some things seen at howard finster's paradise garden:
a tortoise shell
a prosthetic leg
bits of twists and twirls of ancient foil
at least a hundred drawer pulls
an old wooden basketball goal
two calico cats
a thousand tools
a thousand bottles
rusted chandeliers
a bouquet of cattails
a small bicycle basket
a few broken gumball machines
a large wooden starburst
pickle jars filled with plastic easter eggs
howard's brushes, crusted with paint
a dozen old lamps, hanging from the ceiling
a giant concrete boot
a hand-painted cadillac
a painting of willie nelson
a headless virgin mary
(it's a magical place)
thirteen polaroids I loved from fall polaroid week:
one (home surfaces, michelle gd)
two (untitled, kari)
three (which way from here, jenna gersbach-king)
four (untitled, clare marie bailey)
five (sneaker waves and monoliths, ben innocent)
six (c, ouen)
seven (untitled, andy jenkins)
eight (untitled, meredith wilson)
nine (back flip, maija karisma)
ten (outback at dusk, susan)
eleven (washing you, kevin o'donnell)
twelve (untitled, mari-ann curtis)
thirteen (point reyes, heather polley)
(more favorites here, forever I love polaroid week, forever and ever, amen)
seven photographs recently loved:
one (nuevo laredo, mexico, 1996)
two (let's show the world we love each other)
three (another for the summer legs)
four (find me here)
five (delhi, india)
six (sunset conversations)
seven (nice, france)
eleven robert frank photographs I love:
mary, 1957
detroit, 1955
london (hearse), 1951
road to la paz, peru, 1948
new orleans (trolley), 1955
mary, pablo and andrea, 1954
andrea, pablo and mary, 1955
political rally-chicago, 1956
sagamore cafeteria, new york, 1949
june leaf, novia scotia, 1976
parade- hoboken, new jersey, 1955
(rest in peace, mr. frank, and thank you for endless inspiration)
strangers who have inspired me, part one:
the older woman at the thrift store yesterday who tried out the pogo stick and landed, quite spectacularly, with a loud crash near the office supplies but just laughed and got right back up
the guy on the skateboard who moved with his entire body, like a dancer, on a sliver of sidewalk, who sailed past gas stations and drug stores and so many dumb cars as if he was riding some invisible wave
the guy in our neighborhood who walks every single day, slowly, deliberately, as if his life depends on it
notable items found on maira kalman's inspiration board:
a small metal placard that said OPEN
hotel linens used as paint rags
a pair of small black socks
a dog named susan
a pink ticket with the number 32
a postcard of a pair of ruby red lips
a drawing titled last night I dreamt a rhino came to my house
a postcard of a tree in full bloom
one black glove with No. 6 painted on it in white
old photographs of boys wearing hats
old photographs of girls with silk bows in their hair
two rusted skeleton keys
a piece of paper that said REMEMBER THIS MOMENT
a cardboard sign with a picture of a hot dog on it
a toothbrush still in the package
a piece of gold foiled paper
a collected leaf
a photograph of a child with a box on his head
a postcard collection of erupting volcanoes
a pink post-it with the words good lunch scribbled on it
a polaroid of a tin bucket
a typed list I could not read
a ruta baga seed packet
a mixed california poppies seed packet
a flashcard that read 5+9
a collection of candy-colored buttons
a wax bag with pink and white stripes
a mammoth green tassel
a red turkish fez with the words HEY WILLY embroidered on it
a small white paper apron
a little lulu comic book
a candy bar poem
a collection of photographs of dancers (including the one that inspired the cover of this book)
a collection of photographs of children with things on their heads
a small metal placard that said SHUT
(as seen at the high a few weeks ago)
(maira kalman, I love you)
nine photographs recently loved:
one (we often find ourselves fascinated by stories told by our elders)
two (one step forward, two steps back)
three (rahman, july 14, 2019)
four (somewhere along the rio negro, amazonas)
five (how strawberries end up on our table)
six (my dear friend jen, big sur)
seven (great-grandmother and great-grand daughter, born on the same day)
eight (from a myth of two souls)
nine (untitled, 2018)
things my dad taught me:
how to be goofy
how to be generous
how to have fun, how to have so much fun
how to shoot a basketball
how to root for the underdog
how to be passionate
how make people feel like they belong
how to ride a bicycle
how to dance
how to tell a story
how to listen
how to be humble
how to persevere
how to drive a stick shift
how to roadtrip on a shoestring budget
how to clean a house (or, how to rage vacuum)
how to build a fire pit
how to do a lot with a little
how to believe in myself, really believe in myself
how to push myself
how to do hard things
how to serve others
how to have compassion
how to love God
how to be thankful
how to laugh
how to cry
things my mother taught me:
how to be silly
how to be generous
how to pick strawberries and blackberries
how to make a lot with a little
how to bake brownies from scratch
how to make a home feel like home
how to make birthdays inordinately special
how to cultivate collections
how to honor family heirlooms
how to make the library a regular part of life
how to keep a prayer journal
how to road trip on a shoestring budget
how to wrap presents all pretty-like
how to paint nails all pretty-like
how to look at things realistically
how to make christmas feel like magic
how to put on a pair of pantyhose
how to throw a humdinger of a yard sale
how to rock mary kay cosmetics
how to work the fleamarket like a pro
how to bake red velvet cake
how to bake gooey butter cake
how to make groceries stretch for days
how to care for people
how to love God
how to be thankful
how to laugh
how to cry
I miss you, mom.
