lockjaw

I am happily living out this self-constructed narrative as the so-called "Tracy Lee" in the city of Philadelphia.
Chapter one is coming to its boring, anticlimactic close. We got to know the characters. Built some relationships, but realized we couldn't go anywhere with where this story was going. So, I quit my job and have moved onto another. To celebrate the occasion, I got my septum pierced. Yes. An entirely juvenile move, but I've decided that I just don't care.
Chapter two brings our protagonist to a new artist studio in Kensington: the Amber Street Workspaces. You know, one of those converted warehouses. It's a bit jenkity, and the elevator is frightening, but it certainly has it's charm. Perhaps I'm asking too much of the universe, but I'm hoping the space provided will spark some kind of brilliant inspiration. Otherwise, I'm still staring at my teeth. And that shit-eating grimace just keeps smiling right back at me, like it has something to say, but it refuses to spit it out. Lockjaw.

I don't know what I'm looking for, but this transitional period has been both refreshing and confusing, and my ability to focus has gone out the window. Work comes slow again, but I am telling myself that I am enjoying a state of "input" rather than "output."

Here's something for you. I discovered today that mushrooms sauteed with brocolli di rape is amazing. I've also discovered that you can make pink daikon radish salad by shredding daikon radish with some rainbow carrots (make sure there are pink and purple ones in the mix). The white daikon absorbs that color of the carrots making for a nice splash of fuchsia to your dinner palate. salt those bad boys with a generous shake of sea salt and sugar, let them do their pickling-thing for a good 30 minutes, splash them with some rice vinegar. Dig your dirty hands in there are mix everything together. Serve with brown rice.
(when at a loss of words, but needing something to say, I can always resort to what I know best: food.)