spring, sort of

I have been in the land of lincoln, at my parent's home going through my mother's things. a type of sifting and sorting not recommended for the faint of heart. the truth is that my mother was a great collector of a good many things. I have spent the better part of nine days going through these things, going through and going through and going through. trying to decide what stays, what goes. because it cannot all stay. I wish that it could, but it cannot.

while I was here, spring came. sort of. my dad took me out of for a lemon ice cream cone and the sun was shining and I thought, this is one of those moments. one of those good moments that people always talk about. I should maybe file it away in that brain file we all have, you know the one. Good Moments For Remembering Always.

while I was here, sixteen inches of snow fell and covered the ground. the ultimate middle finger to spring lovers everywhere. this was a kind of snow that was not kidding around, not even a little bit and before we knew it we were snowed in with nothing in the pantry but spaghetti noodles and an almost-expired can of cherry pie filling. and here all this time I thought I wanted snow, have been begging for it every single day since the first of december. and then I got it. and wouldn't you know? I did not want it. this snow threw everything all off (including my flight home) and so I threw a little fit for about five minutes. and then I threw my hands up in the air and baked a cherry pie. because what I know now is that the best cherry pies are ones that are baked out of desperation.

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds. I am nowhere close to being finished with the sifting and the sorting of my mother's things and I miss my dad so much already. but I know pink blossoms and my people wait for me in portland.

number 38

"you have to love dancing to stick to it. it gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." -merce cunningham

and this is why I am dancing again. because I need to feel alive. not just a little bit alive but a lot alive, wholly fully electrically alive. the truth is that I have been holding on by the skin of my teeth for a long time now. I don't know any other way, really. and here was this thing, this spectacular missing piece sort of thing and I couldn't see it, couldn't seem to get to it. for so long, it sort of hovered overhead, in that mysterious space where lovely things tend to hover, seemingly impossibly out of reach, forever and ever amen.

eff it, I said. I'm going to class. and I did. in that first five minutes I felt my body melt into the floor, my hips, my thighs, my shoulders, my ankles, my fingertips, my eyelids, my everything. thoughts scattered, head cleared and for once, grief took a number. had to wait in line, just like everything else. for ninety short minutes, I let go of everything. listened to trains come and go outside, contemplated things like breath and weight. moved through that beautiful light-filled space in the clumsiest, loveliest way. reacquainted myself with that very specific vernacular, the one that only modern dance teachers seem to speak. I was home. am home.

number 38 off the list. four classes down, ninety-six to go. or, a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million, a billion. because if I do nothing else on the list but this, I will have won.

sundays (9/52)

sunday, march the third: clean dishes, evening sky. sometimes that's all you really need.

(checkit, here's my sweet friend jen's sunday)

sundays (8/52)

sunday, february the twenty-fourth: donuts for breakfast, homework and laundry for lunch, thrifting before dinner. 

oh, sunday.  

windows are for decorating (or, friday nights are for parties)

when someone asks if you'd like to decorate their storefront window, your answer should invariably be yes. especially if that someone is vanessa and the shop is wanderlust. you say yes because storefront windows are for decorating and delightful women like vanessa do not grow on trees. (vanessa, of wanderlust trailer fame and now owner extraordinaire of wanderlust, the brick and mortar shop). 

when she first asked me, I may have squealed. I don't know, I can't remember. I'd never done a storefront window before but that didn't matter. I figured I'd create an installation around color. I'd decorate for a party. as it turns out, that party is called 'if I can't get to palm springs then I will bring palm springs to portland.' take that, cold grey forever.

so, portland peeps, said window installation will be up all month long at wanderlust and a selection of limited edition palm springs polaroid prints will be up for grabs. little opening party tonight from 5-9, should you feel the immediate need to soak up a little vintage palm springs color. and if you do stop by, fyi: vanessa will be the cute one behind the counter and I will be the girl trying not to buy all the cute stuff in her store. 

that moment

that moment the clash comes on the radio and instantly, you are eleven years old all over again. when you were just beginning to figure music out. and before you worried about things like taxes and cancer. yes, that moment.

sundays (7/52)

sunday, february the seventeenth (or, one week ago yesterday): an impromptu road trip, to astoria (where the thrifts have always been good to me), my favorite girl in the world, an excellent sign, a few instant relatives, mandatory hotel bed-jumping, street 14 coffee, two loungers, one seriously rad lego guy, one spectacular wall of books, one swooping/crying seagull, one favorite secret hideaway. 

every sunday, every sunday. is what I'm hoping.

(see also: jen's sunday, amy's sunday)

for your thursday

I did not actually get to stay here. at the color hotel, aka the saguaro. but back in october, while I was teaching at oasis at the ace, I snuck down one morning and spent a few hours wandering the grounds. because I knew I'd need this dose of color in february, I just knew it. and if you are battling any variation of the cold grey forever, I bet you need it too.

sundays (6/52)

sunday, february the tenth: yellow tulips (getting me through the cold grey forever), old school spirograph set in action (fiiiiinally), serious photobooth evidence (of a pretty great weekend with ward's awesome mom aka nani), corner of mi casa (or, magazine spines that make me happy).

every sunday in 2013. as much as I can manage.

(checkit, jen's sunday, amy's sunday)

home

my favorite childhood polaroid picture sits in the bottom of a box somewhere. I do not actually need to take it out and look at it to remember. the details are forever forged in my mind. it's a polaroid my mom took right after she surprised a ten year-old me with a redecorated bedroom. in it, I'm sitting on my bed, which has been freshly repainted, the old comforter replaced with a brand new cream-colored satin one. there are fresh, frilly new curtains on the windows, a cornflower blue bedside table (covered with flowers hand-painted by my mother) and a frosty new glass lamp. plucked right off the pages of the JCpenny catalog, I believe. in the picture, I'm sitting on that bed and I'm beaming. it's a moment I revisit again and again. because it was a room that made me feel special, a room that felt authentically mine. I knew then there was a very specific art to the planning and making of a space. that there was love in it, so much love. in all the details, love. what I didn't know was just how much it would affect me later on in life. how much it would influence me, both as an artist and a mother.

and so this is the subject of my most recent piece in issue sixteen of uppercase magazine: my mom and the home she (artfully) made for her family. it was not an easy piece to write, friends. but I'm glad I did it, I'm glad I pushed through. it was the least I could do, the very least.

and I wish you could read it, mom. I really really do. because this one's for you.

sundays (5/52)

sunday, february the third: ezra and ava and one of those sunday afternoon trips to target that took way too long.

(friends who have joined in on the sunday fun: jen and amy)

a is for antidote

going through my instagram images from january and one thing's for certain: to actively seek out color is to survive winter.

xanthe, I do believe we're on the same page.

list forty-four: better than candy

better than cake, even. making me thirteen different kinds of happy:

1. an audience as art movement
2. a twin lens reflex camera for instant film
3. an enthusiastic ira glass waxing poetic about a brilliant modern dance company
4. and said brilliant company at the joyce this weekend (which I would so go see if it were at all humanly possible)
5. also, the most perfect episode of this american life, ever 
6. how about the promise of a new michel gondry film 
7. and california through xanthe's eyes
8. plus imaginary doors (and the people who pass by them)
9. also, a retrospective to get really excited about
10. and gorgeous work by some good friends of mine (I could watch this for hours)
11. plus, the teaching of my kids' instant photography class
12. and the taking of a new modern dance class
13. not to mention, a really really really (really) exciting email