god i've had this blog forever. i suppose that's a good thing, right? consistency is key. AS IF i knew anything about consistency. other than, you know, consistently complaining about loneliness and smoking and drinking (gosh i want a whiskey!) and watching too much tv and thinking about fucking, which is all that this blog has to show for its two years in existence (i know because i just read it all). but i don't care. i'm attached to this thing. the entries are like post-it notes, convenient little reference points for me. FOR ME. thank christ this isn't a real blog, it wouldn't make any sense. that's what i get for writing for myself. a whole lotta crazy.

i'd rather write in my moleskine but because it was almost full and pretty heavy i locked it in a suitcase with journals from years past and now i think, i hope, it's safely under my sister's bed. she may or may not have purchased a new one and new pens for me and may or may not be sending them to me. i hope she does. i've got notes to take.

i've been here a week and i feel wonderful. getting into the habit of things. i am weak weak weak but i suppose eventually i'll get stronger. i have to, right?

i have pieces of hay in my pocket and i clean up horse shit like a pro. i've gotten hungry at the smell of cut dandelion leaves and tansy and miner's lettuce and sticky plant and clover that i've snipped one-by-one from a sunny meadow and between tree stumps. THE AIR is so pure; upon inhalation, my heart swells as good as any lung. swells swells swells. i could listen to the birds for hours. i want to lie in the meadows and breathe and i want to be swallowed up into the earth and spit out and i want to be held and whispered to, but i suppose the birds are enough.

i miss my cats.