Blank space — Kristen Writes Things

I was deboning several cuts of rockfish for tonight’s dinner and muttering to myself about how I’ll never, ever defrost fish ever again, when I realized something uncanny. No, not the smell. Although, in truth, I’m willing to cede that I significantly underestimated the damage that could be done to the air by allowing three moderately-sized pieces of frozen rock fish to do their thing on my counter for a few hours. Many choice words were muttered between mild gags. IT WAS BAD. Like, lit three Anthropologie candles, opened a window, and threw in a stick of incense has barely contained the issue, bad. But no, the uncanny bit is that the universe is unrelenting and it wants me to do things.

One could say that it does this most days. After all, I’ve procreated and have a small scale human to lovingly debone rockfish for… But no. The universe wants me to write the things again.

I know this because I’ve spent the better part of a year doing what Questlove tells me (and I always listen to what Questlove tells me) without feeling too guilty or sloth-like. He says that I should be my own curator of things and that if I’m in collecting mode, then be in collecting mode. He says not to push it. So, I didn’t.

{Insert many months devoid of ranting and/or pithy blog comments while I collected bodice rippers, YA involving sisters who have to climb over each others dead bodies to claim the throne, several murder mysteries that could only be solved by bored aristocrats and spunky on-the-shelf spinsters, and the occasional dirigible painted like a ladybug.}

This past several months, I’ve basically been at the grocery store. And I LOVE grocery stores! (Especially in foreign countries with odd potato chip flavors.) Sometimes I’d mosey through the deli and pick up something small and tasty, sometimes I power walked my shit right past things that I didn’t care to curate or nurture. When I needed to make something I did so with my hands. I worked from patterns, following the instructions in books poorly and occasionally ending up with a gigantic shall that only Andre the Giant (or maybe a saucy David Kastendick could wear). I also made several perfectly nice chicken head plaques.

I also spent a lot of time investing in one-sided imaginary friendships with Peloton instructors and “rage spinning,” which I assure you is a thing.

But I digress. Today the universe sent me five signs that it’s time to set fingers to click-clacking again:

When I was putting away my spinning water bottles I knocked ALL of the other fucking water bottles out of the fucking cabinet and when I looked up, my crystal water bottle was sitting all alone… like a majestic, glass vessel of hydration magic. The woman at the fancy spa in Arizona seemed to think that having crystal-charged water would open portals to all sorts of things. Since this bottle clearly pushed all of my other bottles to their deaths, THE PORTAL IS OPEN.
For some reason my Audible player decided that I was no longer interested in Bringing Down the Duke and that I needed the infinite wisdom of Questlove’s Creative Quest audio book. It was talking about collecting beats and about walking by shit in museums that doesn’t resonate and I was like YAS. (It also talked about how the Spike Lee of old used to make his characters float walk using old school Hollywood magic, which completely unrelated but still highly interesting.)
I started an IDEO course for professional development and one of the instructor bios reminded me that I have a responsibility to myself to be the most Kristen, Kristen I can be. And to be the most Kristen, Kristen, I have to practice.
If I can’t be the most Kristen, Kristen that I can be, I should be Jenny Gottstein.
This text.
No, I don’t need to explain my art to you, Phil-Warren. (Jerk.) What I need is an iPad Pro, an Apple Pencil, colorful motivational videos, and the miraculous, instantaneous development of something approximating creative skill.

I used to refer to Pilates as my practice, usually while Facebooking smugly. This blog actual practice. Exercising putting words into the internet machine so I can eventually put more, better words into the internet machine. And, you know what they say…

“You know you’re not really friends with Matt Wilpers, right?”

“Don’t put crystals in there!”

And, of course…

“Defrosting rockfish smells bad.”

PS. The hero image serves no purpose except to make Stefania gag. You’re welcome, Fania! (And other people who hate pickle mash-ups and have strong gag reflexes!)

PPS. This stupid CSS won’t let me add an image within an ordered list. <sigh> So, here is why Jenny Gottstein’s bio has me all like #goals…