The Search for Ink


Who would have guessed that it would be such a challenge to find a local store that sells fountain pen ink?

Until a few days ago, when I received my very first fountain pen, I didn’t even know that they use special ink. Fortunately, while searching for a video on how to fill my pen, I learned this fact. 

The nearest stationery store didn’t have any, Office Depot doesn’t keep it in store, and after several minutes on hold with Michael’s we decided to just head up there and check for ourselves. 

I found some sweet washi tape rolls for my card making endeavors, but the spot for the single type of fountain pen ink they carry was empty. 

At least we found it at the Hobby Lobby down the street from the first Michael’s, otherwise we’d have had to drive another ten miles to the next nearest one, which also happens to be by a Hobby Lobby. I never thought about that before. 

Anyway, we got home after stopping for frozen yogurt, and I filled my pen. It writes beautifully, thank you. Now to put some fancy inks on my Amazon wish list…


Be Careful Out There


Happy Easter


My husband made me this awesome basket. He’s so amazing. And Stanley was pretty dang interested. 


Two Things

Would you like a greeting card?

Because I would like to make and send you one. 

I mean, unless this gets way out of control. 

You can email me at rsativus@yahoo.com with your mailing address. 

But please keep in mind this may take a while. I’ll email you once I’ve sent your card off. 

The other is this bag I saw at the store:


The Knot of Sadness

When the servant knocks upon the door of every single room
And the nightshade blossom does appear to you
Your scent lingers in the air like an aftertaste of guilt
From the day we beat upon the bucket made of tin
And its approximation of a drum began.

The knot of sadness rose up my body from my stomach
And I choked the fierce repulsive bitterness back down.
The rhino stayed by my side the whole night through
And I felt the carnal rattle of no future in my chest
As I learned loss makes a cynic of each and every one.

I hear echoes in the dimness where the colors disconnect
And the bluntness of your words cuts like a knife.
Now follow me on the long and winding road
Where your polar divinity is clearest crystal
And use death’s eraser on us all.

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Dreams of a Memoir

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I do not recommend reading a book on writing memoir right before you go to bed. I did it last night, and it was a mistake.

I didn’t even read that much; just a few pages, and then I was like, nah, dude, I’ll read this novel that I also downloaded when I finished Everything We Keep the other night. So I read that for a little while, and it was fine. I got sleepy, I put the Kindle down, I closed my eyes, and next thing I knew, it was five hours later and I had to pee and I had been having some pretty messed up dreams.

I’m pretty sure that every single bad decision I made in my late teens and early twenties came back to haunt me in my sleep last night. And I didn’t just dream what happened; oh no, my good ole brain had to go and make everything a thousand times worse.

Brain: you had an amicable breakup in the middle of dinner at a restaurant then finished eating together and went home separately? Not anymore! Now you’re screaming and naked and fighting for the entertainment of thirty thousand people!

Yeah. That kind of thing.

I woke up feeling the deepest darkest feelings of failure that I’ve ever felt when I’m not in the midst of a bout of depression. Miserable. Like everything I’d done was wrong.

I slept a little bit more and then I was okay for the most part, albeit still haunted by the sensations those dreams had left me.

And then it went away, as dreams and their effects so often do.

It’s funny now because I fell down an internet rabbit-hole this afternoon and ended up reading about James Frey and A Million Little Pieces. I’d somehow missed that story before.