Hello, sweet friends!
Just wanted to share my first official post from my new blog, All the Way Yoga. It’s an ode to niceness.
Hope you’re having a spectacular week.
With love, Britt.
What’s wrong with having dreams, anyway?
When we’re babies, our parents have dreams of grandeur of what we will become. The doctor, the scientist, the celebrity.
When we’re kids, every adult we encounter asks us what we want to be when we grow up. And we answer them with conviction. A cowboy, a ballerina, an alien.
When we’re teens, our teachers prepare us for the future, to figure out which piece of expensive paper will pave the path to a fruitful career. Teach and be poor or business and be rich? Choose wisely.
When we’re adults – thrown into the world of bills, loans, and other hyped up seriousness – our dreams tend to fade. Usually, they disappear altogether.
Yet, sometimes they are revived. Quite suddenly you’re doing the things you loved most when you were a kid…coming full circle. You play music, you paint, you write.
You’re not the suit, you’re not the boss, you’re not the mom, you’re not the bachelor, you’re not the assistant, you’re not the alcoholic, you’re not the divorcee, you’re not the nobody.
You’re just you. And, you’re effing happy about it.
If you’re one of these dream-chasing adults, you’re often out of place. Everyone’s playing make-believe, the adults on one side and the children on the other.
Playing adult is allowed, respectable even.
Playing child isn’t. As a matter of fact, you’re the troublemaker.
I’ve done the day job thing most of my life. Hell, I’m doing it now…Monday-Friday, 9-5.
I play dress up every day just so I can play the board game. Buy, sell, trade. I was never any good at Monopoly. I liked ridiculously colorful games like Twister and Candyland.
For me, playing with the grown ups is just a game of pretend.
I will always be the rumpled employee who gets ready for work in five minutes flat, the grown ass woman sleeping with a stuffed animal, the hopeless case daring to dream because she can’t live any other way.
And, I don’t know why it’s so strange and unusual. I mean…what’s wrong with having dreams, anyway?
Challenge Accepted: Show us your shelves
“There is no friend as loyal as a book.” – Ernest Hemingway
Oh, Ernest. You were a feisty son of a gun, but you said some mighty things.
So, my rad blogger pal Letizia over at Reading Interrupted posted something super fun last week, a “Show us your shelves” challenge that’s been traipsing around the blogosphere.
I just couldn’t resist unveiling my dusty ass shelves.
Like many of you, most of my current reading is of the ebook variety. Obviously that would be the most anticlimactic picture ever.
Hey, look at my Kindle bookshelf screen, everyone! (And, cue crickets.)
Please excuse the insanely crooked pics. When you live in a shoebox apartment, you literally squeeze your belongings into every nook and cranny. Taking straight pictures when the corner of your desk is jamming you in the arse is impossible.
OK, Britt. Enough with the disclaimers already.
OK…
These classics are so cool, they always accessorize…
You might be wondering if that is a giraffe’s butt in front of the Hitler biography…
Indeed, it is a giraffe’s butt.
Meet Henri, our guardian of the ratty books and keeper of the giant headphones. Originally from France, Henri enjoys reading Ken Follett books, practicing Yoga, and listening to excellent tunes.
You didn’t think there would be a book shot without a cat around here, did you?
Aww…
Alrighty, folks. It’s your turn. Let’s see those dusty ass shelves!
The Permanent Book Sale
Hey friends!
Just dropping a quick note to say I have decided to lower the prices on both of my little books to $2.99…permanently! So happy summer reading to you from your indie author pal, Britt.
In the heartland of oil money, Jaye Davis spends her whirlwind existence trapped in the battle fields of high fashion. Surrounded by sparkling ambition and plastic perfection, she reluctantly masquerades as a sales drone at Lyman’s, a luxury store in Dallas. After escaping a turbulent past and leaving everything behind, Jaye struggles to find her place in the world. Armed with a quiet determination, she embarks on a solitary quest, searching for certainty in an uncertain future.
But Jaye Davis isn’t her real name–only a byproduct of the witness protection program. Once her fabricated identity is thrown into jeopardy, she flees to the haunting allure of Prague. Unearthing her roots in an important step toward self-discovery, she learns to surrender to the life she truly deserves.
A modern day woman, torn by her illusive dreams, awakens to a strange life in 1943, hurdled against the throes of destruction in wartime Berlin. Following a haphazard trail of clues, she discovers her new identity as Alina Feuer, code-named Sparrow, a famous entertainer, seducing a high-ranking SS officer to gather vital information for the Allies.
But, Alina is an amateur in these incessant spy games, relying solely on her wit and instinct to make her next move while frantically hiding her erratic behavior from the watchful eyes of her suspicious liaison/love interest and her pestering socialite gal pal along the way. A reluctant heroine, she must use charismatic glamour as her weapon of choice to fulfill her deadly mission before the week is through.
Unrequited Summer
My darling summer,
How I pined over you during those numbing months when winter stole you away. The days were deprived, the blankets failed to warm.
Now you are here, loud with your unapologetic radiance.
You blind me with your provocative shades of green, lawns of tangy lime and leaves of emerald jewel. You mesmerize me with your endless sky eyes, sometimes speckled with curvaceous white. You hold me in your pretty scented arms without the urge to stifle, only to offer up some of that glow. You serenade me like it was nothing, mastering chirps and breeze into the most resplendent symphony.
Like my heart, my windows are open, beckoning the city inside – crisp construction, undulating sirens, boisterous garbage trucks – and those silly, drunken melodies from the lush crew staggering upon the incompetent sidewalks.
None of that turns me sour. How could it, when all is consumed by such sweet? Your damn beautiful sweet.
I know that no matter how many sentiments my cherry-stained fingers conjure, you will still leave me. You will vanish silently, wither away until your brightness becomes barren.
Until then, I will relish every golden ounce of you. And know, my darling summer, that I will forever be your paramour, forever thirsty for your unrequited love.
Britt Skrabanek 