My naked body is not sinful or immoral. It is not dirty or bad or wrong. My naked body is not pornographic, obscene, or “slutty.”

My naked body is just a body.

Any negative ideas you have about a naked body are due to sexualizing bodies, and the idea that sex is a dirty thing.

Why are you offended by and afraid of your own anatomy?

Get over it.

My naked body is just a body.





these are beautiful, but why would you ever do this to a book?


Okay this is something I have to answer because as a bookseller, as a bookseller working in a used bookstore, this is something I have to deal with daily. People get mad at me or express something like profound disappointment when I indicate that we recycle what we can’t use, and some of that recycling is the employees using books to make art and/or crafts like purses, buttons, collages, jewelry, etc.

You know why we do it? Because we love books. We recycle them so they can be made into new books by a company that we pay to do exactly that. We make them into art because sometimes there is nothing else you can do with them and the thought of just getting rid of them seems like a waste.

You may love books and hate to see them “destroyed,” but tell me what you, personally, are going to do with a full set of Encyclopedia Britannica from 1994? That’s 26 books of outdated information. When you have a stack of Twilight books that is literally two feet tall, is it really absolutely necessary to preserve the integrity of their bookiness? Or might it be more worthwhile to give them a second life? As a new book, as art, as something other than an object that takes up space in a store where we need as much as possible to sell the books you love and that we love too. I wouldn’t do this to, say, the Gutenberg Bible or a first edition Virginia Woolf, but something we see several times a day every day? Art is a pretty good fate for an otherwise unsaleable book.

No one is asking you to make incredible mountain ranges out of the books you love. But please consider that same love might have something to do with why people make the things they do out of books.


I’ve been driving round all summer, through ripening fields of corn, down hills of rum and nicotine, up mountains of confusion and self-doubt, over vast plains of single-sided kisses from sweet local girls with olive skin and narrow hips. I heard the native birds haul down the sunset, undressing my clogged up ears. I keep the windows cracked down while the air outside lingers with the humming smell of miniature hollyhock. I can still feel the length of your fingers laced through my hair like tasteful jazz music or rich, Columbian espresso. I’m not as mad this summer. Last year I was reeling off into shrubbery and screaming down cars on Del Amo Boulevard. I survived on cheap wine and dollar tacos every second midnight. The only prominent consistency was the tension in my shoulders and the shake in my legs. This time, I’m far more at ease and finally comfortable with the ever-growing companion that is solitude. I’ve been through hell and back to find this, to find home. I used to think I’d captured it lying in the arms of someone else, but that feeling was a temporary false aesthetic, although a pleasant one at that. But nothing will ever encapsulate the steadiness of the colossal, open road. Sure enough I’m on that path and this time, I’m not stopping.


Oh, these infrequent yet prominent doubts of hope and faith. The sum total of life is a level balance of contradictions, and I’ve been enduring mine with the weight of polar opposites ever since the day I was old enough to boil an egg. People here all search for peace and solid ground, while I’m just looking for a way to live without dying. I’ve been working myself into the mud, with an outstanding lack of acknowledgment towards the fact that I’m not the only one. It’s challenging to realise that you’re not alone in the loneliness. That surrounding others are thinking and acting exactly the same; secretly scurrying away in the achy depths of every evening, to tug dejectedly at empty church doors, trying to drag their bodies into tiny pews and lay until the morning arrives. It’s tough to see loneliness within yourself. It’s even tougher to notice it within the very people you fill your days with, somewhere other than your quilted bed sheets and four cream walls.