number 70

that time (almost a year ago) when I crossed number 70 off the list and ran willy nilly into the cold, cold pacific ocean. there are no pictures of said miraculous event because one minute I was just sitting there all nice and quiet and melancholy-like and the next, I was running full speed into the ocean. because what happened was that while I was sitting there on that beloved stretch of beach in manzanita, it hit me like a sack of rocks: we're leaving oregon. this might be my last time here, this might be my last chance. I might never be back. so I picked myself up and ran as fast as my stocky little legs would take me, towards the cold pacific ocean and my feet pounded the sand and my heart pounded right out of my body and I felt at once both completely ridiculous and wholly alive.

I splashed around for about, oh, fifteen seconds but that's all it took. willy nilly happens in the milliseconds but lasts forever.

this is my hustle

'roid week, polaroid week, week of the polaroid (all titles accepted, all titles apply) was last week. I will admit to struggling with it just a little bit this go round, lest ye think every polaroid week is one big fat happy polaroid pony ride. it took a few days for general enthusiasm to set in, for my head to catch up with everyone else in the group. the SX-70 jammed and spit out frame after frame. I had less film than I thought I did and all the ideas felt stupid et cetera et cetera et cetera. but then, ava with the curtain and the light and the majestic diner on the way home and I was reminded: the extra work is worth it. the magic ones are there. you just have to dig a little. sometimes, a lot.

coincidentally, I just wrote this very thing-- this value in the working and the digging thing-- like, three weeks ago. I wrote a little piece for the fine folks over at instantly framed-- a guide to instant photography (which you can read here) and apparently, I do not practice what I preach. rather, I am slow to practice what I preach.

but when I really want to give up on instant photography all together, I go here and I think, holy crap what would the world be without instant film? I mean, really? I don't want to know.

ten years ago today

ten years ago today, I started this blog.

exactly 1,185 posts later and here I am. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know how long this thing would last or where it might take me but I didn't care. I didn't know and I didn't care. I just wanted the space. I needed the space.

ten years ago today, ava was four, ezra was a baby and I was in the trenches of motherhood. knee deep in the place where you weep with exhaustion one minute, are swallowed up with love the next. when you feel at once like you are both drowning and flying, when you are consumed with love, absolutely transformed by it but also sometimes find yourself on all fours beneath the dining room table, scraping peas off a dirty floor at three in the morning. you live for sleep, for freedom but you want them to stay little forever. you can't imagine them any other way, are sick to your stomach at the very thought but dream of the day they become completely self-sufficient beings so you can go on living a normal life, whatever that is. if you are a creative, you struggle to find where your creative self begins and motherhood ends. or, where motherhood begins and your creative self ends. the truth is this: there is no beginning or end. instead, the two things co-exist in a way you previously thought impossible. they run from the same faucet, folks. from slow trickle to gush, depending on the day, the hour, the minute.

and so I was deep in the trenches of motherhood, grappling with said things when I found my way into the blog world. no rules, no schedules, just show up, write, share work. so I did. and almost instantly, I fell in love. it was the one thing in my life at that moment that didn't expect a thing from me. it was just there, exactly when I needed it and not a minute sooner, when maybe a minute was all I had, when I was nursing ezra with one arm and typing with the other, when all I could manage with my free arm was a hunt and peck lowercase situation. no rules, it didn't matter.

and if no one cared, if no one read, that didn't matter either. the having of the space was enough for me. but ten years and 17,959 comments (really, 17, 959!) later and I would be remiss if I did not properly acknowledge just how profound the interaction here has been for me. that people even read, take time to comment, this still surprises me, humbles me. if this is you, has ever been you, thank you. a hundred times over, thank you.

I wish I had the numbers, I wish I'd done the work. number of words written, hours put in here. number of photographs shared, polaroids, photobooth fridays. creative projects started, finished, not finished. number of lists posted, number of collaborations. times I've been right, times I've been wrong. number of shamelessly maudlin posts, number of times I used all caps to yell at the internet, times I've been forced to both explain and defend my lowercase habit. number of posts that mean something to me, number of posts I'd love to delete. number of actual real world jobs landed via this weird little place, number of experiences, adventures, people I would not know in real life were it not for the blog, people I absolutely cannot imagine my life without. from the blog, of all places, the blog.

in the ten years I've been here, my children have nearly grown up. ava's a teenager, for pete's sake. ezra is poised at the very edge of it. we moved to the opposite end of the country, found our way out to the great pacific northwest, to portland, oregon, and then seven years later, found our way back home to the south again. somewhere along the way, an old polaroid SX-70 camera cracked my personal work wide open. my words and photographs have been published in both books and magazines. teaching happened, workshops happened. ward turned forty, I turned forty, our marriage turned twenty years-old. and my mom. I lost my mom.

still, the blog was here, is here, through everything, here. undeniably, the landscape is changing and I am probably not unlike the stubborn little house in the city, dwarfed by high-rise buildings and skyscrapers, sorely out of place. the one who refuses to give up her little plot of land no matter how drastically things continue to change around her. after about a year of blogging I can so clearly remember thinking, how long can this thing go on? I mean, really? how long can we keep this blogging thing going? five years? ten years? surely not. surely we will not all still be blogging ten years from now. I mean... what would that even look like?

well, I guess this is what it looks like. at least, one little piece of it. I still don't know what I'm doing, not really, but I like it here. and I think I'll stick around. probably not for another ten years but you never know, you never really know. so here's to the ever-changing fantastically lovely, undeniably goofy blog world. here's to ten years of the unknown, the unchartered and here's to the future of this here crazy place, whatever it may look like a decade from now.

hi

the internet never stops and sometimes I don't know what I'm doing here.

it's an ocean of voices and ideas and sometimes it feels like the most beautiful place in the world and sometimes, the ugliest. turn your back on it for a second, lose sight of things for even one second and it will yank you by your ankles and pull you under. before you even know what is happening. isn't this what it feels like? the internet? sometimes? maybe all of the time.

but whenever I go through the thing where I question why I'm here, I come back to this: I like sharing the photographs and the stories. I really do. inevitably, the online landscape will change again and again but for me, it will always come down to this one very simple, basic idea.

I am not alone in this thinking. there are more of you out there, I know this. we are all still navigating the infinite, voices small but mostly steady, clear and true. the internet never stops but neither do we. and for this, I am thankful.

b l u e

last week's blues: skylights (a la fellini's), forty-fives (for playing), benefits (of living in the south again), nola dreaming (always nola dreaming), polaroid blues (nothing like polaroid blues), glass half full (er, shutter half open), sky full of hope (so much hope), september throwback (when I stood with color//colour lover co-conspirator on blue cotton picnic blankets in a park in providence, RI).

and now, a letter.

dear color,

congratulations. you got me through another stretch of winter. I am, of course, forever grateful.

yours truly,

andrea

p.s. my friend xanthe is fairly grateful too. just look at what she made.

p.p.s. further proof of our gratitude here, should you need it.

o r a n g e

last week's orange: new eyes over new landscapes (with thanks to mr. proust), emergency tulips, favorite diner, absolute favorite, essie in fear or desire (or a shade I like to call I'M TRYING FEBRUARY, I REALLY REALLY AM), fraction of a favorite mural and just off ponce, a sky half full of orange.

(now swimming in blue, last of the last of the color//colours)

(as always, more color//colour here and here)

g r e e n

last week's green: new orleans throwback, green grass reading (the best kind of reading), a bridge I miss so much it hurts, succulents gone wild, the last of ezra's class valentines (no fancy red hearts, nary a one) and an unexpectedly perfect wall.

(currently knee deep in orange)

(as always, more color//colour here and here)

p i n k

last week's pink: a dream-worthy front stoop, an old neighborhood favorite, an excuse to eat cupcakes, an argument for the unexpected, a door to walk through again and again and again.

as always, more color//colour here and here and I'll tell you, this place is my new happy place times one thousand.

y e l l o w

last week's yellow: parking lot concrete, gallery salutations, lovely mission details, sunshine box collection, the most perfect yellow that ever did exist, saguaro dreaming, a road sign for everyone.

knee deep in pink at the moment-- more color//colour lovers with xanthe here, follow along/play along over on instagram if you like.

r e d

last week's reds: christmas ukulele, rothko meets rauschenberg, scene from a moving train, bloodiest oranges, cutest couple, tunnock's on a tuesday, red bikes forever and a little georgia avenue red. 

(more color//colour lovers with xanthe here, follow along/play along over on instagram if you like)

(next up: yellow)

for what ails you

choose the blood oranges over the regular ones. the building with the bright red door, the socks with the lime green stripes. drive down the street with the pink house, you know the one. wear the mustard yellow tights, the cherry red boots, the little pin with the turquoise stone. eat all the skittles, all of them. paint the toes neon pink. buy the lemon yellow notebook instead of the black one, the brand new box of crayons, if only to marvel at their perfection. pick up a book for the color of the spine alone, care not about the contents. bring home the greenest succulents, the orangiest tulips. cruise the paint chip aisle at the hardware store like a swinger on a saturday night.

rainbow sprinkles. rainbow sprinkles on everything. and straws. the colored ones, the striped ones. slice up your lemons, slice up your limes. now is the time for little paper umbrellas, now is time for maraschino cherries in tiny glass jars. seek out the bright things that live in dark thrift store corners and bring them home, one by one. that plastic chartreuse planter, that royal blue band uniform, that ridiculous magenta hat. bring them home, if only for a little while.

because, january. february. and sometimes the other months too. another round of color//colour lovers with sweet xanthe because she asked, would I fancy another round? yes, I said. yes. and you are hereby cordially invited to play along. because, well, january.

week one// monday, january 19th// RED
week two// monday, january 26th// YELLOW
week three// monday, february 2nd// PINK
week four// monday, february 9th// GREEN
week five// monday, february 16th// ORANGE
week six// monday, february 23rd// BLUE

find us here, there, everywhere, over on the instagrams, the tumblrs. and just for kicks, color inspiration over on you know where.

today, tomorrow, always

'in the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.'

-martin luther king, jr

(mural by borondo for living walls, downtown at the corner of auburn avenue and jesse hill drive, just a few blocks from where dr. king grew up)

this one

we were so tired that night. so tired. we'd been on the road for a week, spent the larger part of the day driving the streets of palm springs. the children were through with the architecture, done with adult conversations about easter egg color and mid-century everything. we made our way back to the motel 6, back to the swimming pool and the serious, serious business of cheap pizza and cable television. but the light turned gold, real actual liquid gold and just five short blocks from the motel, we remembered: the windmills. miraculously, the children did not put up much of a fight. large slushees had been consumed, extreme heat experienced, no one had much fight left. the day was still a fairly malleable thing. windmills, we said. yes, we said. let's go.

ten minutes later, we found ourselves out on the edge of town, parked as close to the windmills as we could manage. and we stood, in what can only be defined as a sort of desert wasteland. sandwiched between a stretch of highway and a chunk of train track, we stood. canyons to the right of us, windmills to the left, a sea of windmills, an endless, impossible chorus. below us, a desert floor so littered with trash we could not help but look down. palm tree pieces, glittery glassy bits, flattened cans from decades past. a toilet, a few tires, a flannel shirt, an old brocade couch. the deeper we wandered, the stranger the items. the stranger the items, the more excited we became. listen, the children were excited about the trash. you know what? so were the adults. collections were started, possibilities discussed. could we fit the ginormous tree branch aka wizard staff in the car? surely that palm tree chunk would make an excellent planter. hey, were those ray ban glasses? because we should not leave without those ray ban glasses. I don't know how long we went on like this. hours, it seemed.

the wind picked up, the last of the honeyed light fell over ava and I shot what would be my most treasured photograph of the year. as if on cue, a train rumbled past and the wind from it snatched that polaroid right out of my hands. we ran for it, all four of us, scrambled like animals to catch it before it completely disappeared. the same wind whipped hair into my eyes, sand into my mouth, picked up the edges of my skirt, flipped it over my head again and again. I should have been miserable, I should have been frantic. instead, I found myself laughing, half-running, half-stumbling in the direction of the polaroid. what i felt was joy. wild, delirious, unexpected joy. what was this strange, beautiful place we were lost in anyway? how did we end up here? how had it managed to completely charm us?

this. my most treasured moment of twenty fourteen, my most treasured photograph. 2014 holds a thousand different stories, a thousand different images but, this. the best of the best because I look at it and I remember and I think, yes. we said yes. in twenty fourteen, we said yes. when it was difficult to say yes, when we weren't sure about yes, when we were tired and didn't think we'd make it, we said yes. and certainly, it has been no walk in the park but the good stuff, the best stuff, happened because we said yes.

I don't know about twenty fifteen, I don't know how I feel about it yet. though there's bound to be some yes in there somewhere. I don't know about you but I'm rooting for the yes, for the running and the stumbling and the laughing in the general direction of yes, for unexpected desert wastelands and unexpected happiness and more honeyed light than I know what do with.

decembering

steeped in december over here. which really just means I'm busy pinching sap off the ends of christmas tree branches to rub into the palms of my hands. you know, so I can breathe it in, every chance I get. recently, I showed up for a counseling session with a few stray pine needles stuck to the side of my cheek and, I don't know. I think this means I might be doing it right.

am trying to find places for all the christmas things in this new house. am playing all the records, singing all the songs, baking all the things. in other words, decembering. because december is something you do but also, something you feel. december is the celebration of a birth, the birth is hope and without this hope, we are nothing.

p.s. I'm also over at habit this month, contributing when I can. that is, when I've not got my face buried deep in the branches of a christmas tree.