Probably right, maybe wrong.

Had a most thought-provoking night thus far.
Whiling away the evening on my porch with "The Fountainhead," my skull-covered journal and my orange haiku/tanka notebook, I watched my neighbor and landlord working in their yards - and realized some things about myself.

And, when I came in and looked at the mail sitting on my desk - a cable bill and a booklet entitled "Bridal Bells" from a local jeweler - I realized some more things as I leafed through the blue book with shiny diamonds and sweet little sayings like:

"The icing to this perfect day"

and

"Sometimes love begins with a glance"

- I'll probably never be someone who relishes the feel of my hands digging in cold, fresh dirt, no matter how much I adore the scent of freshly-churned earth.


- I'll probably never feel the cold metal of a one-carat emerald-cut bauble I won't settle for less for.


- I'll probably never understand how people have a home they take care of themselves because they own it. (Clearly the words of a perpetual renter who can just call her landlord she affectionately calls "Mr. Roper.") (Plus, sometimes they feed me. Pizza. And sometimes ice cream cake.)


- I'll probably never be a really good singer. (This has already been proven true.)


- I'll probably never dance in my newly cleaned and spacious attic like I say I want to, despite taking ballerina lessons when I was 5ish, and clearly being a star Sugar Plum. (Nor will I ever be as graceful.)


- I'll probably never not paint my nails like a 5-year old.


- I'll probably never get tired of savoring a nicely chilled glass of bourbon whilst in complete and utter solitude in the midst of the noises of my neighborhood.


- I'll probably ... but maybe I'm wrong.

Visions from my haven.

Despite its lack-of-warmth and the perpetual noise/stomping from downstairs {tonight's another loud one}, I adore my apartment.

I knew from the moment I walked up the steep stairs into it we were meant to be.
It's bright, airy and long, reminding me of a San Francisco home.
{I love San Francisco.}

We've been together for four years and just over eight months, and I absolutely love having this place be my haven.

I've written here.
I've loved here.
I've cried here.
I've laughed here.
I've grown into who I want to be here.

I've done all that among these things:




{Above: My saving grace in the morning, or how I make my hot green tea. Yes, that is a fabulous mustard-colored stove. I've now lived in two consecutive places that had the same color stove.}

{Above: If you don't know, Steve McQueen was the coolest S-O-B on earth. Recognize.}

{Above: I curl up here a lot to read and/or journal. That afghan was made by Mommalah's aunt, Sister Gabriel.}

{Above: This girl's a Lion/Stegmaier girl through and through.}


{Above: My blessed Organaire, which doesn't get played as often as its gloriousness deserves. The book includes, but is not limited to, "Silent Night," "On Top of Old Smoky," the Italian folk song "Vieni Sul Mar" and many other songs I absolutely cannot play. One day I'll rock out with my Organaire out, you just wait.}

{Above: I collect Things of Green Glass, mostly ashtrays. Came across these candlesticks at an antique shop on the way to Lycoming Mall. Peeking out of the right side is the Sirius I cannot live without.}

{Picked up this Pagan wind chime in the fabulous Emporium of Curious Goods in fabulous Jim Thorpe.}

And finally, the mother load:



Fin.