116//365

once

we took the back roads home from savannah, cut through small georgia towns along the way. spotted an old roadside motel and pulled over. as I got out of the car, I noticed a man in army fatigues, sitting in a plastic lawn chair the color of christmas trees. I could feel him watch me as I positioned my camera, knew the questions were next. what are you doin, girl? welp, I told him. I'm taking a picture of this old motel sign. I do that sometimes. I smiled and turned away then, looked through the viewfinder at the old sign. better do it quick, he said. before they tear this down. they wanna change everything about the south. 

here's hoping, I thought, as I got back in the car. here's hoping we change as much as we can. because I knew he wasn't really talking about the sign.

110//365

once

I walked down aisle after aisle with my cousin at a sprawling fleamarket in rural texas, felt the scorch of the sun on my neck, thick layers of dust and sweat on my skin and knew (in my bones) there was no place else in the world I'd rather be.

109//365

once

I woke up early on a wednesday morning to pick strawberries, arrived to find the field already teeming with pickers. I got to work at once, plucked berries until my fingers were stained bright red and sweat stung my eyes, until I'd completely filled the two buckets I brought with me. drove back home with the windows down, the air sweet and thick with the fruit, the juice still on my fingertips, on the steering wheel, everywhere.

87//365

once

I left my family in a comic book store in downtown savannah, georgia. slipped out the front door and walked towards oglethorpe square, in search of painted doors and scrolling ironwork. wandered down an alleyway and found rothko instead.

82//365

once

I spent a good chunk of time poring over howard finster's polaroids at paradise garden, his hand-writing in pencil on each and every one. banjos and wooden angels and abraham lincoln and students painting, colorado fields as seen from the window of an airplane-- or 'plain', as howard wrote it.

something about howard finster with a polaroid camera made me smile.

75//365

once

while I was on the road to south georgia, I passed a flower shop that looked as if it had been devoured from the inside out. or, outside in. 

73//365

once

I snuck away while they were all napping, walked the two blocks from the rental, crossed the major road and made my way to the ocean. found a small collection of empty beach chairs that belonged to a nearby resort, golden delicious magic hour light and, myself.

69//365

once

I spent a few hours alone at the high museum. five floors of art from around the world and I spent half the time watching people walk in and out of those frames. up and down, around and around, as if in a trance. 

67//365

once

we watched the sky turn pink. tried to hold onto it by pointing our cameras and our phones at it but gave up in the end. stood in that otherworldly glow until the last of the pink disappeared and we could see the moon.

66//365

once

I stood in the teeny tiny bathroom of a teeny tiny camper (circa 1971) and thought, if I could marry this wallpaper, I would. 

62//365

once

I took a walk in my old neighborhood in the city. realized everything was completely different yet exactly the same.

61//365

once

I stood at the corner of ponce, spied a bike perched above the power lines that genuinely looked as if it wanted to make a break for it. like it wanted to pedal itself backwards, right up into that wide open sky. thought, me too, buddy. me too.

53//365

once

we passed an old drive-in movie theatre on our way to a fleamarket in texas. my cousin, who'd driven this way countless times, flew past it with nary a mention. I, on the other hand, thought my eyes might pop out of my head. so beautiful my heart beat a little faster at the sight of it, so perfect it did not seem real. all I had time to do in the moment was point and gasp.

on the way back, I asked if we could stop. we were in a bit of a hurry but my cousin indulged me, pulled the car into what was left of the entrance. as I got out to take a closer look she mentioned she'd stopped once before for a yard sale and had talked with the owners, actually, who lived in the little brick house right next to the drive-in. as it turned out, it had been in their family for decades. they'd tried to keep the starlight alive as long as they could, they really tried, but finally had to let it go.

so, there it sits. a golden beacon of nostalgia set along a mostly forgettable stretch of texas highway. an american poem. the beginning of a song, maybe, or the end of one.

48//365

once

our car broke down in tennessee. somewhere between nashville and chattanooga around midnight. just whimpered along the shoulder of the highway and sputtered to a stop. I swore the night never felt so deep and dark and ominous than in that particular moment. isn't that always the way? flying down the highway in the middle of the night feels like magic until your car dies and you suddenly come so close to the unknown you can practically feel it slide across your skin. 

a fireworks store as big as a warehouse with monster floodlights to match but of course, it was closed. in a pre-cell phone era, there was nothing else to do but walk. towards an exit we thought we remembered passing a few miles back, along the soft, narrow shoulder of a major highway in the middle of what will always be remembered as the most lightless night. 

three miles felt like three hundred years. every semi passed with a violence that nearly lifted me off my feet and for an hour we walked like this, wincing at every passing truck and shuffling and swearing and praying until we reached the exit and finally, our salvation: the old roy acuff country inn. 

I almost cried when I saw that giant neon cowboy boot.

38//365

once

I spent the night at howard finster's paradise garden. 

the little rental cottage across the street granted us full twenty-four hour access to the garden so of course we wandered the grounds during magic hour and then during blue hour and then late at night, simply because we could. twin tabby cats slipped in and out of shadows as we walked, string lights hung from the eaves like jewelry but the real prize was the garden by moonlight.

all we could see, could not see, maybe did not want to see, is what I woke up thinking about the next morning. 

33//365

once

during a heat wave at a fleamarket in texas, I pulled myself up and into the cab of a monster truck, just to sit and feel the blast of the air conditioner on my face for a couple of minutes.

20//365

once

I fell in love with a laundromat because someone thought to collect a rainbow of empty laundry detergent screw caps and place them next to the change machine so that people could use them to hold their many quarters while they went about the business of washing and drying clothes.

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.

14//365

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. 

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.