there are bags to pack

something has been dangled in front of me and that something is palm springs. as in, a fun little palm springs job/project that was first proposed last august but could not be seriously considered due to circumstances beyond my control. when january rolled around, things finally slowed down and all I could think was: palm springs. palm springs. palm springs. followed by: please happen. please happen. PLEASE LET IT HAPPEN. then, on the coldest, greyest, rainiest, dreariest portland day, right smack dab in the middle of the hoping and the planning and the crossing (the double-crossing, the triple-crossing) of fingers, I walked into my favorite hole in the wall thrift shop and found this. this souvenir plate. I took it as a sign.


but it still didn't seem like something that could (or would) actually happen. I feigned optimism for weeks and was sure it would all fall through. well, it didn't and friends, I'm going. this month. just for a few days, but it will be a few days filled with sunshine (please with the sunshine) and color (I imagine there will be color for daaaaays) and dry heat (omg please with the dry and the heat) and blue skies (wide open, I'm thinking) and who knows what else. and I am just so excited that it's actually happening, I had to share. I could not help myself. there will be photographs, of course. there will be more sharing. I will try not to bubble over, I will try not to gush. I promise. I'll try to keep my head on straight. but the plain truth is that I'm prone to the bubble and gush and my head is already off and spinning.

list thirty-seven: currently loving

(number 14)

in no particular order:

1. bright-colored yarn tucked into the cracks of parisian sidewalks

2. small white bowls filled with candy corn

3. extraordinary photography projects

4. street artists who work magic with wheat paste and confetti

5. essie nail polish in light turquoise

6. krylon spray paint in neon pink

7. dances performed in the backs of trucks

8. films that beg to be seen

9. work that inspires again and again

10. sour cherry juice that is not really sour at all

11. brown leather wrist cuffs that never die

12. vintage snapshots that seem tender and brave

13. songs that slip in quietly through the back door and deliver the goods

14. 79 cent thrift store mugs that make everything better

and there she was

just sitting there. surrounded by ceramic kittens and plastic tumblers. unbelievably, at the thrift store. on a day when I was broke as a joke, on a day when fifteen dollars seemed like a crapload of money. but of course, I could not, did not walk away. fifteen dollars! beautiful 50mm1.4 lens, hippie strap and all. I KNOW.

feels like a tank in my hands, feels like heaven. shot a couple of rolls and I am in love. I do believe my nikon is jealous.

(here come the scans, peoples)

sunday night

and the house is quiet. (five words I have come to love)

step two

if, while shopping at the aforementioned thrift store, you happen onto a lime green bowl- buy it. you are practically required by law to buy it. there's also a law that states you must fill said bowl with fresh lemons. because it's january and the law is very clear when it comes to people up against january.

p.s. you might also scrape off a bit of lemon peel and rub it between your finger tips. you might also dab a bit of it behind your ears. you might feel silly but you would only be doing what must be done.

step one

when fighting the winter blahs, head straight for the thrift store and buy the brightest, happiest thing you can find. 79 cents and one daisy-covered plate later and I'm practically a new woman.

candy

for your tuesday night.

humble aspirations

found while thrifting in illinois this summer. naturally, I had to have it. why, you ask? because it totally reminded me of this.

wednesday, wednesday

yes, still with all the san francisco business. I am one step away from inviting everyone I know over to my house for a slide show. not that I'm proud of that but my intentions are solid. really, they are.

so, two weeks ago on a wednesday and why the mission neighborhood is sort of beating out chinatown as my favorite:


laundry that sings


climbing flowers that seem to glow plus tasty breakfasts with super rad pals named lisa


shoes that are cute plus lunches at sweet mexican places places with extremely lovely people like mati and kelly rae


murals


good lord, the murals


and the street art




good lord, the street art


really, color at every corner


ridiculous, maybe even ridonculous


and the thrift stores


I mean, really

just look at what ten dollars brought home

plus, there's fruit


which I realize is pretty much everywhere and not exactly unique to the area

but mission fruit is probably special

because I don't know

it just is.

(also swaying my vote: places where mopping is an accepted daily practice)

number 9

the bike, she is mine. and this is because I was on a roll that day. I'd been to a couple of church basement sales and I was feeling lucky. when I saw her parked outside my favorite thrift shop, I knew I'd be no match for her wobbly charms. actually, the first thing I spied was that basket. that's what sold me. wait, is that wrong? that I almost bought a bike because of the basket? in my defense, there was also a bell. another total bonus. but I knew I couldn't buy a bike without riding it first. no, I could not.

so I had the nice lady who worked there unlock the bike for me. which is when I sort of panicked. suddenly, I couldn't remember the last time I rode a bike. imaginary fingers inside my head frantically flipped through file after file after file of memory. college, high school, junior high... junior high, maybe. big maybe. 20 some years since my last bike ride? really? now I wasn't sure if I was even physically capable of riding. and there was the issue of my skirt, my clunky dr. scholl sandals. what if I wiped out in the parking lot? in front of the nice lady, my husband, my son and the three people looking through piles of gently stained blouses and pablo cruise cassette tapes? I hiked my leg up over the tan seat anyway. off I went. and it's true what they say. they don't say what they say just to be saying it. it's true, you never forget.



I am now the proud owner of one very sweet tan and white slightly rusted bicycle. with a basket and a bell. the flowers came later. I'll tell you, I love her. I forgot how much fun it is to ride a bike. around the neighborhood I go, over and over. I can't stop grinning, I love it. how could I have gone for so long without riding a bike? how? I'm 9 years-old all over again, I'm zipping all over the place, I'm one step away from popping wheelies.

number 9 off the list, done. and probably the best thing I've done in a long, long time.

hooked

I'm not sure when it began, the somewhat obsessive collecting of found photographs. I do remember when the habit kicked into high gear though-- we were in east atlanta at a great little junk shop called 'craptastic' (a name so wrong it can only be right), happily navigating our way through stacks and piles and boxes of stuff (aka crap). as always, hoping to unearth something worth all the unearthing. I had just decided against purchasing a pair of authentic seventies platform clogs (clogs that also doubled as roller skates: CLOGS AS SKATES, PEOPLE) when I spied an open suitcase in the corner. the sign taped to the side said 'ADOPT A RELATIVE, TEN CENTS' and there were hundreds of old photos inside, mainly snapshot-style/photobooth portraits of men. I spent the good part of an hour deciding which photos to take home with me and the ones you see here were (are) my absolute favorites. they continue to stand out in a collection that now rivals all collections. I fell in love with the faces and good lord, the style-- effortless style for days, what I imagine it must be like to be smooth, the very definition of the word cool. kind of tragic that they had no one to treasure them, no family memebers to lovingly pass them down through the generations. with this, I was hungry to collect. I snatched them up wherever and whenever they could be found: an antique store in illinois, a flea market in italy, an abandoned box at a swap meet. anywhere and everywhere I traveled, I looked and looked and always managed to bring at least a couple home with me. I am certainly not original in my pursuit here-- people have been deep in this gig long before I hit the scene. and I have only begun to scratch the surface of the resources out there (if you're at all interested in vernacular photography, take a lookie here, here and here). the appeal is universal-- I think we are unable to resist the anonymous nature of these photographs and how engaging they are to the imagination. the story, photographer and subject are all unknown, leaving the viewer to come to their own conclusions (or not) regarding said discarded snapshot. plus, there's the aesthetic-- rich looking sepias and silvers that are hard to come by today. and I think people love the idea of rescuing these unknowns from an eternity in the local landfill. I don't know about you, but I can't stand the idea of my family photos lost in a sea of slimy garbage somewhere. that being said, I cannot save every lost photo I find. I have had to narrow my search (and collection) and find myself especially drawn to those that showcase individuality and personal style, relationships and odd little details. special bonus points (dingdingding) if I find personal handwriting on the back. I am hoping to share them here every once in awhile. too good to be hidden away in my cigar boxes, too good not to share.

it pains me to say that 'craptastic' has long since gone out of business. I do regret passing up those platform clogs/rollerskates (I'm begging you, dear reader-- share the vision and imagine the GREATNESS) but at least I didn't turn my back on the contents of the suitcase in the corner. here's to photographic orphans everywhere and two bucks well spent.