tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-117774292024-03-13T20:18:33.856-04:00hula seventyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1829125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-75213924540960224492022-11-07T18:32:00.003-05:002022-11-07T18:40:05.255-05:00the new house<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">hey folks, the new house is <a href="https://www.andreacorronajenkins.com/b-l-o-g"><b>here</b></a>. or if you need a clearer address:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://www.andreacorronajenkins.com/b-l-o-g"><b>https://www.andreacorronajenkins.com/b-l-o-g</b></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">it's not so much a new house as a new addition, built onto a pre-existing structure. it was just easier that way. are you weary of the house analogy? me too. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">anyway, I suppose I'll leave this house standing for a little while, along with all the things in it. at least until I figure out what to do with it. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">seventeen years! seventeen years. it's the end of a personal era. if you read here for any amount of time, I thank you. and I hope you'll say hi over at the new place.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">p.s. nablopomo shall continue over on ye new blog.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">p.p.s. ava and ezra, if you are reading this, if you have read through any portions of this blog at all, thank you and I'm sorry and you're welcome and I love you.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-72711832240696703982022-11-06T22:20:00.012-05:002022-11-07T16:55:04.227-05:00resurrections<div><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #7f7f7f;">this morning, I woke up thinking my bed was a magic cloud and that I should really only leave it for things like bike rides and trips to foreign countries. </span></div><div><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #7f7f7f;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #7f7f7f;">and then I remembered when we first moved back here from portland, how we did not actually have a bed. that, in the throes of moving (and in a moment of blind optimism), we ditched our old one in hopes it might force the mattress gods to smile down on us. but there was no smiling and for months, we slept on an old air mattress, one with multiple tiny holes in it. what this meant, dear reader, is that it had to be re-inflated two or three times during the night, and that most times we woke up millimeters from the floor, felt our backs and hips and shoulders press into what were surely hateful plywood planks beneath renters beige carpet. and so then ward would reach over in the dark, in that drunken sleepy clumsy way I will always remember, to plug the air pump back in. we'd hear the high-pitched whir of electric air and feel our bodies slowly rise upwards, as if supernatural forces were at play. in the wee dark hours of the night I thought, someday we will laugh about this. not now, but someday. but it went on like this for months-- the two of us and that ridiculous situation, every night, with netflix and bowls of cereal and the slow hiss of the mattress, the sound of air slowly escaping, our bodies gradually sinking, ultimately rolling in towards each other.</span></div><div><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #7f7f7f;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #7f7f7f;">but someday is finally now and I am in my magic cloud bed and I am laughing, nary an air pump in sight. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-78023653093735427932022-11-05T22:10:00.006-04:002022-11-06T22:26:35.777-05:00gold, I tell you<span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am holding the idea of that extra hour tonight like a willy wonka golden ticket wrapped around a chocolate bar. I am thinking about that part in the story when it seems all hope is lost and then charlie finds fifty pence in the gutter and his mind runs wild with possibility. how he goes straight to the newspaper shop that sells sweets and cigars and buys one whipple-scrumptious fudgemallow delight and wolfs it down so fast the shopkeeper says hey sonny boy, slow down, you'll make yourself sick. I'm thinking about how he decides to buy one more candy bar, just because, even though he thinks all the golden tickets have already been found. I am of course thinking about the moment he unwraps that bar-- the slight crinkle of paper, that glimmer of gold. </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I no longer care about losing light. I now find the argument around daylight savings time cumbersome and pointless. I treat that extra hour like what it feels like: a whipple-scrumptious fudgemallow delight with a golden ticket inside. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-16371212212699291112022-11-04T18:37:00.002-04:002022-11-05T03:35:22.599-04:00so I'm building a new house<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">and I don't exactly know what it will look like (though I have a pretty good idea) and I'm no coder or anything (I do not have that kind of brain) but </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">a fresh new house for words and pictures, with figurative space for figurative breathing and figurative moving is the (literal) plan. fresh. fresh is a word I love. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">it really seems like I should have more words, more substance to show for seventeen minutes of writing but, here we are. I will admit to googling a few things while the timer was running, things like 'thermal baths in budapest' and 'what does blood sausage' taste like' but the brain works in mysterious ways and I am in no particular place to question it. </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-44417706894712848012022-11-03T23:21:00.003-04:002022-11-05T22:54:21.474-04:00I need a new house<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I can't keep living in this blogspot house. I've been here since 2005. I can't keep living here. renovations are possible, I've certainly considered them. frankly, I think it's a little punk rock to operate via blogspot in 2022. there's something openly defiant about it, which I love. but this house here, this blogspot house is a shell.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-89160497271375275912022-11-02T23:49:00.003-04:002022-11-02T23:49:23.817-04:00seventeen minutes<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">(the timer is running) </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">thinking about:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">a new coat</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">early blogger days</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">tina modotti</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">a teeny tiny list project</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">boiled peanuts</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">substack</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the year 2023</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the word <i>meraviglioso</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">blood orange lipstick</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">joan didion's things</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">sunrise grocery store</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">goldenrod along the highway</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the invasion of the joro spiders</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">cherry cobbler moonshine jam</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">florence, italy</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">a new timer</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">(with eleven minutes to spare)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-44136692829692427762022-11-01T23:17:00.001-04:002022-11-02T10:01:48.146-04:00november is my thursday night<span style="font-family: helvetica;">start easy, they say. or maybe that's just what I say. maybe it's the thing I tell myself in the beginning, when I just need to get out of my own way and on with it already. at some point (during this last hour of the first day of november) </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I had the idea to set a timer for seventeen minutes and just write. and then hit publish, no matter what, which is something I've never done before. and maybe this is a really bad idea but I think it just might be the thing. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-14068338392645905692022-07-28T19:58:00.013-04:002022-07-30T15:11:43.621-04:00as it turns out<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I significantly underestimated the sacredness of this space. though quite frankly, my underestimation looks more like forgetting and then remembering, forgetting and then remembering. back in may, the night before ezra graduated from high school, the subject of the butter came up. that is, the infamous <a href="http://hulaseventy.blogspot.com/2007/08/i-cant-find-butter.html" target="_blank"><b>tub of butter that went missing</b></a> when ezra was just three years-old and <a href="http://hulaseventy.blogspot.com/2007/08/we-found-butter.html" target="_blank"><b>mysteriously showed up a few days later</b></a> inside a lidded pot (which was nestled behind a mess of many lidded pots in the very back of a kitchen cabinet so high up I needed a small step stool myself to reach it). surely ezra was the culprit, though it still seems impossible. we were never able to prove it or explain it and he doesn't remember (or, says he doesn't) and anyway, now it's as embedded in the family folklore as both birth stories, the time I put fake toilet paper in the bathroom and the crazy magic christmas of 2010. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I remembered writing about the butter here and went looking for it in my archives that night. something else I underestimated: the unmitigated joy of reading old posts out loud to the humans you wrote about. one post led to another and before long, we were swimming in stories and details I had long since forgotten. I cannot explain what it felt like to read these pieces out loud to the kids for the first time. the kids, who are now 18 and 22. I cannot explain what it felt like in the room that night-- story after story, their joy, my joy. I cannot overstate this. and in writing this right now, I can feel how much I want to get it right, how tempted I am to overthink it, to leave this draft open and unpublished, to get up and do something else-- to check stupid dumb instagram, to reorganize the book shelves, to wash the three dishes in the sink-- something/anything to keep from thinking through/writing through this thing that happened that was so wonderfully deep and joyful though also strangely (inexplicably, ever so slightly) painful. I want to get it right and I don't think I can.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">in a year, five years, maybe ten, I'll read this and remember. what I know now, after nearly eighteen years of blogging, is that this is all that really matters.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-41176700281593526082021-11-29T18:35:00.003-05:002021-12-18T09:28:02.797-05:00like I said<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51714650464/in/photostream/" title="four"><img alt="four" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51714650464_784e34afe8_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51714651039/in/photostream/" title="three"><img alt="three" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51714651039_80f848a436_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51714860095/in/dateposted/" title="two"><img alt="two" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51714860095_b11f70b3eb_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51713990486/in/dateposted/" title="one"><img alt="one" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51713990486_135bd8af0c_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-8476209410883275712021-11-28T22:42:00.007-05:002021-12-18T09:29:28.686-05:00mike's<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">we are not thinking about tomorrow yet. we are not thinking about how sunday will give way to monday and monday to tuesday and so on and so forth. we are not thinking about the hard things yet. not thinking about the things we did not finish. the things we should have said but didn't or maybe should not have said but did. we are not thinking about these things, these broken things. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">instead we are thinking about leftover birthday cake and christmas trees. about the avocado that might (might) be ripe in the morning. about the story the security guard at the high museum told us, the one about mick jagger. we are thinking about neon yellow ginkgo leaves and the click of the canonet, the last of the mashed potatoes in the bonne maman jar in the back of the fridge and how good it felt to sit in a dark theatre and let <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mzushAOM88" target="_blank"><b>c'mon c'mon</b></a> swallow us whole. we are thinking about the christmas tree farm that was barely a christmas tree farm, more a junkyard than anything, how that seemed to make us love it even more, how a guy named mike handed us a saw and said, any tree, any size, 35 dollars. we are thinking about the sun like honey and the smell of pine on our fingertips and the tree we cut down and tied to the roof of our car with twine that mike gave us. we are thinking about the long shadow of our car on the way home, christmas tree on top and the way we pointed at it: hey look! it's us! it's our tree, we said. tree sap high, sugar high, thanksgiving break high, finally enough sleep high, everyone is home high.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">these are the things we are thinking about.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-65891026809672102602021-11-21T22:45:00.005-05:002021-11-22T07:48:19.722-05:00this is a picture I did not take<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">first written seven years ago on november 5, 2014 and when I read through it again just now (on a whim, while revisiting the archives) I thought, this is why I write here. this is why.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><b>this is a picture I did not take</b></u></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I read with ezra each night at bedtime. as in, he reads his book, I read mine. gone are the days of reading out loud. have I told you? one of my greatest joys in life has been reading roald dahl books out loud to my children. a few months ago, I begged ezra to let me read </span><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/17-9780142410332-3" style="font-family: helvetica;" target="_blank"><b>danny the champion of the world </b></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">out loud to him one last time. reluctantly, he agreed and then, I should add, barely tolerated the nightly reading. so, that was that. the last time, the very very last time and now our reading together looks completely different but that's okay. I'll take what I can get.</span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">after our twenty minutes or so of silent reading (which I have actually grown to love very much), he tossed his book in the general direction of the nightstand and turned to sleep on his left side, just like he always does. and then I turned out the light, said the prayers and sang the two favorite songs, just like I always do. and then, usually, I am quick to get up and out of there because, you know, netflix. big green couch, adult quiet time. I am ashamed to admit just how quick I am to sing those two songs and slip out of the room. I am ashamed but I am still quick.</span><br style="font-family: helvetica;" /><br style="font-family: helvetica;" /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">but tonight, as I felt myself rushing through the prayer, the two favorite songs, I felt that wistful thing, that bittersweet thing, that thing that sometimes overtakes me and I lay there for a little while and I willed myself to memorize every detail. the deep green glow of the alien nightlight, arm slung over a dingy sock monkey, slight curve of a still-small shoulder, the hum and hiss of the humidifier, the sound of his breathing. sandy hair in perfect waves, pencil-drawn waves.</span><br style="font-family: helvetica;" /><br style="font-family: helvetica;" /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">as if I can hold on to any of this, as if any of us can hold on to anything, or any of what happens to us. and I wondered how many times my own mother tried to memorize details like these, if she was able to hold onto any of them, if she felt the way I did tonight. I would give anything to know. but I won't know, I can't know. and it's not okay, it will never be okay but the wondering is all I have. the imagining and the memorizing is all that's left and I'll take what I can get.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-64772145030055152682021-11-20T22:37:00.005-05:002021-11-20T22:56:25.593-05:00your moon is my moon is our moon<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">are you looking at the moon right now? get up, walk outside and look at that thing. that giant, luminous thing. take five deep breaths, take five hundred deep breaths if you need to, then let that crazy bright moon swallow you whole for a few minutes.</span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then march yourself back inside and sleep the sleep of a thousand babies because goodness, there's work to do.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-77996585722177127462021-11-19T21:41:00.003-05:002021-11-20T22:20:33.610-05:00november the nineteenth<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"I insist on being shocked. I am never going to become immune. I think that's a kind of failure to see so much of it that you die inside. I want to be surprised and shocked every time."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">-toni morrison</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-73794973255580944582021-11-18T16:41:00.007-05:002021-11-19T21:42:55.957-05:00addendum<span style="font-family: helvetica;">re: when the world is too much-- </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">in addition to<a href="http://hulaseventy.blogspot.com/2021/11/dear-self.html" target="_blank"><b> finding solace in moments written on paper</b></a> (things for remembering)-- I might also recommend a spoonful of brie. just one. eaten slowly, mindfully. not that this is news, but I have come to the conclusion that brie is like if butter and cheese had a beautiful baby and I swear I felt my knees buckle in the kitchen just now, felt the weight of the world lift for just a second. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-11023973276109904012021-11-17T09:54:00.006-05:002021-11-18T17:56:29.601-05:00the secret lives of secret lives<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/5224541819/in/dateposted/" title="*"><img alt="*" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/5241/5224541819_7069052628_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/49541271901/in/dateposted/" title="//14//"><img alt="//14//" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49541271901_0f02069f2e_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/49533337312/in/dateposted/" title="//12//"><img alt="//12//" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49533337312_e5c9b03eef_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/5495347886/in/dateposted/" title="wall of good"><img alt="wall of good" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/5254/5495347886_f65d724b09_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/48116134796/in/dateposted/" title="lesser known"><img alt="lesser known" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48116134796_310d78fe99_b.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/46569668704/in/dateposted/" title="january"><img alt="january" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/7820/46569668704_15435e16c7_z.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/49832537602/in/dateposted/" title="87//365"><img alt="87//365" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49832537602_1e30a5c811_z.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51277620360/in/dateposted/" title="145//365"><img alt="145//365" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51277620360_6f669e7838_z.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/48116180487/in/dateposted/" title="butter"><img alt="butter" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48116180487_705b0900d5_z.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">look, I don't have all the answers and certainly my finger is on no particular pulse, but I know a poem when I see one. and I know I'm partial to the back stories and the back sides of things. I once stood in the shadow of the formidable flatiron building in new york but was more taken with the nearby happenstance of a canary yellow shovel against a dirty brick wall. my proclivities are my proclivities.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-4730892896678250762021-11-16T17:46:00.002-05:002021-11-16T18:39:40.711-05:00(yet)<span style="font-family: helvetica;">I want to write about turning fifty but I don't think I have it in me. (yet).</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-35358394126218644032021-11-15T09:29:00.001-05:002021-11-15T09:46:43.008-05:00november the fifteenth<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51219007951/in/dateposted/" title="121//365"><img src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51219007951_06ac2659c7_o.jpg" width="690" alt="121//365"></a><script async src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js" charset="utf-8"></script>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I keep coming back to the idea that I should have been someone else. I should have been something else. a high school art teacher. a florist. an art director. a mail carrier. a librarian. anything and/or anyone but what and/or who I am now, which is a person writing a blog post on a monday morning, in between looking for part-time jobs and hustling for more freelance photography work and googling 'where to sell old gold chains from the eighties' and 'what to do with your life when you don't know what to do with your life'.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-55200064279781358022021-11-14T19:56:00.001-05:002021-11-15T09:30:51.161-05:00still<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/38047791026/in/dateposted/" title="nablopomo"><img alt="nablopomo" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/4466/38047791026_0693223b27_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/37544297724/in/dateposted/" title="Untitled"><img alt="Untitled" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/4519/37544297724_454f93ca66_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/31234121461/in/dateposted/" title="november"><img alt="november" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/5791/31234121461_4f1f890a2f_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/22402649909/in/dateposted/" title="miraculous, always"><img alt="miraculous, always" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/678/22402649909_6f9b0085a2_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/5150296680/in/dateposted/" title="friday*"><img alt="friday*" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/4071/5150296680_21ee4da343_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-45630702032918790492021-11-13T22:23:00.006-05:002021-11-15T10:13:14.545-05:00peak<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/2987208331/in/album-72157604692061234/" title="where to look"><img alt="where to look" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/3156/2987208331_9db01aa8b7_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">it's hard to do anything else right now when the trees are doing things. when they are begging you to come outside, to stand underneath them and look up.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-71295175420188650482021-11-12T18:07:00.009-05:002021-11-18T10:35:37.817-05:00light bulbs<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am not exactly ready to talk about the woman who approached me at target last week. me, flustered and sweaty-faced after twenty ridiculous minutes in the dressing room (first time since the before times), two ridiculous sweaters in my cart, neither of which I had any intention of buying. I am not ready to talk about the little hand-written laminated notecard the woman showed me that said something about needing food for her babies. I am not ready to admit that I followed her to the baby food aisle, even though I knew this was a common scam. not ready to talk about how she dropped container after container of baby formula in my cart, nearly one hundred dollars' worth before I finally found my voice and offered to purchase her a gift card instead. I am not ready to talk about how angry she seemed at the thought of a gift card, how much this confused me, how it had me questioning the ethics of gift cards for people in need, wondering if I'd missed something. not ready to talk about how she decided she wanted cash instead, how I obediently followed her to the front of the store to the ATM, how the whole thing put me in a trance-like state, how it felt like I was watching the entire scene unfold from the rafters of target. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am not exactly ready to talk about how she just disappeared. how I wandered the store afterwards, in a daze, pretending, inexplicably, to talk on my phone. how I stood in the aisle with the light bulbs and called my mother. my mother, who has been dead for nine years now. not ready to discuss how the number is no longer in service, of course, but the recording still plays and right there, in front of the general electric 4-packs of soft whites and LED bulbs and incandescents, I whispered into the phone, mom? mom? are you there? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am not ready to talk about how, for a second, I thought she might answer.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-15786366267661612022021-11-11T18:39:00.002-05:002021-11-13T22:24:16.026-05:00how<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU_ytuzgk0eqplogxgjdbNRurjeamkUAr2CW_wA5KiRZZUN5U6hRAt632sEWTxOsw-8JVMHS-Fha9hQqsvzh0IU-F8q_S-1IZlHxElvQy9Fw_2Y5auRhsxzsVm78tZolXnSX32/s690/IMG-4606-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU_ytuzgk0eqplogxgjdbNRurjeamkUAr2CW_wA5KiRZZUN5U6hRAt632sEWTxOsw-8JVMHS-Fha9hQqsvzh0IU-F8q_S-1IZlHxElvQy9Fw_2Y5auRhsxzsVm78tZolXnSX32/s16000/IMG-4606-2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">spotted while I was walking home yesterday and then, the asking, the asking, the asking, and the singing in my brain, from the moment I bent down to pick up that card to the second I reached the front door--</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">how </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">how</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">how</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">how is it already november </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">how </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-41112688163010113742021-11-10T18:45:00.003-05:002021-11-10T18:45:50.176-05:00I did not write this<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">but I sure wish I had. today I share with you the very best thing I have read in a good while.</span></p><p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><u>Elegy for the Last Bottle of Ranch</u></b></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This is not a poem about willpower. Though I've been an After a handful of times. Laid on my side with barely a handful of flesh to offer up-- nothing for my lover to cup & didn't even have to suck in my gut. Just sat down in jeans-- without thinking. Do you want me to sigh & say, Those were the days. We both do. But I was unsatisfied then, too. Thought, Just a few more pounds. Almost there. More running nowhere, more core strength. How I balanced hands & knees on inflatable balls--like some skinny, circus elephant. Trained to please the crowd. Hours of concrete & cattle prod. & still I stood before the mirror, reshaping my form, wishing myself clay before the kiln. Like the day I decided to cut my own bangs. The thrill of the scissor's snap each time I evened out the line more & more until Dear God someone stop me please. Little fringe of hair, cheap stage curtains stuck in midair. How I tire of this performance. & yet I can't stop auditioning for the lead. Practicing after school for months. Doris Day's I Enjoy Being a Girl with a hairbrush for a mic. All hope & no irony & I never even made it to Try-Outs. Kept that little wish for myself. Meant for someone else. Let Someone Else be better than. Let her be this, be that. Be thin, be flat. & for once just let me enjoy being abundant, fecundate. A venus figurine made flesh. Let me toss the last bottle of ranch in the trash only because I've learned to make my own. Greek yogurt & a healthy dab of Duke's. Fresh dill & lemon & garlic. Better than store-bought. Who cares what's hidden in her valleys. Come try my mac & cheese, my spring pea risotto. Join me in the kitchen as I hand roll fettuccine. Let only dough be paper thin. I'll pour the red. Glass after glass for the ample-assed. See what I have tasted & tasted and not one goddamn drop of me was wasted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="http://www.danielledetiberus.com/"><b>Danielle DeTiberus</b></a></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-87091599880570334802021-11-09T14:15:00.006-05:002021-11-09T19:38:30.392-05:00forever and always<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51626180563/in/dateposted/" title="bywater"><img alt="bywater" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51626180563_529364900e_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51628688326/in/photostream/" title="city of bridges"><img alt="city of bridges" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51628688326_dfde5288a1_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51631602014/in/dateposted/" title="long live annies"><img alt="long live annies" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51631602014_6a571d4b4c_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51631813095/in/photostream/" title="smoke break"><img alt="smoke break" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51631813095_47469a0efa_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51634318514/in/photostream/" title="82nd avenue"><img alt="82nd avenue" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51634318514_1f96f34c8b_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51636797130/in/photostream/" title="tennessee"><img alt="tennessee" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51636797130_bc35557283_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51638594468/in/photostream/" title="portland"><img alt="portland" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51638594468_a2205b8123_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I once heard a fellow instant photographer say it would be cheaper to smoke crack and collect diamonds than to shoot instant film. where is the lie? I spot no lie. an exaggeration maybe, but nary a lie.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">still, I come back to instant film, again and again. I order a pack or two when I can afford it, load up the the SX-70 and shoot when it feels right. twice a year, in the spring and fall, I share my favorites in the <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/roidweek2021/" target="_blank">beloved, long-running <b>polaroid week</b></a> pool over on ye olde flickr. submissions are limited to two polaroids per day, which means I put thought into what I choose to share. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">reader, I have grown to love this ritual.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">above polaroids were submissions for fall polaroid week 2021, new orleans and portland strongly represented here, years 2017 and 2021, respectively. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the truth is that I'd rather have polaroids than all the diamonds in the world.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-38437448007349418102021-11-08T19:16:00.010-05:002021-11-10T18:22:31.567-05:00I did not<span style="font-family: helvetica;">found written in my moleskine, january 10, 2021:</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I did not squander today</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">though it felt like I did</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I woke up at eight, then coffee</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">put myself together</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">showed up for the first virtual book club</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">felt vulnerable for an hour</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">fixed myself a real breakfast</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">something something quiche, cara cara orange</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">showed up for virtual church</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">talked, even though I didn't know folks</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then, communion</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">baked a batch of cinnamon rolls</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">tried to wake ezra up before noon</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">reveled in the pretend fire</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that can be turned on with a remote control the size of a pack of gum</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">cat napped on the couch</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">showed up for another zoom</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">books with my friend joel--</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">joel from england</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">called ava, made plans</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">bundled up, walked to the library</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">noticed things--</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">birds</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">cigarette</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">sunlight</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">face mask</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">returned two books, picked up one</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the complete collected poems of lucille clifton 1965-2010</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">walked home, noticed things--</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">birds </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">cigarette</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">sunlight</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">face mask</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">came home to that almost lovely</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">fake fire</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that lives in the fireplace </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">collapsed on the couch</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">contemplated writing</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">pulled together dinner instead</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">read poems by rita dove instead</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">dozed off while</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the makeshift casserole</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">warmed in the oven</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">cleaned the kitchen</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">tried to listen to a rebecca solnit book</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">realized I might not be</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">an audio book person</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">made a mental note to remember</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">something she said about </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">how </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">present you are when you are lost</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">helped ezra with his essay</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then, dinner</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then, couch</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then, book</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then, cleaning</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">then, the feeling that inevitably comes </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">at the end of the day</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that squandered feeling</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11777429.post-76349388696603933212021-11-07T22:24:00.002-05:002021-11-15T09:50:04.142-05:00dear self<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/girlhula/51210517632/in/dateposted/" title="118//365"><img alt="118//365" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51210517632_fc887718af_o.jpg" width="690" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><div><br /></div><div><div style="color: #7f7f7f; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12.1px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">write down the things you want to remember. scribble them down on pieces of paper, scraps of whatever is around, whatever you have. write the moments down, no matter how small they seem. fold them up and put them in an envelope or stuff them in a jar or cigar box or whatever you have. let it be messy. let it not be this precious thing, but this necessary, practical thing you do as often as you brush your teeth. </span></div><div style="color: #7f7f7f; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12.1px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #7f7f7f; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12.1px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">revisit whenever you need to but mostly when the world is too much. dump them all out on the floor and read them one by one. the world will still be too much but you will be sitting there in a pile of paper magic.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1