1. Thomas- is this a family name? I like the way is sounds when I say it. Do really gay people with lisps say your name funny? Wonder what your name sounds like from a person who stutters.
2. Your 33? I’m older than you! = (
3. I long to live in Portland
5. Sometimes I can be an ignorant intolerant cunt.
6. Thistle & Weeds (Live) by Mumford & Sons off of iTunes Live: London Festival '09 - EP is bloody brilliant and much longer than the cd version.
7. Life hands me storms all the time and I just don’t want to be remembered for all the bad things I went through. Plus I just need to have hope and try to be positive. I have a great capacity to love and have that love be felt and spread. Sorry I’m not as eloquent or as coherent as you are. = )
1. Thomas is a family name. The first of my family on my dad’s side to settle in the New World had this name (and you can find his grave in Rowley, MA). In fact, my entire name is an amalgamation of family names. This has often caused me some anxiety - like the entirety of my family tree is resting on me. I know, I over-think things.
2. Age is just a number babe. Don’t think about that either.
3. You should live in a place where you can be yourself and feel most at home, wherever that happens to be. For me, right now, this is my home.
5. I tend to make mountains out of mole-hills too. It’s an awful dark spiral my mind can get into. I’m still learning to stop these when they happen.
6. Thanks for the tip! Any other musical suggestions?
7. I think hope truly is the thing with feathers that we all must have. At least in some capacity. The storms you speak of are going to be the fodder for my writing, and have always been my source of creative inspiration. I guess it’s making something better out of a car crash or pile of scrap metal. I guess it takes talent, but really, I think it also takes a huge dose of guts. Let’s be gutsy, shall we?
I will have it. I have it now. A gravitational force. When I turn my attention to it, the pressure builds inside me. It’s like a little volcano. Steam vents, lava churning, something powerful. Something semi-explosive. But personal. And private. And eating away at me and the mantle and crust of myself. Begging for release.
I am my own little planetary body. I have my own ecosystems, subterranean caves, worms in my dirt. I have my own rivers. My own organisms. My own forests and fields and eddies swirling along my coastlines. There are sounds and smells of exotic forests, strange creatures treading on mossy stones, silvery fish leaping in moonlit lakes. There are aching howls from the wolves echoing over mountain lakes. There is the quiet power of the workhorse, stabled in an ancient barn on a dark winter night. There are a multitude of fireflies sending sparks among the whispering pines on my hillsides. There are the crackles of fires in low-slung cottages along dirt paths on village outskirts.
These things reside in me, and make up the pieces of the stories I dream up, I breathe life into. I am a writer.
Would you be willing to have horrible nightmares every night for a year if you would be rewarded with extraordinary wealth?
If you had asked me a year ago, I might have said yes. Nowadays, though, as I’ve simplified my life, wealth doesn’t mean the same. Monetary wealth is fleeting. Emotional, physical, spiritual wealth has taken on a much more important role in my life. I can get by on such a small amount of money, but that squarely depends on my emotional and mental health. So, in short, no. I wouldn’t. Besides, my dreams are my motivation, my aspiration, my joi de vive. I rely on them to make every day meaningful.