24.

When I was young my father would throw little birthday parties for me, would make rainbow burst cake, invite my friends, plan the main attraction. I didn't have to think, just, "I want _________." And in a mild, subtle beautiful, father's-only-daughter way, he would scheme a dream. Girlfriends would bring the coolest black clogs & barbs & books, and I would feel...less than awesome. Each one somehow became something dramatic in the center of me. Throwing tantrums, running away from the party to hide in the bushes lining the old folks home, a tantrum against going into the center of the skating rink so the whole rink could sing to me, yelling at my father for something large I felt but couldn't acknowledge as anything sane and formable. There have been 2 birthdays I love to think about. One when A took me on a hot air balloon ride at 5a, then breakfast at Dot's Diner, then the Denver Zoo, then square-dancing at the Grizzly Rose. The other was one I threw for myself, with a picnic at the edge of the bay, bringing my own grapes, cheese, & pie, my own pinata filled & hung from the tree, my own blindfold, every effort my own. Jesus these are a direct exemplification of my confliction/s. Short hair or long hair, but nothing in between. I'm still trying to figure it out. I want to be lighthearted about time and age and losing youth on the outside.

Turning 24 was sifting vintage, picking pieces that made me excited, coffee with laurey & gossip, yoga with a yogi who sounds like poetry when he speaks, an early morning tempo with sandrock up flagstaff mountain, dressing in a '70's gown and eating warm brie with blueberry compote & honey, with bread, with friends, and the soft peetering down when every one begins to check out & no one feels like drinking & it isn't as exciting that you were, but it remains that you are in a soft, unsaid way. I wonder what type of birthday party planner I might be for my children.

I just started a job on an organic farm, who's main buys are of cherry tomatoes, peaches & cream corn, peaches, and roasted chilies. I work 11-hr. days, my fingernails are rough & sensitive, I get to sample everything, I get to take home the "seconds," I lift a lot, I smell like hay, the job ends on Oct. 31, everything is about Labor and the Art of Food-Pyramids and Layout Design. I am quite thankful. But, I wish that a publishing house in seattle would just call & say, "I like the way you work, I want to pay you more." So that I could feel a little better about the debt that looms, and have faith in knowing that a person, if she works hard, will achieve an end to the means. However, I do think I'm getting closer to knowing what I want.