Oh, The Places I Go!

Hey there, stranger!

A lot has happened since the last post.  Ideas have shifted, suns and moons have alternated, several decisions made, multiple promises broken.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve ended up on a more Southern terra firma.  A new destination that was a nice surprise as much to me as anyone else.

I’m in Austin, y’all!  (Couldn’t help it.  Wasn’t trying.)


I do realize I should back up in this story a bit.  It’s a random step up from Eur-tweaka, California – I know.

Or is it random?

I had been looking at Austin for the past ten years, but had always come up with an excuse to not go, not visit, or even consider the alternate lifestyle that is Austin.  What those reasons are, I honestly don’t remember.  Probably political.

Quite frankly, I feel foolish for not following through on this earlier in life.

Okay, so backing up:

In February of this year, I had been neck-deep in my third bout of depression.  I had friends, but they were work friends, and there wasn’t anyone I felt comfortable relaying all my darkest thoughts to.  I was on the other coast, far off from all my – remaining –  friends.  I had some that had just given up on me for varying reasons, some that had passed away, and one who turned out not to be a friend at all, whom I felt tremendously betrayed by.  She had told me she’d be moving to Eureka to live with her “boyfriend”.  Said mate has turned out to be an abusive alcoholic who somehow felt justified in throwing bottles at me while I was trying to get my things together.

She’s still not in Eureka.  Shocker.  What’s more, when I informed her of what transpired in the argument I had been in with him, she took his side, and has sought fit to ice me out altogether.  Not only is she not living with her “boyfriend”, she’s moved in with parents again.

Very adult.  Classy.

I digress.

After all that had happened, my depression had gotten deeper and deeper, to the point I was considering suicide.  Testing out the strength of rope versus the tie from my robe.  Trying to estimate how much cough syrup it would take to make sure I never coughed ever again.  Watching cars speed by, gauging if an 18 wheeler would be less or more painful than your average truck.


I feel the need to explain something to you at this point.  This wasn’t a Screw-the-world-I-wanna-get-off mindset.  This was more along the lines of Someone-else-could-do-better-with-this-life.  With perhaps a dash of Maybe-the-next-life-will-have-better-choices.

Now of course I didn’t go through with it, and of course whatever life I have, it would still be the kinds of decisions I make that would have the outcome I deserve.

There’s that word…”deserve”.

We all have this subliminal idea of what we deserve, what we think we should be entitled to, don’t we?  We don’t deserve to be spoken to in a certain way, we don’t deserve whatever unfortunate situation we’re in.  It’s this same sense of self-entitlement that generally causes more harm than good, isn’t it?  You can tell someone you “don’t deserve that” and walk off, sulking, returning back to your respective corner of the world.

In March, the depression seemed to have lifted for a little while.  I threw myself into my work at the store, and came home with a fresh bottle of cabernet every night, self-medicating at home while verbally abusing Alexa.

April came, as did another cloud of depression, where I took no notice of the fact the same component was keeping me down as it always did.  The alcohol.  The wine.  It wasn’t solving any of the myriad problems  that shrouded over me like so many black veils (you’d think I was in an imaginary Italian funeral, or an extra in a Harry Potter movie).  No, it was a warm, one-armed hug from a demon who was deftly tying an anchor with the other arm.  But the one arm was all I wanted, so I paid no mind.

On it went.  The days of mindless retail work, being verbally abused by a mother of three named Karen, who thinks her 4 month expired coupon for Febreeze should be honoured because “I said so.”  Then going home to a round, black, talking disc, a quick dinner and a long drink. I was a functioning alcoholic, so long as I didn’t have to handle too many functions at once. Like handling civil conversations with Amazon customer service reps in The Philippines.

Towards the end of April was when things shifted. “I don’t deserve this” was returned to the Self-Entitlement Store – without a receipt – and traded in for “What the fuck do I want?”

The only word that came to mind was “out”.  But it wasn’t referring to life in general terms this time.  More like an elaborated explanation of  “I want out of Eureka.”

It wasn’t a secret that not only did I not like it there, but it was crystal clear to even Helen Keller six feet under that I didn’t belong there.  The town itself depressed me, yes, but I was already depressed.  It was like adding more sugar to a fully iced cake.

Dammit, now I want cake.

I couldn’t go back to New York.  I couldn’t afford it.  I love that city beyond words, and despite my British accent I consider myself a New Yorker to the core.  But I couldn’t afford it.  Nothing about California appealed to me anymore, but I would go to Sacramento if I couldn’t figure anything else out, just to see what it was about.  San Francisco had a minimal allure to it.  All those paper dragons.  They had some great bakeries there, great cakes.

Shit, Carrie, let go of the cakes already!

What about…?  What about…?  What about…


Austin?  What’s in Austin?

It’s big dog-country there.  Big music-country as well.  It’s the only blue part of Texas – politically speaking – that will let you be weird, be openly gay, and also has a thriving job market.  Things actually get done there.  It’s progressive.  They’re practically on the cusp of letting you get legally high.  Don’t ask me how I know.


From there, my moods shifted North while I contemplated moving South.  This was as good a time as any to explore a city that had frequently piqued my curiosity.

I had a plan now.  I was on Team Austin all the way.  All I needed now was the money.  The job in Retail Hell was not going to get me to my goal in 5 years, much less by the end of this year.  By mid-May, I was saying goodbye to red circles, and hello to office chairs in the non-profit sectors of the area.

Working on this plan, I was too busy working on a goal to bother with how I was feeling, or what I deserved.  I was in action, so if I was feeling anything, it was enthused.

June came, and I was doing a daily exercise regimen of two long walks a day to and from my job.

A co-worker texted me early one morning, before I was even fully awake.  It was a news story on Anthony Bourdain.  Dying of an apparent suicide.

Hello Depression #6!  Come on down, the price is right!

Admittedly, this news of one of my favourite American icons stopped me in my tracks.  I had to go to work – in tears – trying to keep my shit together while my brain imploded.  At the end of that day, it was two bottles of Cab that comforted me into a deep slumber.  When I eventually woke up, Austin seemed pointless.

Mr. Bourdain was smarter than most men I’d ever met.  He was brilliant, had a healthy amount of salt in his recipes AND his attitude, a world traveler, he was charismatic and he taught the world that it wasn’t enough to read a book about other countries; you needed to talk to the people living there.  This man seemingly had everything.  So if he was saying good-bye to a world he knew better than most, what the fresh fuck was I doing here?  What was I contributing?

It took me a solid two months to snap out of that funk, and re-orient myself to my reality.  Instead of asking “what do I deserve?” or “what do I want?”, I was focused on “what will I be willing to do to get out?”  The answer?

Anything and everything.

I had been dismissed from one temp assignment, and moved on to another gig, three weeks later. That had sucked up my July, August, and part of September.  By then, I had had enough of all things California in general, Eur-tweaka in specific.  I couldn’t tolerate any more of the hostility, both from others and myself.  Gone was any pretense of affinity towards this town, the sense of provincial community that only locals and council members could identify out of a crowd.  My immediate air was thick with contempt.

I was on the computer, making travel arrangements.

One month later, I was in Austin, making life arrangements.





Excuse Me, Waiter, Could You Take This Decision Back? It’s Too Hard.

Earlier this morning, I had come to a decision I really didn’t want to make. I had been building myself up for the last few weeks to collect my things, box, bag or bin them, and pull up stakes to move to Rhode Island.

There was going to be a whole new life. It was going to be better, it was going to be less of a struggle, there was going to be pizza right around the corner.

Okay, so I have to walk down a few blocks to get the pizza, so what?

After spending this last weekend in the room I was supposed to take on, getting a feel for the immediate environment, and being given new, upsetting information AFTER I had stated that I would take the room, my brain had been going back-and-forth on what I needed to do.

Yes, there’s the be-afraid-but-do-it-anyway concept the late Carrie Fisher was a big fan of. There’s also an attribute that a lot of other people talk about, and that is what’s known as your “gut feeling”.

My gut feeling was that my being afraid was rational. My gut was telling me that if I had made this move to a place I had a lot of reservations about, that neither my gut, nor my brain, would be happy about it. That this would be history repeating itself, and I would have proven to myself that I hadn’t learned from past mistakes.

Desperation does not a good motivator make.

So for now, I’m staying put, and I’m going to keep up the good fight. Is it going to be a struggle, staying in New York City? Indubitably.

Am I going to be eating ramen noodles more often? Without a doubt.

But at the end of the day, I’m in the same “home” I’ve been in for the past four years, and I’m not ready to let go of that just yet. I thought I was, but I was wrong.

Anxiety is a part of who I am. Sometimes, it rides shotgun, and it’s a 50 lb weight spread-eagle on my head. Other times, it takes a nap, but snores. The bottom line is that I know what I’m capable of. I’m capable of surviving through struggles. I’ve been at it for a while. I also know that if I’m going to struggle, I want to have a support net nearby, and not just on Facebook.

This isn’t to say that I won’t be moving out of Brooklyn at some point this year.

It just won’t be in February.

Distracting Emails and “Unsubscribe” Buttons

Recently, I had to go through some 6,000+ emails I had largely been ignoring in my Yahoo account (of which I’ll be closing the account completely, due to current events).
How did it get to be that much? One word: Depression.
2016 was a brutal year to get through, and the big grey bastard, Depression, seemed to be resting right on me for a majority of that time. Those of you with this condition may understand the resistance to get out of bed, much less open up emails, only to have a majority of them be crap sales and spam pieces. The other side of it is giving in to these sales, and spending money you can’t afford to spend.
For the last few weeks, I was working an office gig that had me acting as the receptionist. I was planted in front of two screens and given carte blanche to the computer and the internet. I took this opportunity not just to get my blog going, but also to go through my Inbox like Tazz on crack.
It took a while. It took a few days.
Okay, it took over a week.
Why so long? There was a lot, and I mean A LOT of emails for blogs I had been following, sales on book t-shirts and other sorts of literary postings, and any number of sales pitches for new products. It gets overwhelming, and sometimes when you’re looking at everything you need to get through, you end up doing none of it and instead keep playing Words With Friends. (I still say “dane” is a word. If we can have Great Danes, we can have Danes who are great at being themselves!)
There are other emails where you want to handle them later, but “later” never seems to happen. So what do we do with those?

  • Allot a certain amount of time — anywhere from half an hour to an hour — in the evening to get through those specific emails.
  • Open them immediately and scan through, deliberate if this is an email that warrants the extra time.
  • Open the emails, and provided that they aren’t spam, if there’s a link referring you to a page, send the link to yourself in a new email, collected with other links to check out.
  • UNSUBSCRIBE!!! You know the stores you like. All the others are distractions. Speed-scroll to the bottom of those nuisance emails. There’s a 95% chance there’s an “Unsubscribe” option all the way down there. Click on it. You aren’t missing out on anything. Instead, you’re giving yourself less to have to choose from, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

This took me a while to accept these facts as such. You can chalk it up to being an over-consumer. Always wanting more new things is not really being “ahead of the crowd”. It’s more like you’re burying yourself in the clutter.


I’M DROWNING MY MOUTH! (And other New Year’s Resolutions.)

Like most New Year resolutions, it starts with the best of intentions.

I’m going to be a winner this year, I’m going to be a better me.  Dammit, I’m going to be the best me I can be!  I’m going to overrule me in the court of me, and my old me is just going to have to suck it!

Once all the sappy motivational-poster zingers run their course, it comes down to just one person and their one head, the argument between brain and body continuing in a perpetual loop.  Like when you’re stuck in the car with your bickering parents.

“Stop signs are not suggestions.”

“Of course they are.  I don’t pay attention to suggestions, either.”

“You’re going to get us killed.”

“Yes, but how soon?”

I digress.

My primary goal this year has been to drink the recommended 64 ounces of water a day – 8  glasses of 8 ounces.  My Nalgene bottles have been a huge help in meeting this goal, as quite a lot of their bottles have the markers on the outside of the bottle, showing you the progress you’re making.

Why, though, do I feel like I’m drowning my tongue in H20?  I knew about the constant need to go to the bathroom, because, hey, a river runs through it!  For the last week and a half, I’ve felt like I woke up without any semblance of a bladder.

The toxins are getting washed out.  Completely washed out.  It’s like a tsunami in my belly.

Drinking all this water actually segues into some of my other resolutions.  I say “some”, because I inadvertently came up with a lot of winners this year.  BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING BEAST!

“Curse less” did not make the list this year.  Maybe next year.  Maybe.

Borrowing the brilliant phrase of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s epic saga known as “Hamilton”, I am working on the gem of “Speak less, smile more.”  When I have the nozzle of my Nalgene  bottle jammed in my cry-hole, I’m definitely speaking less.  If I smile more, and keep smiling, my unwavering stare while smiling tends to creep people out, so I don’t have to say anything.  Win-win!

The concept of patience eludes me at times, so that’s a resolution that seems to be an exhausting exercise.  There’s also another angle on the topic of patience which is “when do I wait for something to work itself out?” versus “when is the right time to strike and nip this thing in the bud?”

Drinking water doesn’t answer any questions on that last one, but hey, don’t let that getcha down.


Keep swimming, swimming, swimming!


When the Fence You’re On Starts To Give Out

As we get closer to the end of the month, closer to the time where I’ll be taking all my toys and heading to a new sandbox, I start taking harder looks at the sandlot I’m currently in, and doing so more frequently. With each scan, the nagging question nags louder than the last time;

How did I get all this stuff?

Seriously, how?

I don’t even remember when I got half this stuff.

I sound like a bad revamp of a George Carlin routine. Don’t get me wrong, I love Carlin. Rest in peace, guy. You’re still in our heads and hearts.

But holy shitballs, Batman! THIS IS A LOT OF STUFF!

I keep procrastinating going through all my stuff, because it’s so overwhelming. I have watched commercials and looked longingly at print ads of homes with a minimalist feel. It’s always two thoughts that run my brain at the same time when I see them.

A) God, how I would love to have so little.

Orange) Those lying bastards. There’s a room in that house that has all their real crap jammed along the perimeters, I just know it!

And then the train does that ringing sound, and I’m pulled back into reality. I have to leave the train and do the mad dash to the office. When I work in Manhattan, I’m often in the Chelsea district, or at least neighbouring the area in Midtown.

After work, it’s a 50/50 chance I’ll be heading to The Strand.

The Strand.

That big, beautiful, spectacular beast of Biblio-Camelot. If we could marry stores, I’d be in a lifetime commitment with the brick bastard. We’re already sharing my money, so why not?

Sometimes, I get to meet up with my friend, Danielle, and we’ll go in together, soaking up wisdom and fiction. This is our happy place. Strand is the vortex from which we gain new insights. And more books. Also, t-shirts, bags, socks, magnets, candy, calendars, notebooks. The Strand is basically Target for smart people. Ooooh! Ice cube trays with the forms of octopi! Well, shit! I HAVE to get THAT!

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah! Stuff.

Danielle and I have walked through a lot of midtown, many times with the question escaping my lips, “how am I going to be able to leave here?”

“I don’t know, Carrie.”

About ten minutes have passed, and we’re likely in East Village. I ask the question again, and really I think I don’t even address it to her, but to the sky and/or myself. As if somehow clouds will form mouths, and I’ll suddenly hear the Voice of Reason. It would sound remarkably like Samuel L. Jackson.

“Shit, bitch, figure it out! You don’t have the wallet for New York. Find someplace the fuck else and regroup!”

I guess it doesn’t need to be mentioned the Voice of Reason is oftentimes cranky and impatient.

Still, on the fence I sit, and on the fence I fester. Until very recently where an opportunity presented itself, and a new city broke into my head like the Kool-Aid guy, but with less fanfare.

Providence, Rhode Island! Population — 178,042.

I think I see that many people just getting off the F train and heading into Penn Plaza. How can a city not even reach the 200,000 mark? That’s incredible.

I’m reassured by many friends that I’ll like it there a lot. The fact that there’s a library within a 10 minute range of the house is HUGE. Because priorities. The second most important thing was the guarantee of Dunkin’ Donuts.

You can see what truly matters in life where I’m concerned.

The biggest aspect to consider is that this is all brand new to me. For the longest time, my mentality was that there were two places in the world; New York City and Not New York City. I had no interest in the latter, but I was convinced I was going to live out my days in the former.

When I moved to Brooklyn 4+ years ago, I didn’t bother to get a NY driver’s licence. I decided on the state ID because I figured I’d never have to drive a car ever again.

Need a lift?

Never say never.

Now, I have to shed about 90% of my belongings (not counting for the hardback autographed, 10th Anniversary edition of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods— be real). I have to say buh-bye to the city I love, the city I will always love, unequivocally, but can’t afford.

I have to go through all my papers and deliberate on what to keep vs what to toss. I’d like to toss all of it, but I know that isn’t feasible.

Hey Siri, how do I schedule a home burglary?


If I, As My Own Worst Enemy Can Accept Me, You Can, Too!

When I come in to any temporary gig in the mornings, much like everyone else, I head to my desk and unload the coat, the scarf, the handbag (holy shitballs, Batman! What is IN there? Books!), and I flop into my seat. Computer turned on? Check. Headset ready? Dinky little thing is sitting there, staring at me, begging for love. I oblige because hey, I’m a lover not a fighter.

However, unlike most of the women in the office, I’m shuffling to the coffee machine instead of the rest room. While they check that their hair and make-up is in place, I’m checking that the mug is completely clean, devoid of any remaining sugar on the rim from yesterday’s caffeine-fest.

I can hear them walking up the hallway, talking about the new eyeliner, the new blush (“It’s a cream, Annie! It’s magical!” Sweetheart, it’s not unicorn blood, okay? Take it down a few notches.), and I feel relieved not to be in their “circle”. I’m a low maintenance type of woman. I put on the bare necessities in the morning, because I don’t want people thinking I’m a zombie. I’ve seen enough “Walking Dead” episodes to know that would not end well.

Foundation, eyeliner, and a dab of light crimson on the cheeks. I’m good.

(I once went to the mall, and a woman was doing free makeovers. She told me I was a “Fall”. I responded with, “yeah I do fall a lot, but these feet are new. I’m just working out the gears.” She stopped the makeover early. I think she sensed I wasn’t going to buy anything.)

As far as hair, I have a blissfully short haircut. Lately the worst I have to deal with is looking like Christopher Walken with an Alfalfa cowlick in the back. Why won’t it stay down? STAY DOWN!

I’m sure my simplistic appearance would be rated a 4 by the likes of Drumpf. Not only am I fine with that, I’m relieved.

I stopped reading the magazines that constantly told me what was wrong with me. These “tips” mind you, came up AFTER I bought the crap the same magazines had shilled exactly one issue ago. The articles on how to get fit and build muscle, and then they would complain/judge/mock women who had too much muscle. They’ll inform you of the best ways to “get skinny”, and then put someone on blast for being too skinny.

The best way to get out of this circus is to leave the tent.

I found myself happier when these “resources” weren’t swarmed around me. When I didn’t have these little bees buzzing in my ear, when I had finally swatted them away for good, I was able to get on with my day with my coffee in one hand, book in the other, music in my ears. My “Fuck Off” Wall was up successfully, with no unwanted visitors allowed in. It didn’t cost Mexico a penny!

I have no plastic surgery, because I don’t need it. Plus, self-esteem is a lot cheaper. I’m not getting my eyes lifted, my nose done, my lips fattened, my neck pulled back, none of that bullshit. I’m not exactly auditioning for Miss February, but that’s awesome. Fucking flash on those cameras causes me migraines, anyway.

When I look in the mirror, I see — immediately — my grandparents. I’m told often that the resemblance I bear to my grandmother is remarkable. I always found her to be beautiful and full of laughter. So when people tell me that I look just like her, I take it as the highest of compliments. I mean, seriously? I already got this?!? I’M GOLDEN! Why would I alter that?


There’s going to be days where I’m not going to feel so sparkly. I already know this. I’ve been on this roller-coaster so many times, I know to expect the drops. I’ve had days where I didn’t want to look in the mirror ever. I was ready to toss everything that gave even the remotest of reflections.  But I always got past it.

The point is this; if you would give the finger to a random stranger who told you “you’re not good enough”, why wouldn’t you do that to these “beauty experts”? Toss the magazines, pick up a book, laugh at life hard enough so you get those crinkles by the eyes. That shit is awesome!

The biggest gift we can give ourselves is ourselves. The rest will be handled by the rest.

“Youth and beauty are not accomplishments.” — Carrie Fisher

Anniversaries You Don’t Celebrate

Quit staring at me, lady.  These tears are for Bowie.

It’s January 10th.  I woke up this morning much the way I did exactly a year ago, unaware of what the day holds.  Only, this time round, I didn’t collapse in tears.

I couldn’t tell you what I did a week ago, or even two days ago.  But I remember – painfully – exactly what happened a year ago, where I was, what I was wearing, where I was headed for the day, all of it.  And much like one year ago, the eyes blur from salt water and my skin shrinks against me, as though my body is trying to hug itself out of mourning.

Today deserves no cake, no fanfare, no smile.  Today is a day the music doesn’t die, but rises like a phoenix given life by all it’s followers.

Today we mourn the loss of David Robert Jones.  The Thin White Duke, Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, Jareth.

David Bowie.ziggy-boy

True to heart, it does feel like we lost more than one person.  It feels like we lost a leader, a world of colour and flash, flame and ice, heart and soul.

David had left a thumbprint not just on myself, but practically every friend and lover I have ever known.  He left an everlasting impact on the music, literature, fashion and style, opening minds and hearts alike.

I have often said he knew who I was before I did.  And he had already accepted me, encouraged my voice to come out, loud and proud.  He embodied beauty in his movements.  When he sang, it was a solace – a sanctuary – from the rest of the world that wasn’t so welcoming.

I’ve met him many times, but always only in my dreams.  The conversations we’ve had!  We discussed literature, poetry, the music that’s out now, the decline of humanity as reflected in the upcoming president-elect, whether these shoes go with this skirt.  (“No.  No, darling, you’ve missed the mark.  Go back and put on the Doc Martens.  Be true to yourself.”)

I have an incredibly talented friend named Raquel Cion, who has paid a myriad of tributes to David both before and after he passed.  I didn’t think it was possible, but she hurts for this more than I do.  Ours is a relationship that started at work, but grew because of our mutual love for Mr. Jones.  We have been friends since late 2012, and she was not the one who told me of his passing, but she was the first one I reached out to, to check in on after the blow.


I had found out that morning, and it felt like my body imploded.  It melted into itself from the brain down.  It was my first day on an assignment working in the Empire State Building, and my supervisor noticed immediately the shift in personality.

A soul may be weightless, but boy does the body feel heavy when it’s gone.

Art As Voice

This article has also been posted on Medium.


We see it everywhere we are, even if it isn’t boldly presented as “art”. You’re going to work? You’re bound to see art on billboards, walls, statues, newspapers, magazines, train decor, neighbouring cars… it’s everywhere.

Though you might not hear it, you most definitely are seeing a voice. You’re seeing a stranger’s point of view of the world they inhabit. Much like DNA, each voice — each piece of art — is distinct and individual. They make us aware that there is something bigger out there than we are. It’s expansive. It’s all-encompassing. It’s a hug for the eyes and a kiss to the soul.

This month, I interviewed friend and artist, Jessica Lentz. We have been friends through Facebook, and she sold me an excellent portrait of Salvador Dali. When it comes to her artwork, I am — in no uncertain terms — smitten like a kitten!

It only made sense that I try and poke past the surface, and try to delve in to the talent that IS Jessica! When you’re done reading the interview, hop over to her site! You won’t be sorry!

CC — How old were you when you first got into producing your own art?

JL — I’ve been creative since I was very little. I remember my mother teaching me how to blend 2 play dough colors together to make an entirely new color. I must have been about 3. I started selling my own work while still in college.

CC — What is your favourite medium?

JL — I love trying everything — recently I’ve dabbled in quilling (paper art), wool felting, and doll repainting. I always seem to return to acrylic paint, though. I just have no patience to wait for oils to dry.

CC — What inspires you to create something new?

JL — I’m inspired by so many things — news items, something mentioned by a friend, a color scheme — even boredom.

CC — How do you know when you’ve finished a piece?

JL — My high school art teacher used to say, “You never really finish; you just decide when to stop.”

CC — What area(s) would you like to further explore?

JL — I’ve just started looking into transferring some of my original paintings onto vintage plates. We’ll see how that turns out. I do love trying new mediums, though. Keeps up my skill level.

CC — What areas, if any, do you consider “out of the comfort zone”?

JL — I’d prefer to think of something as not yet attempted. I enjoy a challenge.

CC — What kind of music do you listen to when you create new work?

JL — I love 80s alternative, 90s grunge and Prince!

CC — What books have inspired you?

JL — My favorite series of fiction is “Outlander”, but for years now I tend to read mostly biographies. I think life stories are inspiring, ordinary people who make a positive impact on the world around them.

CC — Who is your favourite artist? Why?

JL — Right now I love Pre-Raphaelite works; I can get lost in paintings by Edmund Blair Leighton and John William Waterhouse.

CC — If you weren’t an artist, what would you be doing?

JL — I’d love to own an old haunted Victorian home and turn it into a bed and breakfast, perhaps with a little antique shop on the side. And in the back yard would be a huge animal sanctuary.

If you find Jessica Lentz as intriguing as I do, feel free to check out her website, as well as her Etsy page. It’s a wonderful way to spend time, getting lured in by her art.

You can find her here for pieces that are all Jessica Lentz, all day!