Sometimes two-day financial workshops at The Lark culminate in all of us getting to play with modeling clay, because we’re so stressed out by freelance taxes and IRAs and calculating our personal debt. It takes a wise financial-seminar-leader to realize that modeling clay is the way to soothe the nerves of frightened artists.
A baby tapir, or a representation of my soul?
On closer look, maybe just a baby tapir
Aunt Jeff: conversations with prospective/ recurring exes
are like being in a jacuzzi
filled with jello, pepperoni, and a horse —
nothing makes any fucking sense
and it doesn’t feel good afterwards
and you don’t feel like you can tell anyone.
The times when “working from home” does NOT mean watching Netflix in bed. Day: 
And night: 
BUT HEY, there are small lizards that go entire weeks without shifting position. They, too, are deeply and meditatively and deliberately cultivating the landscape of the mind. And also, they can lick their own eyeballs.
The view on the way to class: 
In other news, Toxic Seven has become a tall gentleman. 
Rainy morning at the Cherry Lane. 
Rainy night at Hearth Gods! Watching Crowley and Casey enact the doomed love affair of a mastiff and a moor-hen, in the basement of Jimmy’s No 3. 
You know what will really help you get that entire second act written? 
I hung it from the scaffold in my studio. Come by and ring it sometime.
Max V: I would move heaven and earth for you.
I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.
One of these is true.
From RAYMOND CARVER’S OKCUPID PROFILE, EDITED BY GORDON LISH by Jimmy Chen:
I’m looking for
Just something, or rather someone, to get me away from this writing desk. A jovial date; a flash of tits; some female chatter. We could ride a roller coaster, have way too many corn dogs, and I would hope to die of a heart attack. Anything.