfy like a hairshirt– keeps me honest, I suppose. And sometimes I can break away from it a little bit.

I can do this.

I can take a picture that speaks (even if it’s just to me), and one that I can go back and look without feeling that pit-of-the-stomach nausea that insincerity can bring about.

I can have moments where things make sense; where the process can be tangible and beautiful; and where, much like with a grand old staircase from long ago, things build upon themselves and my feet feel secure and I can sprint upstairs and simply feel the joy of defying gravity a few inches at a time.

But gravity makes you work for every inch– and how.

She was probably thinking, "Now I totally know how Brad and Angie feel." Or something.

Some days are easier to chronicle.

They just kind of jump onto your lap in all their dramatic glory.

They beg you, PLEASE TELL MY STORY! LOOK! I AM TOTALLY A RAINY DAY AND IT’S DRAMATIC AND YOU CAN TAKE A PICTURE AND OMG! (rainy days are very much Valley girls– ask them next time)

But some days aren’t as easy to peg down.

Their essence –their very hours and minutes– escape you. Maybe you live them in a drunken haze or a lazy stupor. Maybe you’re so busy you forget to draw breath and the day escapes you altogether.

Maybe the day starts earlier and earlier every time, and by the time you hit your stride, it’s over.

But when they are easy to grasp, it’s good to grasp them and appreciate them before they, too, are gone and ungraspable, forever.

January 6, around 7:19 am.

Seventeen hours: that’s how long my days tend to be, give or take.

They are not always that long, and sometimes they are that long by choice.

But seldom do I get to live a day as intensely as I did today, and I place the blame squarely on the sunrise.

If this sunrise were an actor, he’d definitely be a Paul Newman type: impossibly dazzling and with good longevity, and without that cloying arrogance that suits so few.

Let’s face it: many days start off lanky, boyish and kind of anemic-looking and then develop that strange face-bloat around noon that just leaves you cold– I am looking at you, Leonardo DiCaprio. And unless it turns out to be a Ben Affleck kind of day, where the bloat which had set in seems to disappear magically when true love seems to appear, that’s kind of a weird day to be stuck in and no way you’re getting an Oscar for it.

I usually aim for weird, but I believe I may have outdone myself this time.

It's always spring around here. You know, when people have already given up on resolutions and move on to taking pictures of nature being slutty.

So the year starts and our minds, freshly unhungovered (or, in my case, fresh off an excellent night’s sleep, as I was lame and did not stay up to send 2011 on its merry way) turn to attempting to start the year off right. A friend recently commented on Facebook about the beehive-like buzz of activity at the local gym: how the people who resolved to become leaner and more taut and sexy and thin crowd the gym and don’t ask for help when using the equipment.

When you don’t ask for help, you are bound to fail. And so the cycle of the resolutions starts: you start off with good intentions but do not avail yourself of help. You hurt or overtax yourself. The resolution –not you, never you– becomes the enemy.

You stop. You fail.

If you read this, I need your help. Help me keep blogging. I blog for myself, but, let’s face it: I hope someone will read it, too. That’s where you come in. If you read, say hello! Tell me you think I’m clever and witty; also, feel free to tell me I suck, if that’s your opinion. Entreat me to visit your blog. Tell me I sound like I should be writing with a quill pen. Tell me whiny entitled lady-rantings don’t appeal to you. Tell me this blog makes me look fat. Tell me my pictures are either gorgeous, or that they suck.

But for the love of the people tearing ligaments as we speak at the local gym, please: I ask you to help me stay motivated in this whole writing bit. Say something!

PS: Behold the beauty of my favicon! (A favicon is the little logo you see next to the URL in the address bar.)

May this resolution make it to the New Year.

I would love it if you said hello– won’t you?

Instead, I’ve had slightly more crooked teeth thence, four strange bumps along the backs of my gums, and a little more room in my jaw. But it’s more fun to visualize four dentin-inclined pals trolling about lo these many years, with the sudden realization that they no longer need to bum cigarettes off other rejected wisdom teeth.

Yes, I routinely have those strange thoughts that meander: what I really mean is that it’s been eighteen years since I had my wisdom teeth pulled. I have been separated from those parts of my body for a stretch of time that, by many people’s standards, is considered a long enough period of life. Or, you know, at least a period long enough to decide you want to poison yourself slowly with nicotine, legally. Or vote. Or enlist voluntarily in the armed forces, for either your own betterment or to pursue an exciting career in defending the country/getting to shoot guns/possibly dying pointlessly.

The older kid –Herr Meow for the longtime readers– has started to get excited about the possibility of losing teeth. For him, the possibilities of molting his cute little bone shards and deriving an income from so doing seem endless. There is nothing but fun associated with those teeth and the strange knowledge that they must part. There will be no surgery and no crowding; and even if there are some tiny woes associated with his adult teeth coming in –the pain of chewing food with a loose tooth; the eerie sensation of feeling your teeth moving; having to have a stubborn one pulled out with a little help; or, gasp, accidentally swallowing a just-lost tooth– the experience is overall a happy one.

Getting and shedding teeth when you’re a kid is exciting. You get money. You get peer recognition: showing off those gaps becomes a special bragging session.

Losing teeth as an adult or almost-adult is an object lesson in the many ways that adulthood faithfully promises to suck.

Wisdom tooth extraction usually requires general anesthesia.

A skilled surgeon with years of training takes a hammer and a drill to your jaw– miniature versions of construction/destruction equipment.

The teeth are usually smashed to bits in order to be extracted.

It’s important to get the bits out: any pieces of tooth left behind can become a person’s worst enemy.

Swelling and infection can ensue.

Also, one of the scariest two-word combinations in all of the English language can happen: dry sockets.

The large pieces of gauze left behind where there were teeth are not worthy of being shown.

Perhaps the most thrilling part of the experience is the drugs, or well…. some of them: my stomach could not handle the Vicodin’s nausea waves.

(I’m told I missed out on some fun times. Don’t worry about me– Valium was plenty exciting.)

Poor wisdom teeth. Poor all of us who have to have them removed. There’s a death of innocence moment for you.

When they turn 21, I’m looking my teeth up and buying them a beer.

It dares you to pull it open.

Yes, this space does not get updated often anymore. But here– I got you this bright red ribbon. Now, doesn’t that make it all better?

I’m not sure what it is about the color red that brings happiness and danger to life. Scientists would simply argue that it’s nothing but the wavelength of the color that stimulates the brain and make it take notice.

Dangerous things are red.

Mouths are red.

Ruby slippers are red.

Target is red.

Figurative hearts and real blood, red, red.

And so, red. The color commands attention.

And we all need attention. Some of us, desperately so.

But really, all of us do. We all should wrap ourselves in a big red sash and not wait to be opened up; but instead, peel our layers back and enjoy the gift and the surprise of being.

Just please don’t make this an invitation to strip in public. I mean, go ahead– just don’t tell anyone I told you to do it; I’m not encouraging you.

But if you’re going to do it anyway, please let us know so we can go and watch.

And point.

And giggle.