last of the last

I find great comfort in the few days before november gives way to december. gourds are still on the table, leftover cranberry sauce still in the fridge. the leaves are still turning here in georgia. I am considering december. that is all. just considering. 

tomorrow, I'll step into it. tonight, I am still considering.

better than drugs

I had an idea for a project tonight-- I stopped everything, wrote down everything, emptied my brain. it felt good, it felt right.

this is your reminder to stop everything when the idea comes. to ride the wave, give yourself over, let new blood rush in. my reminder is your reminder is my reminder. I still believe in projects and ideas.

mood

april in new york

the way I saw myself tumbling down subway steps, every time. knees buckling, bag flying, limbs folding soundlessly beneath me. the reactions of people standing on the platform. the way I might fight to recover balance, pretend it did not happen.

-------

the way the smallest kindnesses undid me. the man on the train, traveling with his family into the city, lightly tapping me on the shoulder, offering me his seat. earlier, they'd quietly marveled as we passed the brooklyn bridge.  

-------

the way peter's handcrafted mug felt in my hands as I sat in jen's kitchen, coffee (hot) sweetened with brown sugar. window with a fire escape, whole of the day ahead of me. is there a more beautiful thing?

sometimes

I hate writing.

I love having written.

dorothy parker

(thank you, tracy)

fifty, celebrated

five decades, a fraction represented here. yesterday: this guy, fifty. we celebrated big and there are stories to tell. 

photobooth friday

photobooth friday! it's been a minute. 

struck photobooth gold in the city of new orleans, folks. first family photobooth strip in four years, first solo photobooth strip of ezra in four years and the last photobooth strip of ward in his forties. gold, gold, all of them, gold.

seen

day eighteen

there will be hours, I think. hours and hours in the car to do things. seven hours to new orleans, plenty of time. I can read and write, mend jeans, maybe even edit. balance the computer on my lap and edit shoots while we fly down the highway. I have done this before, though with minimal success. still, I think. I could get so much work done. I stuff my black canvas bag with books and zines, sashiko thread. I pack a sketchbook, a small pouch of supplies, my computer, external drives. I am hopeful.

but once we hit the highway, I can only sit and stare. for hours, I sit like this. maybe sing along with the music a little. mostly, I let my mind run til it can't anymore. until the sky turns pink and the headlights of oncoming cars pop on and I am drowsy and drunk from the quiet. I can't even bring myself to read. we are in alabama before I realize maybe this is good for me. maybe this is exactly what I need.

day seventeen

birds
coffee
embroidery
avocados
artichokes
public radio
hot tea
hot sauce
historical fiction
orange marmalade
documentaries
tomatoes
fleetwood mac
reading glasses
mornings

(things I love now that I didn't thirty years ago)

it's true

all I really want to do is read books and ride bikes and listen to records so I am basically just my fourth grade self, all over again.

it's 9:59

and I've done it again. I've waited until the end of the day to write and I have nothing left. not a thing. why, why do I do it. all I can think about now is the bed and the book and the tee-shirt and the way I will crawl into all three of them within the hour.

three polaroids

day thirteen

the problem is that I wait until the end of the day to begin. when I am feeling all used up and my eyes are bleary from editing and my brain is weary from thinking and my body is tired from living.

I used to come alive at night. after everyone else went to bed and quiet fell over the house, my brain lit up like a neon sign. I felt like I could do anything. make anything, write anything. all my magic unfurled after midnight.

there is no magic unfurling after midnight now. there is actually no magic unfurling anytime after nine. it is currently 9:08pm and I am telling you people right now, I am struggling. after nine, everything looks wrong, feels wrong. and what I have come to realize is that things feel wrong because I have no optimism left. these days, I have a very fixed daily amount. once it's gone, it's gone. but what I also know now is that if I just slip into bed and read my book and fall asleep, the optimism will magically regenerate and return in the morning. there will be coffee and a fresh chunk of daily optimism for the taking. most of the time, anyway.

some days, I'm careless with it. I squander it, spend it all in one place. as if I have no concept of what it means to pace. sometimes it runs out long before the day is over and I am forced to run on faulty reserves. this never ends well. and my family has come to recognize this part of who I am. once, when we were all sitting around a bonfire in the backyard, staring in silence at flames dying and embers cooling in a fat pile of ash, ezra said, "look. it's mom's optimism."

and I laughed, because it was true.

well, I asked

me, after dinner: "so, what should I write about tonight?"

ava: "slurpees."

ezra: "define slurpees."

ward: "love. you should write about love."

ward: "talk about trump. you love trump."

ezra: "you should also probably write about how I'm almost done folding all these paper cranes."

ava: "polygamy."

ward: "make one of your lists. you should make a list of um, movies."

ava: "toilets. public toilets."

ladies and gentlemen, this be my monday night. 

day eleven

I watched this today and it made me happy. (november, two years ago)

friday night

I had the sads last night and nothing helped. not the tater tots, not the hot shower, not the book in bed. not even claire de lune loud in my headphones. sometimes the sads are like that, though. you just have to sit in them for a little while, let yourself feel them.  

I thought about a midnight walk, I thought about cutting my hair. I thought about how good it might feel to take a pair of scissors and cut my braids right off, I thought about the sound the scissors against my hair might make, about the jolt I'd get from the sight of braids in the sink. that jolt appealed to me. 

I thought about writing, about how the push of a pen against paper feels. I thought about posting here. and then I fell into a deep, boneless sleep and now it's morning and there's sunlight and coffee and miraculously, banana bread in the oven. I made it to the other side, braids intact. 

good morning.

twitter, condensed

today, on twitter:
growing up physically surrounded by books can be good for you 
and breast milk is a scientific miracle
and silent book clubs are active
and 1993 might have been the greatest year for music
and the letter 'b' in the word 'debt' was added centuries ago for aesthetic effect
and vivian maier saw things in color sometimes

and there was another mass shooting
and voter suppression is choking us here in the state of georgia
and racism is choking us here in the united states of america
and the president is dumb
and we the people have had it

day seven

find a tree that screams color, with leaves so bright they could be on fire. sunlight overhead is a plus, though not necessarily required. position yourself directly underneath this tree. position yourself as close to the trunk as you can get. 

look up. 

(repeat as needed)

come through, georgia

today, I voted. and I voted with my daughter who was voting for the very first time. and for the first time in a really long time, I felt hopeful. 

get out there, folks

vote 

vote

vote 

vote

vote

vote

vote

day four

once, my dad told me he'd read something about how just the act of peeling an orange had the power to boost your mood. something about the senses, he said. the way it smells, the way it feels in your hands.

I think about this a lot. I peel oranges slower now. I take my time, I do not rush. 

I believe in oranges.

three polaroids

untitled

a list of possible titles for possible posts for this month of nablopomo november:

I Was That Mother Once

The Power Of The Stevies (Wonder, Knicks)

Let's All Move To Albuquerque

Books, Books Will Save Us

293 Sufjan Songs, Ranked

So My Kid Has A Writer In Him Fighting To Get Out

On Broken Kitchen Sink Pipes And Rage And The Unexpected Healing Power Of Clear Packing Tape

On Words That Are So Overused I Don't Even Know What They Mean Anymore

On Loving Cats That Will Lick The Dorito Dust Off Your Fingertips

They Can't All Be Beautifully Written Pieces, They Just Can't

On Coming Around To Cooking, Finally

On Lovingly Cultivating A Record Collection That Makes You Feel Alive Every Single Day

On The Belief That This Blog Is like The Little Cabin In The Woods I Come Back To Every Year

here's where I begin

with nablopomo, unbelievably, after seven months of (unintentional) silence here, with a handful of words about a yearly ritual that I cannot, will not give up. a post a day, every day, for the month of november.

hello! I am still alive.