89//365

once

we stopped in chinatown on the way out of san francisco. took one last walk around before ending up at the playground, where we let the kids run willy nilly before the long drive home. in the middle of it all, my brother called and somehow I managed an entire phone conversation about a recent job loss, the current state of the world and the uncertainty of everything while keeping one eye on the kids and the other on a heated game happening just a few feet below. motherhood, in a nutshell.

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.

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.

86//365

once

while swimming at the ace hotel in palm springs, I saw a bronzed buttery man in a tiny speedo use his ipad as a tray in which to carry his very large glass of wine. I knew in that moment I would remember nothing else about the day but this.

85//365

once

while walking in central park, I spotted what I hoped my future might look like. 

84//365

once

on the way to a family wedding in indiana, we stopped in cincinnati, the city where we first met and fell in love. we wanted to show the kids this monumental little piece of our history, wanted them to see where things began, but as we approached the apartment building that overlooked the city, the site of our infamous, storied beginning, as we looked at each other and got all soft in the eyes about it and told the kids the story, they made fart jokes in the back seat of the car.

and I just really wondered what my nineteen year-old self, the one who first lived in that old apartment building and really thought the cute guy who lived down the hall was just a summer fling, would have thought of this scene, of this particular moment in time. if she could have peered into her future, I wondered what she would have thought. of that car full of love and yelling and laughing and fart jokes at the wrong time and soft eyes and road trip music and years and years and years of marriage and life an love. I really wondered.

83//365

once

we stopped for bones and I saw him with fresh eyes.

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.

81//365

once

in an industrial park just north of downtown chattanooga, I listened to a skater tell stories about rings. 

80//365

once

we celebrated a wedding anniversary with an unexpected drive through the back roads of south carolina and a brown paper bag filled with hot boiled peanuts.

79//365

once

I took the train south to california. one ticket, my first time on the coast starlight line. I wobbled through the moving train cars before dark in search of the dining car, stumbled onto the observation car instead. windows curved toward the sky, light like honey. the world outside racing past at a respectable clip. I could live here, I thought. I could make a life for myself right here, a home in this car, right now.

78//365

once

I traveled to the oregon coast to spend three days with twelve women, most of whom I did not know, had not met in real life before. I remember flowers in jars and good food on the table, the ocean near midnight and the moon like a silver coin in the sky. the way my clothes smelled like bonfire, sand in all my crevices, the first time I saw a real shooting star. I remember an endless cacophony of conversation and cameras, a wild mix of personalities. the realization that maybe I was not built for this.

a few of these women would eventually show up for me in extraordinary ways. a string of handwritten postcards for two months straight after my mom died. a box of tiny frozen ice cream cones, too. texted poems, endless encouragement. an air mattress and home-cooked food in los angeles, tamales and morning light in oakland, good coffee and a fire escape view in brooklyn. shared epiphanies on subway platforms. a place to stay, always, in california, texas, new york. fellow dreamers, a few listeners, a few kindred spirits. I could not know this at the time, would not have predicted it. these women, this life, the years in between like a sieve.

77//365

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.

76//365

once

we saw the world famous bushman in action, down at fisherman’s wharf in san francisco. there he was, hiding behind a trash can, shaking his branches at people, making them jump, yell out. I didn’t know he was famous at the time, didn’t know this was actually how he made his living. I just left a little something in the tip jar and marveled at how we all do what we’ve got to do to get by.

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.