Guilty

This quiet hell. This shattered frame. Never picture perfect, never once.
Unbelieved.
Who ever believed,  
Ever? Was it just me?

I started down this road, alone, yes, yet responsible. I was not afraid. I wondered at the seeds falling, spiraling down from the trees, from the sky. Some were weeds. I turned my face to the sun and believed. I believed it would be a good walk, a good path. I chose well. I deserved it. I earned it. Didn't my suffering earn me some peace - a good, calm walk?

So much happiness lay ahead. Striding along with such purpose, such immature resolve. All our simple needs were met. We were happy and confident. We laughed. I measured progress and knew exactly where we were going. I wondered at the seeds drifting by. The birds made me smile. It was good. It was a good life and that was good enough.

I am lost on this journey. I lost the path. I cannot find my special place. I lost the goodness, lost the hope. I lost the belief that I had suffered enough, that suffering earned me peace. I was punished for this belief. I was too proud and the gods paid attention to me. I enjoyed too much. I believed without question. I looked up too often. I forgot to watch where I was going and so lost my way. Now, the seeds blur my vision. The birds make a racket. They mimic car alarms and clock alarms and harsh, mechanical tools. Have these city birds, too, lost their way?

I am in unfamiliar territory, this quiet hell. But, I am too dramatic. Hell on earth belongs to those who truly suffer, not to those who despair in a shuddering loss of hope. That isn't good enough for hell. I wasn't good enough. I failed. I got lost.

I cannot find my special place. I don't know where I belong. My steps are uneven, unsure. My steps don't take me anywhere. I think I'll just sit down.
I think I'll just sit down and stay here for awhile. Can I make this spot my special place? I want to run away but do I just stay here, unmoving, without hope or progress? Can I just sit in disbelief? Will seeds enough twirl and fall and float by on their purposeful path? Please tell me the call of a hopeful bird, one who has found it's way, can reach me here.

A New Direction

(A private joke between me and Sarah. I jet that phrase but it's appropriate here.)

I'm announcing a re-purposing of Pretty Cat Flower. I'm not sure exactly what the format is going to be but I am going in (see title above).

The thing is, I just want to write. That was the original purpose of this blog anyway - to get my writer's mind working again. I loved the mail project. It was fun and I still use the good ol' USPS every week. But, after our last big family trauma, I somehow lost my steam over it. I'm tired. The mail blog was an outward expansion of self towards friends and community. I want to turn inward for awhile. I intend to try to find that balanced place where I stay energized, excited and productive without putting too much pressure on myself to show results. I have enough to stress over without creating artificial deadlines and made-up reader expectations.

I was recently asked to submit a sample blog to the Huffington Post's new wedding blog - HuffPost Weddings. It was an awesome opportunity and an invitation I took very seriously. I struggled with what I wanted to say before finally submitting a weak and watery version of a 'basically, most bride's suck' blog entry. The editor asked me to flesh it out a bit with actual anecdotes and examples of the kind of behavior that makes me rant and rave and swear off weddings (over and over, again and again).

I wanted to do it. I had plenty to say. But how can we be a working, full-service florist - still doing weddings! - and also publish negative, bitter, angry posts about our customers? It's simple. We can't. Still, I couldn't believe I might let this opportunity pass me by. Haven't I always, always, ALWAYS wanted to be a writer??? Since as far back as I can remember? A poet, a travel writer, an interviewer, a lyricist? It has been my one, consistent childhood dream. Now a respected and popular news and entertainment site has invited me to hang out and I'm just going to say "Sorry, I think I'm busy that night"? Really? Don't I have to go for it, even if it means writing floofy balls of truffle fluff? I thought I did. Jen and I decided that, for the health of our business, I would write as 'Florabella' and relate goofy, sappy, happy tales of positive wedded and wedding bliss. That was our plan.

In the end, I couldn't do it. I tried. I did. I struggled and bungled and dragged myself through the mucky waters of my bad ideas and terrible writing. I just couldn't do it. I don't think I'm too cool and principled to write sap. I think I'm just horribly embarrassed by my crappy, stupid, juvenile writing. It could also be that I am so burnt-out on brides that I can't even summons a semblance of positivity in the telling of a wedding tale. If it's boring even for me I pity my poor reader. This is sad because I do love the actual floral work of the wedding. Unfortunately, with the flowers comes the bride but that's a story for another day. Keep your eyes open for our post-Florabella, Nanny Diaries-style floral culture expose. Winky face.

I sent the HuffPost Weddings editor an email tonight telling her I didn't have anything to contribute to her project but thanking her for her interest. I was a tiny bit encouraged that she hadn't initially rejected me outright but instead asked for a rework of my first submission. I mean, that's a good sign, right? If she didn't see any potential in my writing she could have just said 'Thanks. I'll get back to you' or 'Thanks, but HA!' or not responded at all. Instead, she asked me to work on it and send it again. I'm taking that as a clue that I can write, even just a little, and if a wedding blog isn't the venue for me, so what. I am not going to give up on this dream of mine. In some form or fashion I am going to write. I am.

I have these interviews stuck in my head. Do you know what writer's do? They are insecure and terrified every time a new draft goes out. They write, they re-write, they scrap the whole thing and start over. They cut out, and let go of, their favorite parts. They send their work off to their editors and then curl up on the floor, waiting in agony, until word comes back. It's a process and an obsession and a mind-fuck and thinking I suck cannot be reason enough not to write since that insecurity seems to be part of the game. I love the agony, I love the possession and I think I'm finally ready. I'm taking the leap - after I go curl up on the floor for awhile.

Grandma Patti

Grandma Patti sent me a letter the other day. She wrote about things that have troubled her lately, about a grief group she's been attending, about the long-ago death of her first child. She said she always wished she had a diary to help her work through this stuff but wasn't comfortable leaving her thoughts laying around for anyone to see. I keep thinking about that. She's 86 and she's talking about something she's always wanted and still doesn't have. This easy thing. This reachable, achievable want. It's got me thinking about the wants in my life. The difficult versus the easy and how silly it is, really, to not satisfy the wants that are accessible to us. I want to travel. I want to be fluent in French. I want my sugar skull frosting to be neither too thick nor too runny. I want to swim in the ocean more often. I want to be more accepting of, and less angry with, annoying people who annoy me. I want to write every day. I want to matter.


It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be to find Grandma a diary with a lock - which I determined would take care of her diary worries (although I still can't for the life of me think of what she wouldn't want people to know. In fact, I think it's high time you spill your guts, Grandma) Anyway, it turns out that most diaries with locks are intended for children. Imagine that! I just couldn't see Grandma rocking something like this:

 or this:

I finally found her a beautiful and elegant silver diary with a fabric cover and metallic gilded edges. It's gorgeous.

I hope she likes it. I hope she writes down her wants and wishes for herself and sets about to at least achieve the likely and the possible. I hope that for us all.

Hey Ho!

Hi Y'all if you still be out there...
Time to get this show on the road!
After a massive disruption of sorrow I'm ready to get back to my creative life. Mason is out and doing well so Let's go! 

I'm going to change up the requirements of this blog to take some pressure off myself and to try to maintain (elevate?) the quality of the posts. I'm sticking to the original concept because I actually use the U.S. postal system quite a bit. I'll be sad to see her go ....

(I was going to put audio to The Carpenters' Goodbye to Love as the new USPS theme song but got sucked into watching You Tube videos of Karen Carpenter. Too sad to make fun of. Now that's sad. I vow never to be too much of a sadsack to make fun of.)
See:

That's me with my brother, Ryan, circa 1978.

I'm the one in the plastic grass skirt.

Anyway, back to new rules for the blog blah blah, I will not be posting every day. Sorry folks, that was too much. I need time for yoga. And vodka-based cocktails.

Basil Martinis here 
and here
Lemon Thyme Coolers here
Moonglows here
Starlite Mules here
Jade Mistress' here


Oh and after all that drinkin

Yoga here

Namaste.

Let's call this a Super Spazz Out post in honor of my return to Pretty Cat Flower. I will get back to the original format with my next appearance. It's a doozy about grandmothers and aging and secrets kept and secrets shared. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll say "Where has Sarah been all this time with her brilliant ideas and clever links??!"

You will be amazed.

Sad and Scary Time

Mason has been hospitalized since April 14th. Well, actually, four dramatic hospitalizations with one day releases in between. We're still learning but I am amazed that mania and psychosis can last so long, even while on medication.

Poor, poor, poor Mason. What a heartbreak. I will never think the same way again about 'helpless'.
Or nightmare.
Or sorrow,
terror.

I don't need to get into that. I just wanted to say that all of my projects are on hold for now. I hope to start this blog up again, eventually, but my time and energy are consumed by my efforts to try to help Mason. Oh yeah, and working and taking showers and stuff. What a crock! What a shock to discover that when something like this happens you don't get to just curl up on the couch all day in your pjs, drinking wine and watching stupid movies. I can't believe we still have to go to our jobs and pay the mortgage and feed the dumb cats and take out the trash. No Free Pass. What a drag.

Oh yeah, I'm working on my attitude, too.


Peace, peace and stillness, Mason. Just breathe.

And now for some masochistic viewing pleasure:
A little blast from the long ago past.

Family Emergency

Jocelyn

Hot pink butterfly garland for Joci's bedroom. Where do we go from here?

p.s. Video better muted

If
I,
could I,
would I?
Would I wrap you up in hot pink foil?
Tuck you up inside my coat?
Keep you safe and warm and small
and close and safe? I'd keep you home.

Every year a new goodbye.
Every year - replacement you.
I miss my tiny little guy,
I miss my little cuties, too.

Keep it slow, just slow it down.
Think of all you have to lose.
Don't forget to turn around,
don't forget my love for you.

Denise & Baja Animal Sanctuary

Dear Denise,

Happy, Happy, Happy Day -

Sedona will be beautiful for you!

Happy Birthday!!!!!

To our friends at the Baja Animal Sanctuary,

You guys are awesome - you hear me?!

Thank you, sincerely, with all my heart, for what you do every day for the sad and friendless animals of Rosarito and beyond. You saw a need and you acted on it and nothing is more inspiring to me. I remember feeling such grief as a child when we would go to Baja and I would see those skinny, dirty, hungry little strays roaming around. I always wanted to bring one home. Dad - why didn't you let me?

Please accept this small gift as both a token of our appreciation for all you do and in honor of our beautiful, wonderful, loving dog Jack. He was the absolute heart and soul of our family for 15 years - we will never forget him.

A Good, Good Dog.

He has a package for you ... It's a Big One!

Sorry all, due to some sad family business I did not manage to get anything in the mail today.
I promise to mail two items tomorrow - am I still on track? Do I lose blogger points or something?

As a peace offering I give you this. Enjoy!

p.s. and when I say 'My Year of Going Postal' that is not what I've been up to.....

The Loose Use of Hero

In other news:
Monsters have mail needs, too.


Er, wait, that's males have monster needs.

Mindy & Eric

Stickers!
Sticker Art!
Hooray for Stickers!
Just ask anyone....

Shane

Abandoned house in Colorado.
Photographed by Sarah on an ill-fated trip.

Ripped out of my ''Portfolio''.


I miss rubber cement.

Santa

Dear Santa,
I only asked for one thing last Christmas, One Thing!!
Why won't you help my son???

I thought you were magical?
We need some magic in our lives right now.
Is it won't or can't because if you are unable to help us I will have to reevaluate my lifelong devotion to believing in you and in your fantastical abilities.

If it's won't then I can assume that your brand of assistance is not what he needs.

If it's can't then I'm not sure where to turn and I will not be looking forward to Christmas this year.
Love, Sarah

Amanda

Corby

Plastic

The Real McCoy


Grandma Jeri taught me how to blow eggs for Easter one year. It's my best memory with her - right before the shared delight of frozen lemon coolers.

Found these fancy, hand painted Easter eggs while cleaning out Casa de Roca. They were tucked way in the back of Grandma's closet, carefully protected in faded pink Sunnyslope Farms egg cartons. I think I found one I made when I was little but I may just be a wishin and a hopin. It would be like me to put tiny, little s's all over my design, though. One curious carton contained only plastic, yet still hand painted (?), eggs. Sending these to my cousin Corby for her adorable little girl. Hope they make it in time for Easter - not sure if she has the same memories I do but we all need a little piece of our family history hanging around, cluttering up the joint.

Grandad

Happy Birthday J.T. Hipp of Ninety Six, South Carolina!
Favorite joke:
Like so many desperate fellas in the crash of '29, every time the market went down Mr. Hipp would jump out of his office window. Good thing he worked on the first floor.
Happy 88th!
You've been so good to your grandson.

Orphans Preferred

Knikki

Drowning today. Thanks for reminding me that I can swim, the sun feels good on my face and sometimes, no matter what is going on, it's OK to just close my eyes and keep breathing. That much I can do.

Carolee Schneemann

Photo by Chris Buck

From RE/SEARCH #13 Angry Women

Kelly

 Me and Kelly in our band in an alternate universe. I call red shoes!

Vanessa Beecroft image cut from Art Now.

Yes.

CUT out of a BOOK.
Defilement!
What?! It was just sitting on my shelf!
Jeez.

But check these out:

Somewhere in another place and time I'm having fun rockin' out in my all-girl band.

Susan

This is a book called The Broken Wrist Project. The art on the cover is by Fabrizio Moretti - yes, That Fabrizio. You can find out more about the project here.

I sent this book to my mother-in-law because she is an artist, art lover and the most open-minded person I know. I'm curious to hear what she thinks about the book and, specifically, about the art.  I have tried to give this book away twice, without success. Not out of loathing, but because I'm cleaning and purging and passing things along. I think all books, art and music have a home in this world, somewhere. No matter the subject or alleged quality. It's simply a matter of finding the right audience. To each his own, and all that.

My friend Mark Murphy is mad at me right now because I said I like pretty art. He was instantly and viscerally offended by that, even though I didn't use any other descriptors. His reaction genuinely surprised me. I simply said that I would like a proposed mural outside of my flower shop to be 'pretty' and I guess to him that was like saying 'diarrhea fecal matter doodoo in your face.' Yikes! He actually stepped away from me when I said the word. Is 'pretty' Mark's kryptonite?

Check out his upcoming solo show, Plug ME, at Subtext on April 15th.
He may not like pretty, but he's no turkey.

Update:

Sarah : thanks for sharing : I am and never have been mad at you : I was not offended either, I think you may have taken out of context : the context was Do I know any artists who “do pretty.” I mentioned that I do not know mural painters or folks that paint in a pretty style, but contemporary : and in the day of good words, vibes and information to be shared, this is the truth and your blog not representing the whole picture : all best : mark murphy

Grandma

Excited to finally check out Brawley next Tuesday at The Riviera.
I'm intentionally barring myself from listening to them online or reading any reviews of the band so I can form an uninfluenced impression in person - except that they're named after my strange country of origin. I have to say, that alone is kinda' skewing me in a certain direction. The thing is, I've found that I love most live music. I can't help it! I fall for the effort, the energy, sincerity and bravery it takes just to get up on that stage and expose yourself in that way. I always feel like I'm watching my kids perform their hearts out in a school play or something. I've only hated a few bands live in the past few years (You know what you did, Minmae!) I'm sure next week will be a good time. I'll let Grandma know. Hey Brawley do you ever play in Brawley?

Valerie

Dear Val,

I was so sorry to hear about your mom. I want you to know that I am here for you if you need anything - Anything at all. I love you so much, Val! You are so important to me in this life. If there is Any Way I can ease your suffering right now please, please let me know. I have heard people talk about what it's like to lose both parents. I've heard it said that no matter how old you are you can't help but feel like an orphan when your parents are gone. I want to tell you this in case you feel alone with this idea. I hope I'm not out of line since I have no idea what I'm talking about. My main message is "I am here. I am here. I am here!" and "I love you, Val. My good friend, Val"

Netflix

Elizabethtown

This movie hung around our house for over a month. I kept reading the sleeve and wondering 'How did Orlando Bloom end up on my queue?'

I finally watched it yesterday when I was home alone. Time to move on and get some better movies in da haus.

Sarah's Orlando Bloom, Elizabethtown Movie Review:

I liked it.

But I really didn't.

It was slow and dragging.

I started texting.

I liked the music.

A lot.

And the scenery.

But the story was lame.

And ridiculous.

Then I started crying.

2 stars down. Sad face. Pickle sauce and no recommendations.

Then I realized it was directed by Cameron Crowe and decided it was a peaceful, meditative, genius, music video tribute to Kentucky.

Then I liked it.

High points:

• The music.
• The mere presence of Loudon Wainwright.
• The relationship between Cousin Jessie and his son Samson.
• Samson's scream. Impressive.

Low points:

• Stupid homemade suicide machine (I'm honestly scared someone will make this and try to kill themselves in that unbelievably gruesome way. Probably a tweaker. Come on, Cameron)
• Boner Bob.
• Terrible four-way phone conversation between Judy, Jessica, Kirsten and Orlando. That device is played out, brother.
• Dumb tap routine with uncomfortably, unreasonably long audience clapping.
• Bird on fire. Why???
• Orlando's steering wheel pounding.

Best line in the movie:

“You keep trying to break up with me and we're not even together.”

Worst line in the movie:

You know, there doesn't always have to be a best and a worst.

And now a word on 'The Map':

Even though it is Impossible for her to have put that elaborate map together in that time frame complete with music and photos and recommendations for stops for chili and cool bartenders, with drawings and voice recordings and her somehow timing things exactly to when the magazine article would hit the stands and when he would finally grieve the death of his father and, also, I seriously doubt she would be that music savvy nor would she be able to arrive at the Second Largest Farmer's Market in the World at the same time he did unless she was following him the entire trip – stalker freak - and yet Still! Wouldn't it be kinda cool if someone did that for you?

One man's stalker is another's manic, energetic, obsessive, fun loving, creative and devoted potential life mate!

With great taste in music.

My theory on the map is that she had been working on it for years just waiting for the right guy to come along.

Yeah, she's stalkery.

But, I'm just sayin'. I want a map like that.

Who Loves Stamps?

 People who love to send mail, that's who!