114//365

once

I booked a hotel room with a clawfoot tub the color of eggshells and a window with a fire escape and a view of the streets below because on my fortieth birthday, I needed to feel a little bit like I was l living the life my fourteen year-old self dreamt of.

108//365

once

I sat on the concrete stoop of a friend's house in north portland. realized I'd seen more rainbows in the one year since we'd moved to the pacific northwest than in all my combined years of living in illinois, ohio and georgia.

100//365

once

we sat on the curb at the corner of sandy boulevard and sacramento street. ava on one side, ezra on the other, both of them still small enough to curve their bodies into mine. the parades, the portlanders said. oh, you shouldn't miss the parades. you must see the parades. the junior rose parade, the starlight parade, the grand floral parade. they went on and on about the parades and we were brand new to the city so who were we to question? we promptly put parade dates on the calendar, in all caps, used exclamation points, multiple exclamation points. when the time came, we packed juice boxes and goldfish crackers, plastic drug store rain ponchos (just in case) and sidewalk chalk (just in case), walked the seven blocks down the boulevard to claim our small chunk of concrete curb to watch the first of the three famed, highly anticipated portland events-- the junior rose parade.

now, years later, they play back like 16mm film reels. homemade floats and costumes, middle school marching bands with the best of intentions, vendors who walked up and down sandy selling inflatable spiderman dolls for five bucks a pop. and that ordinary chunk of curb at the corner of sandy and sacramento now a personal landmark. a single dot on the map, multiple exclamation points.

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once

I walked the extra blocks down alberta street to see the old building I loved so much. I knew it was just a matter of time before it would disappear.

88//365

once

I watched the performance of a tiny dance that took place on a tiny 4x4 wooden stage located at the base of the portland aerial tram. while silver capsules carrying passengers continued to slide up and down thick steel cables, a handful of us watched the limbs of the dancer slice through air.

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once

I found myself in front of window full of lightbulbs in portland, oregon and wondered if maybe I'd missed my true life calling.

70//365

once

we celebrated my birthday at the old oaks park roller rink in portland, oregon. that night, we witnessed a marriage proposal out in the center of the rink, beneath the old wurlitzer organ that hangs from the ceiling like a giant wooden truck. the young man got down on one knee, skates and all, she said yes and rolled right into his arms, skates and all. but this is not the first thing I actually think about when I think about this night.

I think about how they called for all the backwards skaters in the house over the P.A. system, how my nine year-old self jumped right out there and wobbled her way backwards, round and round the glossy golden floors of that old rink, underneath that magic wurlitzer, until it was time to call it a night and go home.

46//365

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. 

39//365

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. 

25//365

once

I took a trio of middle school kids to shoot polaroids at a local doughnut shop.

in another life, I taught for an after school program in portland, oregon. while my digital photography class was wildly popular, my instant photography class was not. three girls signed up (one of which, admittedly, was my own daughter), as opposed to the fifteen that enrolled for the digital. I think I can now openly admit just how much I favored this little polaroid group, impromptu doughnut shop photo shoot merely exhibit A in a long line of damning evidence. 

we went through at least five boxes of pack film that day, consumed at least a dozen doughnuts. when we finally finished, our table was a spectacular mess of peel-apart photographs and empty milk cartons.

I was in love with the idea of a future that included a few kids with a heart for the past.

11//365

once

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

7//365

once

I met a couple just trying to make ends meet.  

as in, yurtsgiving (2013 edition)

yurtsgiving, as in thanksgiving that happens in and/or around and/or near a yurt.

three years ago, when we were still living out in portland, the madison family said, hey! let's camp! let's camp for thanksgiving! and we said hey! let's camp! let's do it! though we feel we should tell you something. we've never camped before.

which is maybe the first time we'd admitted it out loud, while living in the pacific northwest. because, and maybe this will come as a surprise to some of you, this is not something you openly admit when you live in the great pacific northwest. you do not openly admit to not liking coffee. and you absolutely do not openly admit to never having camped. you just don't. believe me.

and it's not that we didn't want to camp. we just didn't know how. neither of us had ever gone as kids, neither of us had grown up camping. we didn't have any of the stuff. and you need the stuff. you can't just show up and camp, you need the stuff. furthermore, you need to know how to do the stuff. and we certainly did not know how to do any of the stuff. and so this is how we went almost seven years living out in the great pacific northwest (the unofficial camping capitol of the free world) without ever having camped.

clearly, yurtsgiving changed all that. for the record, I do realize yurt camping is maybe not the same as, ahem, real camping. though I'm here to tell you it sure as hell is when you've never been camping before. as the people say, you've got to start somewhere and that little yurt nestled in a forest along the oregon coast was our gateway drug. that little yurt in nehalem bay is where we fell in love with bacon cooked over an open fire and crazy camp raccoon shenanigans and midnight stargazing and campsite turntables and picnic table thanksgiving dinners and, well, camping.

twas our last thanksgiving while living in portland, twas a heckuva way to go out.

photobooth friday

in a photobooth (or not in a photobooth, depending on how you look at it), ace hotel, portland, oregon, one month ago. I'll tell you, it was nice to be in a city with real photobooths again. atlanta, where are your photobooths? your old-school dip-and-dunk style chemical photobooths? where? and don't tell me west egg cafe because that thing never works. also, I don't think those people there even care.

anyway.

in other news, it's friday. 

you guys. 

IT'S FRIDAY.

portland on film, part one

portland on film, part one, starring all my old favorites. powell's books and annie's donuts and cargo and bollywood theatre and a few old friends and a few old downtown buildings plus the lobby at the ace and my old hood and pretty much every bike in the city. which (and this goes without saying) I have missed, more than I could ever, ever adequately put into words. I mean, I knew I would miss portland when we moved, I just didn't know how much, I had no earthly idea how much. not until the moment I scraped together a few fairly valid excuses to return, found a bargain basement airfare and then was so giddy about it, I could not, would not let myself even think about it. I would not permit myself even a sliver of a daydream about it until the actual day I boarded the plane and flew out there.

and then, as if I'd never even left, there I was-- walking the streets of our old hood, past our beautiful old house, along the ridge with the view of mount hood, past the kids' sweet old elementary and middle school, past my favorite turquoise house, down the stretch of sidewalk with all the dahlias, past our beloved annie's. and then, downtown-- down all my favorite old streets, past all my favorite old buildings, in and out of all of my favorite spots. and powell's, up and down the aisles of powell's, holy crap, powell's. where my reaction was as emotionally visceral as the one I had when I stood in front of our old house. powell's, where the scent of old books and burnt coffee nearly brought me to my knees.

the way I feel about this city, the missing of it, the mourning of the loss of it-- is complicated. riddled with contradiction, teeming with sharp and soft, sweet and sour, a thread I'm careful not to pull at for fear of the swiftest unraveling. four weeks ago, I found myself staring down the barrel of it and the minute I stepped off the plane, I gave in. I let the city unravel me. I let myself fall back into it, into the deep grief of the thing. I savored every painful, joyful minute of it, held onto it as long as I possibly could, til I couldn't any longer, til the view of my former city grew smaller and smaller through the tiny oval airplane window, til I was forced to put myself back together, piece by piece, to loosen my grip and let go.