Remember those old TV ads with Mr. Whipple,

policing the supermarket lanes to ensure

no stray housewives were surreptitiously

squeezing the Charmin?

I don’t think I ever once bought Charmin

(I’m a recycled toilet paper kind of girl)

but it’s the first thing that popped to mind

at the word, “squeezed.”

That’s the power of media culture —

it twines itself around our neural networks.

Who knows what thoughts are truly yours?

Our perceptions are squeezed.

[scs_alt]

PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!

They came in little, narrow, paper-foil packages.

Astro-sticks? Astronaut sticks? The name escapes me,*

but I remember my brother and me tearing them open

and biting into them with glee. Chocolate or peanut butter flavor,

like an imitation of an imitation of the real thing.

The chewy things didn’t taste very good, really,

but we loved them, loved imagining the astronauts eating them

above us in space. So much cooler than tuna casserole!

I cringe to think of the polysyllabic ingredients they must

have contained. We didn’t care.

* A Google search revealed that they were, in fact, Space Food Sticks, by Pillsbury.

[scs_alt]

PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!

There’s an amazing art store in San Francisco,

with a paper room that will blow your mind.

Rows & rows of flatfiles, racks lining the walls

with paper of every imaginable color,

weight, texture, & pattern.

An artist’s paradise.

But caveat emptor.

If you want to buy paper, beware.

Have an idea in mind

of what you’d like to come home with

before entering the paper chamber.

I made the mistake of visiting

with an empty mind,

figuring I’d browse

and score a treasure trove.

Instead, I left empty-handed,

too bedazzled to make a decision,

overwhelmed by choice.

[scs_alt]

PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!

Take a wool sweater.

Toss it in the washing machine & set the cycle on hot.

Then tumble dry on high.

Voilá — felt.

I somehow managed to do this once,

quite unintentionally,

to a prized pink sweater,

adorned with narrow cables.

When it appeared, in a basket of clean laundry,

it was the proper size for an 8-year old.

Had I thought myself remotely creative at the time,

I could have turned that ruined sweater

into something wonderful.

A pot holder.

A teddy bear.

Instead, I think I gave it away.

[scs_alt]

PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!

We used to quip that she made six paintings

before she brushed her teeth in the morning,

our voices tinged with an edge of dark, sticky envy —

contempt turned inwards towards our own,

frightened, frozen selves, then reflected back out at her.

Because, of course, her prolific output only highlighted

our own lack.

The answer, though, wasn’t to get her to stop,

but to unstick our own stuck.

It took me years. Decades. Centuries.

But I finally found the secret formula:

imperfectionism + effort + time.

[scs_alt]

PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!