once
I spent a few days with friends in a skinny three-story flat located in the back of a hundred year-old building on magazine street in new orleans. we ran our hands over the golden peacock wallpaper on the first floor, joked about who might fall while climbing the rickety red metal spiral staircase that led to the second floor and laughed when we saw the old wooden ladder that up to the sliver of sleeping space above the tiny kitchenette. we spent most of our time on that second floor, though. eating brown butter drop donuts from the bakery down the street, talking about all the things we should be out doing instead of laying around eating brown butter drop donuts.
it was our very own version of a barbie dream house, is what it was. gently decayed in all the right places, slightly oddball in all the right ways. as if my nine year-old self had somehow conjured up the place, taking all my forty-something dreams into consideration, and then said, here. you deserve this.
once
I wandered the streets of gjilan, kosovo wishing for albanian words to magically fall out anytime I opened my mouth.
once
we stood at the edge of everything. picked up smooth, oval rocks that fit perfectly in the palm of our hands, threw them into the pacific ocean. because we could.
once
while we were driving south down the 101 to los angeles, I fell hard for some plastic fruit crates in castroville, the artichoke capitol of the world.
once
our car broke down in tennessee. somewhere between nashville and chattanooga around midnight. just whimpered along the shoulder of the highway and sputtered to a stop. I swore the night never felt so deep and dark and ominous than in that particular moment. isn't that always the way? flying down the highway in the middle of the night feels like magic until your car dies and you suddenly come so close to the unknown you can practically feel it slide across your skin.
a fireworks store as big as a warehouse with monster floodlights to match but of course, it was closed. in a pre-cell phone era, there was nothing else to do but walk. towards an exit we thought we remembered passing a few miles back, along the soft, narrow shoulder of a major highway in the middle of what will always be remembered as the most lightless night.
three miles felt like three hundred years. every semi passed with a violence that nearly lifted me off my feet and for an hour we walked like this, wincing at every passing truck and shuffling and swearing and praying until we reached the exit and finally, our salvation: the old roy acuff country inn.
I almost cried when I saw that giant neon cowboy boot.
once
I found a delightful way to burn through an entire roll of quarters.
once
I made a portrait of a stranger outside a coffee shop in portland, oregon. I was nervous about it, hemmed and hawed over whether or not I should approach him. eventually, I got out of my own way. we exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes while I fumbled with my camera. I was awkward, I am sure of it, but I did the thing, thanked him and walked away.
seven years later, I received a message from this same stranger, who had somehow miraculously stumbled onto my work through a friend. he had since become a photographer himself and felt, in some small way, I had sparked the beginning of something in him that day.
once
while wandering the streets of savannah on a tuesday afternoon, I saw a girl wearing floor-length prom gown the color of apricots, a man scream-singing rock the casbah out the window of a beat-up datsun and a woman in a starched calico bonnet so enormous it completely obscured her face.
once
my brother, who was raising two young daughters at the time, said balloons were nothing but heartbreak on a string. in the most dramatic of scenarios, they disappear with a violence that is not soon forgotten. they pop quite suddently or float up into an infinite sky, if the holder loosens her grip for even a second, lost forever and ever, amen.
once
I found myself between buddha and the man in a louisiana junk shop.
once
we bribed our children with cherry slurpees so we could stop and marvel at all the old motels we saw along route 66. this will be the last one, we told them. really. promise. the last one. and they sat in the back seat, mouths stained cherry slurpee red and groaned in protest because they knew. this would not be the last one.
once
I watched a couple in matching floral outfits dance while a zydeco band played. spinning and swinging and reaching for each other as if they'd been dancing together like this for a hundred years. and when they stopped for a few minutes, held each other as if they were the only ones in that tent, that park, that town, as if they were the only ones in the universe.
once
I stood on pell street and waited for something to happen. something, anything. but it was already happening, everywhere, all around me.
once
I saw a kid arguing with his mother outside the photobooths at the carnival. he wanted pictures of himself shirtless, she did not. she held his shirt in her hands, balled it up and thrust it in his face. he kicked at the ground and yelled at her until finally, she gave in, put the token in the slot while her shirtless son slipped behind the curtain.
once
I spent the night at howard finster's paradise garden.
the little rental cottage across the street granted us full twenty-four hour access to the garden so of course we wandered the grounds during magic hour and then during blue hour and then late at night, simply because we could. twin tabby cats slipped in and out of shadows as we walked, string lights hung from the eaves like jewelry but the real prize was the garden by moonlight.
all we could see, could not see, maybe did not want to see, is what I woke up thinking about the next morning.
