Birdie Baird

perfect "It's perfect!" I shout to the barista. My mouth puckers a little as I turn away - the espresso in my drink is a touch overextracted, and the acid pulls

It was a month or so ago, now. I had just finished up with work and begun the drive home, forgoing the short route in favor of the one that meanders through pine

The sun is starting to change its quality. It's just over a week after the autumnal equinox, so still practically summer, especially here—but the light pouring around the treetops and through the

I have so many stories to tell. I could tell you about midsummer—the way that time ran different, and how the ghosts of the old gods watched from behind the trees as

This is the post I didn't want to write. These are the thoughts that make me feel guilty. These are the wrenching feelings that bash right up against the wall of shoulds and

The apartment where I am staying is bright and clean. The corners of the room are as crisp as hospital beds, and the light—still everpresent—is a little more amenable to normal

I started taking ballet classes when I was six years old, and continued until I was 14. I can't do full splits now (although I'm close to regaining them), but a few other

I think it's been three days now since I started meditating again for the first time in about two months, and boy is my brain tired. Last year I bit the bullet and

Yesterday I wrote about two sentences, and didn't post them. Obviously. On Sunday I didn't write a single goddamn word. About 40% of my brain would like to use this as the excuse

I remembered that a thing is just a thing and it doesn't have to be a cohesive story every time, just as sporadic and speckled a collection of words and/or images as

Whenever I tell people what I'm about to tell you, dear figmentary Reader, they almost invariably have the same few emotions flicker across their face in the same order before they catch themselves

The gates are still stuck. I'm exhausted. Every night I'm waking up every hour or less, peering blearily at the clock, then slipping immediately back into fitful dreams, mostly dealing with the untold

"...[W]riting every day is easy enough." Except when it's not. "...[A]ll you need to do is open the floodgates and pour words on the page..." Except when

It's happened a half-dozen times this week alone. I'll be making a cup of pourover coffee in the cute little cherry-red apparatus you see pictured above. It's the same routine I've had since

I could see that he was tense. Years of martial arts training have taught my eye and attention to hone in on tight muscles and torqued limbs, and the knotted band that ran

I've wasted a lot of time "trying" to start writing regularly in this blog. I'll have an idea for a post and sit down with a halo of the most shining

After you read what I'm about to tell you, please don't think I'm crazy. (that'll make one of us) Sometimes I think the radio is talking to me. It started years ago—good

I buried my face in my hands and shook with the effort of not bursting into noisy tears. Biff had just shown me an enormous Christmas Eve Eve surprise present: he'd written to

Eighteen days to go. Last month I gave the requisite 45 days' notice to our landlord. It seems like an age ago and just yesterday -- time is being strange, like cold honey

That's what this blog is supposed to be all about, right? Of course right. The difficulty begins, however, in one's particular definition of that word. When I have been staying in one place

It's an interesting semi-trend (if you can call two similar-ish occurrences a trend) that the girls in my family seem to be following: get into a solid long-term relationship and move to Denver