quantity over quantity

priorities

in which I drop the seventeen things I am currently doing to go through seven months of photographs to find the few I'd like to climb inside and live in for a little while.

ava, saturday morning, april 2014.

photobooth friday

behold: the last photobooth strips taken in that late, great city of ours. on our last day, our very last hour in portland, oregon. when I saw that the booth at the ace was working that day, I almost fell to my knees with gratitude.

but here's the thing. I've lost them. somewhere along the way, they vanished. in the midst of all the traveling, the packing and unpacking, the getting in and out of the car (and in and out and then in and out again), and then in and out of motel room after motel room and then all the unpacking of the suitcases once we arrived here in atlanta, and the unpacking of all the boxes, and the shifting around of a hundred million things, is it really any wonder?

still, I'm heartbroken. I never lose things like this. I've turned the house upside down but, nothing. nothing but this measly little iphone image. I can't help but wonder, will someone eventually find them? somewhere down the road? and wonder who we are? wonder what our story is? will we turn up at the fleamarket fifty years from now? will we be someone's fleamarket find? one can only hope. you know, a girl can dream.

down the 101 we went

on day two and three (of the big cross country road trip), we hit the 101. highway of all coastal highways, charmer of road trip takers everywhere. there were trees, lots of trees, some of them, fallen. nothing to do but climb up inside and peek out. we wondered, is there anything better than a magnificent, monolithic root system? it was decided, there is not. somewhere outside crescent city, we said our goodbyes to the pacific ocean. breathed in that dense, salty pacific air one last time, promised to return. elk meadows were stumbled onto and the spectacular avenue of the giants traversed, both experiences that only confirmed my sincere belief in the existence of a brilliant, loving God. experiences that left me feeling infinitely humble, endlessly small. and well, wholly alive.

other things: a few large trees were driven through and the boots of paul bunyan climbed up on. he talks to people, you know. there's proof, should you need it. initials were carved into gargantuan tree trunks (thus, souvenir pocket knife collections put to good use). houses made from one log were visited, as were places claiming to defy gravity, as were eternal treehouses, as were many, many gift shops. urges to buy large wooden clocks were miraculously resisted. children were made to pose in abnormally large wooden shoes. a night was spent at the endlessly charming madrona motor court. well, charming til around midnight, when the toilet overflowed and we found ourselves wading through the kind of water you never want to find yourself wading through. lesson learned: pretty much everything about a 1940s roadside motor inn is charming except for the plumbing. still, I loved that little place, loved it to pieces, midnight raw sewage and all. I wouldn't trade our night there for anything.

by the time we drove through our third (and final) tree, we were all off schedule. this will not come as a surprise to those who know us well and would be a running theme throughout the trip. but early on, we decided we didn't care. and as we drove out of the last of the redwoods and down that last stretch of the 101, further away from our beloved portland, oregon, I loosened my grip on the schedule. I felt my resolve soften. about an hour outside of san francisco, the sky turned a fiery, incandescent pink. as it turned out, we were right on time.

this is my new favorite thing

maybe you're tired of hearing about and/or seeing engineer prints, I don't know. they're all over the internet, have been for years. but that doesn't really change how I feel about the one I recently (finally) had made of a favorite photograph of my mom. when I unrolled the finished product, I wanted to cry. my mom in amsterdam in the early sixties, fresh out of college. those penny loafers, that camera case. the flip of her hair, the look on her face. the details on the sleeve of her dress, the details in the background, bits and pieces of a nineteen-sixty-something amsterdam. and my mom.

my mom.

like I said, new favorite thing. favorite of all my favorite things. and I'll tell you, that's saying a lot.

the curly redwood lodge

after crater lake and the last of oregon and the first of california and the weaving and winding down roads that snaked through the beginning of the redwoods, this. the spectacular curly redwood lodge in crescent city, california. it could not have been more perfect, not even if it tried. when I say it was a little like stepping back in time, I am not kidding around. people say that sometimes but I don't know if they really know what they're talking about. anyway. the second my dear friend shana recommended it, I knew that's where we'd spend our first real night on the road.

and when I read that it had first opened in 1957 and had been built from a single (presumably enormous) curly redwood tree I thought, yes. yes, this is our place. and it was, for the sixteen hours we occupied it. oh, I don't think the kids really cared one way or the other (okay maybe ava did a little) but it was really as if we'd stumbled back into something like june of 1963. the chairs, the lamps, the giant rooms (built to accommodate luggage from a different era, no doubt), everything: perfect. and when we turned on the tv and flipped through the channels, the only really watchable thing we could find was an old cary grant movie which is when I thought, hey. maybe we just blow off the rest of this crazy trip and move in here at the curly redwood. the ocean is just across the street, what more do we need? maybe this is how it plays out for us.

but then around midnight, there was projectile vomiting (ezra+winding roads+ spicy cheetos) and the fatigue of the day had officially set in. and exhausted as I was, the thought of long, glorious stretches of the 101, a few days in san francisco and palm springs, days and days along route 66, the very thought had me swimming in giddy. sixteen hours at the curly redwood lodge would have to do. sixteen hours would have to suffice.

sunday's list

things from today, things for remembering:

1. chipped orange nail polish
2. banana bread for breakfast
3. leaves like confetti
4. scribbled zine ideas
5. favorite song on repeat
6. miranda's baked mac and cheese
7. pink sky bits, peachtree street

saturday night

sometimes showing up here means admitting I just spent an hour taking buzzfeed quizzes instead of actually showing up here. can you match the popular cereal to its box color? buzzfeed has taught me that indeed, I can. who is my young adult literature boyfriend? how well do I know the lyrics to 'the fresh prince of bel air'? how many alfred hitchcock films have I seen? what does taste sound like? can I guess the celebrity's middle name? which hamlet character am I? how lazy am I compared to the rest of the world? and my personal favorite: which taco bell menu item speaks to me on a spiritual level? nope. nope. nope. not telling.

p.s. okay, crunchwrap supreme. apparently, I am somehow spiritually connected to the crunchwrap supreme.

the last of oregon (or, day one)

the beginning of the monumental cross country road trip home, first full day on the road, aka Day One. oh, oregon. oregon, you made it so hard to leave. on our way out, we hit crater lake, wonder of all oregonian wonders. crater lake, where it started to snow as the four of us stood at the edge and peered down into all that deep, deep blue. on the seventeenth day of june, it snowed. and because we were excited, because we were at the front end of two weeks of adventuring and road tripping and the gloriously glorious unknown, we lobbed a few snowballs into the lake. you know, for luck or something. a few family members (who shall remain nameless) (WARD, I'M TALKING TO YOU) stood too close to the edge and I nearly lost my mind over it. however, it did not take us long to recover because, did you know? even the seventh deepest lake in the world has a gift shop. and everyone knows gift shops are the ultimate family road trip reset button. when in doubt, head to the gift shop, scatter yourselves down aisles littered with gift shop kitsch, buy a few postcards, eat a few pieces of fudge, all will be forgotten. this, of course, was the first of many, many gift shops and also where ezra decided that collecting souvenir pocket knives would be, and I quote, 'his thing'.

on this day, a few inside family jokes were born, an abandoned old roadside motel and a pepto pink burger joint called phil's frosty were visited and the last of the oregonian highways traversed. by the time we crossed the oregon state line into california, the light had turned to gold and the weight of the whole thing, the leaving of a place we loved so much, the thought of so much unknown before us, finally set in and as we began to wind and weave our way into the redwoods, we knew. there was no turning back.

truth

the thing that's important to know is that you never know. you're always sort of feeling your way.

-diane arbus

this is a picture I did not take

I read with ezra each night at bedtime. as in, he reads his book, I read mine. gone are the days of reading out loud. have I told you? one of my greatest joys in life has been the reading of roald dahl books out loud to my children. a few months ago, I begged ezra to let me read danny the champion of the world out loud to him one last time. reluctantly, he agreed. and then, I should add, barely tolerated the nightly reading. so, that was that. the last time, the very very last time and now our reading together looks completely different but that's okay. I'll take what I can get.

after our twenty minutes or so of silent reading (which I have actually grown to love very much), he tossed his book in the general direction of the nightstand and turned to sleep on his left side, just like he always does. and then I turned out the light, said the prayers and sang the two favorite songs, just like I always do. and then, usually, I am quick to get up and out of there. because, you know. netflix. big green couch. adult quiet time. I am ashamed at how quick I am to sing those two songs and slip out of the room. I am ashamed but I am still quick.

but tonight, as I felt myself rushing through the prayer, the two favorite songs, I felt that wistful thing, that bittersweet thing, that thing that sometimes overtakes me and I lay there for a little while and I willed myself to memorize every detail. the deep green glow of the alien nightlight, arm slung over a dingy sock monkey, slight curve of a still-small shoulder, the hum and hiss of the humidifier, the sound of his breathing. sandy hair in perfect waves, pencil-drawn waves.

as if I can hold on to any of this, as if any of us can hold on to any of what happens to us. and I wondered how many times my own mother tried to memorize details like these, if she was able to hold onto any of them, if she felt the way I did tonight. I would give anything to know. but I won't know, I can't know. and it's not okay, it will never be okay but the wondering is all I have. the imagining is all that's left and I'll take what I can get.

jackpot

sometimes you are playing scrabble with your family (a family who, unbelievably, only just discovered the game) when you remember that thing you said about showing up here everyday this month. you think maybe you can do two things at once. you are losing at scrabble anyway. you remember the polaroid you took a little over a month ago in providence, how it made you so happy, that bike with the red handlebars, those books in the window, that patchwork cobblestone. you wish you had some big story to go along with it, but you don't. you were just walking and there they were-- the bike, the books, the window, the cobblestone. the light was right, the timing was right, so you took the picture. bike and books, books and bike. it seems like such an ordinary scene. but then it occurs to you just how much freedom these two things have afforded you throughout your life, how many places they've taken you over the years.

and then it is your turn at scrabble (again) and you have no good letters. you are unable to form any obscure, triple-scoring words. but you do have this polaroid, you have the promise of bikes and books. and you showed up here, just like you said you would. and so, here's to tuesday night.

oh wait, nablopomo

well, we're three days into november (aka nablopomo aka national blog posting month) and already, I have failed. I do this every year. every year, folks. so maybe I'll just get the failing part out of the way, okay. maybe I'll just go ahead and say I suck at this. but I'm doing it anyway. because it's fun, because exercises like this are fun, because I am a fan of fun. and because I have been doing this nablopomo thing for eight years. eight years. wrap your brain around that one for a second.

I can fail at this because there are no rules when it comes to blogging. well, except for that thing about stealing images and/or words and posting them as your own (please don't do that), that thing about linking sources and that thing about kindness, that thing where you try to do everything from a kind, authentically authentic place. but outside of that, there are no rules. do not let anyone tell you otherwise. oh, there are lists of rules out there, there are people making up rules. but here's the thing. the blogging world is still the wild, wild west and much as we try to tame it, there are still miles of wide open country. still a world of freedom at your fingertips. for example, I've posted no accompanying image here. the rules say you should always, always post an accompanying image. but I believe sometimes words can stand alone. I believe we are older than toddlers and do not always need a picture to make the words come alive for us.

additionally, no one really cares you didn't do that thing you said you were going to do. no one cares if you've been gone for a little while, if you've neglected your little online space. I mean, we care but we're not keeping tabs. we understand, no need to apologize, no need to explain, we all know. the rules will tell you this is a big blog no-no, that it's something akin to blogging suicide. consider, for a second, how funny that sounds and then ask yourself why you are even doing this. it's for you, it's you. or at least, it should be. show up when it feels right and not one second earlier.

and this is nowhere in the rules but the idea floats to the surface of blogland regularly enough that it should be addressed. for the love of mary, you are under no obligation to post photographs of your dirty laundry to prove that you are real. we all have dirty laundry, we all have sinks filled with crusted, clouded dishes. we all experience moments where our children behave as if they were raised by wild animals, or worse. we have all found ourselves hunched over the steering wheel of the car, mcdonald's french fries in one hand, large coke in the other (YES YOU HAVE, I KNOW YOU HAVE), we have all stumbled and fallen short. and even though there are one hundred thousand blogs out there showcasing the most beautifully stunningly flawless bits of life (and we are all maybe a little tired of it), it is not on your shoulders to showcase the underbelly of your everyday. unless, of course, you really want to, in which case I say, more power to you. I'm behind you all the way. sometimes I feel the need to do the same.

the beautiful thing about blogging is that really, there are no rules. the beautiful thing is that your space is yours, all yours. and my space is mine, all mine. it's why I keep showing up here, why I've been doing this for almost ten years now. I have., somewhat inadvertently, carved out a sacred little space for myself here and sometimes I share what I write and sometimes I share what I shoot and sometimes I share both and sometimes I don't know what I'm doing. but I try very, very hard to never let rules get in the way. I just keep showing up.

and that's what I'm going to do this month, I'm going to keep showing up. everyday, as much as I can. and if I fail, I fail. but it's the trying that's golden and what good is the wild west without a little gold? plus, you know what they say about rules.

see you tomorrow, rule-breakers.