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Wish You Were Here

My old-fashioned ways of writing letters and sending thank you notes have led me to a pretty awesome collection of stationary and postcards.

In this electronic age, it is safe to say that some may never pick up an ink pen again.  But I don’t care how in love you are with your cell phones and laptops.  A handwritten card will forever produce a thrill.  (That is, until some idiot succeeds in nixing snail mail.)

For those of you who still write letters, you might appreciate my latest batch of outgoing mail – thank you notes to all the people I saw on my recent visit back home.  My favorite element of this primitive art?  Choosing the right card for the right person.

Baja Birds

My first trip outside…..

Baja Cactus

To Dad, who likes the desert.

Bob Marley

Bob – to my favorite hair dresser.

Boston Massacre

Sent the Boston Massacre postcard to the sister with whom I may never stop fighting.

Boston

I see you down there Jim and Joni!

Mermaid

Newport Beach has mermaids.

Simpleton Pass, Reading The Bridge of SighsBedouins

John Singer Sargent, a favorite artist.  Jim took me to his exhibit in Boston.

Todos Santos

Todos Santos, home of the original Hotel California.  Still have to make it there.

Volkswagen

Convinced a bookstore owner to sell this off the wall of his hippie section.  Thanks, bud.

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Gangster Car Doodle

From my one college year in Boston.  Playing around with sweet silver markers, and letting my Gangster out.  (And apparently I was French that day — Chlo-ayh.)

Rose PracticeFlower Practice

They say an artist must be able to freehand an excellent rose if he is to be considered good.

I have begun my practice.

William in the Woods

Upon finishing my latest read, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne, and upon starting this post I realized something.  I must change the title of this quotation series, Cheerful Thoughts, immediately.  Not all thoughts are cheerful, and if all I ramble on about is cheer, no one will ever learn a damn thing.

A coworker warned me to prepare to cry, and so I assumed I would.  I cry over everything.  I cried watching Remember the Titans as a child and again last week while dog-sitting for Michael (the only time I have access to television).  After countless watches, I still ball every time at the end of Moulin Rouge, Big Fish, and Almost Famous.  To Kill a Mockingbird (novel and film) brings on the tears, as does One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (novel and film).  The most hysterical crying I’ve ever unleashed during a film or novel was as an eleven-year-old when mom took me to The Pianist in theaters.  Oh, man.  “Honey, should we leave?”  She must have asked me five times.

I cry hardest when the story is most gut-wrenching, most unbearable, most real…which is why I’m surprised The Boy in the Striped Pajamas left me dry-eyed.  The perspective of the story comes from nine-year-old Bruno, a sheltered and naive little boy with a grand heart.  There are no cold, hard facts as to the setting and time of Bruno’s story, just the little bit of evidence he provides from his experiences and your own historical knowledge of the cold, hard world.  I could have guessed the unspeakable ending, but I didn’t because it is impossible to believe.  Bruno’s beautiful innocence is why I did not cry.  But in the absence of wet eyes I was left with a heavy heart and bewilderment from not knowing what to do now.

Do something great, and don’t ever lose your sweetness.  And never be so naive to think that only love makes up this world.

I leave you with the words of Randle P. McMurphy:

“Which one of you nuts has got any guts?”

“Life is not long, and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation of how it shall be spent.”

– Samuel Johnson

Horizon Stepping

If one makes a plan or sets a goal, he is making an attempt at self-organization.  This is admirable…but what really matters is his self-discipline in executing this plan or reaching this goal.

One who does nothing at all is a loser.  One who talks about doing a lot but gets nothing done is, unfortunately, still a loser.

You can talk, but can you walk?