18 February 2020

17//365

17//365

once

I insisted we ride the elevator from the basement level to the top floor because it made me feel a little bit like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

17 February 2020

16//365

Untitled

once

while we were driving across the country, we stumbled onto a fence full of shoes in the middle of nowhere. or, what felt like the middle of nowhere. we'd been on the road nine days and were somewhere in the state of california on highway 67. but also, in the ether of the great in between. in between portland, oregon and atlanta, georgia. in between old city and new city. old home, new home. old life, new life. here, there. invariably, nowhere and everywhere.

16 February 2020

15//365

Untitled

once

we drove in pouring rain all the way to the end of sanibel island for orange crunch cake. on the drive back, we rounded a corner and found the sky on fire. we did not hem, we did not haw, we promptly pulled over and got out of the car.

I stood there, face full of pink fire and thought, this is what we live for. 

15 February 2020

14//365

Untitled

once

I spotted a man in a lemon yellow jester's hat at the local library. just walking around, armful of books, head full of jester. on a weekday morning, no less. he was not there with children, he did not lead the story hour. he was just a man, checking out books. in a lemon yellow jester's hat.

I got no work done that morning. I had no right but I wanted answers. 

14 February 2020

13//365

13//365

once

while we were sitting at the table in the backyard, ava told me that blowing bubbles calmed her. like maybe the same way smoking does for some people. 

I couldn't help but think of a world where people step outside to take a break and blow bubbles every couple of hours to calm their nerves. or hold small plastic bubble wands between their fingers while they knock back a few drinks at the pub down on the corner.

13 February 2020

12//365


12//365

once

I stopped to make a photograph of this liquor store because in that moment, it looked exactly like how I felt.

12 February 2020

11//365

/red//eight///

once

I followed a man down the street because he was wearing an old band uniform.

11 February 2020

10//365

window seat

once

I took the train home from new orleans and found myself riding past old cemeteries at sunrise. 

which, of course, felt like the soft insides of a southern poem. 

10 February 2020

9//365

Untitled

once

ava bought a used book at the tea house and when she opened it, found a small photobooth frame wedged deep between the yellowed pages. pictured in the frame was a youngish man with longish hair. nineteen seventy something, I am sure of it.

it was as good as finding money. and it felt a little bit like maybe we'd completed some sort mysterious lost and found circuit-- what, with the lost chinatown polaroid and all. 

as if balance, somehow, had been restored. 

09 February 2020

8//365

Untitled

once

in columbus, georgia, I found myself on a path that bordered the chattahoochee river. as I stood and looked out over the water, I heard a soft whizzing sound overhead. I looked up, saw a pair of dangling legs and realized they belonged to a man ziplining over the river from the state of alabama over to where I stood in the state of georgia. 

there were others, too. in harnesses and hats, woohooing their way back and forth, from alabama to georgia, georgia to alabama. bodies in the sky on a saturday afternoon, attempting flight.

as we are all trying to do, I suppose, in our own particular way. 

08 February 2020

7//365

Untitled

once

I met a couple just trying to make ends meet.  

07 February 2020

6//365

Untitled

once

while on the road to florida, we stopped to pick up a few things. sunscreen, bubbles, cheetos. while we were shopping, ezra found a shell pink shirt with a pale yellow sun on the front. worlds different than any article of clothing he'd ever picked out for himself before. 

this will be my summer shirt, he said.  
this will be the beginning of my new look.

I threw it in the cart. wanted to smile but didn't. he put it on as soon as we got back to the hotel, barely took it off all summer long. the slightest pivot, the smallest beginning. 

06 February 2020

5//365

Untitled

once

while we were driving back from the georgia coast, I made ward pull over for peaches. even though we didn't believe there would be peaches. and if they'd had any, we didn't believe they'd be any good.

this is the power of the hand-painted sign.

05 February 2020

4//365


Untitled

once

I lost a polaroid portrait of ava in chinatown, somewhere between pell and mott street, I think. She'd stood at the mouth of doyers while sunlight sliced through buildings behind her, turned to look at me and, I made the picture. and then let out a long, slow breath like I do when I think something might be good.

I dumped my bags upside down that night, I couldn't believe it was gone. I have never lost a polaroid, never. ever. I wonder if someone stopped to pick it up. if they took it home, tacked it up on the wall. if they make up stories about it. I wonder if it'll eventually end up at the fleamarket in a box with all the other found photographs. 

I wonder if I remember her more vividly in that moment precisely because I lost the polaroid. 

these are all things I wonder.

04 February 2020

3//365

Untitled

once

while I was at the laundromat, I was approached by an older man. your clothes will dry faster if you put smaller amounts into multiple dryers, he said. I knew this already but smiled, said thank you. 

twenty minutes later we stood at neighboring formica tables, folding towels, stacking them in small, soft towers. he began, in earnest, to talk about his family. about his daughter, his granddaughters. about divorce. about disney world. his sweatshirt was the color of eggs, faint plume of grease down the front. I have pictures, he said. and then packed a blue plastic basket with his folded laundry and promptly left. 

ten minutes later, he returned, thick stack of photos in hand. one hundred, maybe two hundred total. he saw me, his eyes lit up. 

what else could I do but look at every single one? 

03 February 2020

2//365

powdered sugar

once

I sat with two friends at a small white table at cafe du monde in new orleans. we drank cups of hot coffee with chicory and ate beignets until our fingers were sticky with sugar and evening light dimmed to blue. I noticed our server outside the cafe on a smoke break, perched on top of a cement street bollard. legs dangling, cigarette dangling. I wandered outside, asked her how long she'd been working. too long, she said and I nodded. I looked down, noticed her boots. pointed my camera at them and she smiled. 

powdered sugar, she said.
I can't get away from it. 
it's everywhere. 
everywhere.

02 February 2020

1//365

once

once

I spent an entire saturday morning in bed reading once by wim wenders, a book that was given to me several years ago by my good friend jen, a book I have read many times. I wondered, could I write small stories like this every day for one year? share photographs and stories of places I have been, people I have been and/or known, things seen and/or felt, could I do this every day for one year?

yes, I thought maybe I could, maybe I should.