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.

week of the polaroid!

autumn 'roid week over on flickr aaaaaall week long. and you know, I'm just so stinkin happy about it. last bastion of true internet community, last. tis true.

also? happy monday to you, folks. happy times one thousand.

beginning of the beginning

sometimes I can't believe we're here. in atlanta, georgia and not in portland, oregon. sometimes it doesn't feel real. sometimes it feels like we just sort of slipped into this different life without skipping even one beat. we were there and now we're here. of course, that's not what happened. getting here was hard, leaving was hard. and when I say hard, I mean haaaard. like, anxiety attack-inducing, multiple salty sweaty tear-shedding, are-we-going-to-make-it-OMG-WE'RE-NOT-GOING-TO- MAKE-IT hard. I've never had a real panic attack but I think I had one on the last day we loaded up the moving truck. yeah, I'm pretty sure I had one.

what kept me going, though, through all of it, besides the idea of family waiting for us on the other side, was the planning and dreaming of the big cross country road trip home. portland, oregon to atlanta, georgia, by way of the 101 south down through california then across arizona, new mexico, texas, oklahoma via old route 66. at the end of my longest, most emotionally brutal days, this is the thing I curled up with. two weeks on the road, with nothing to do but stare out the window as the landscapes gradually, magically change. the actual planning began the minute we knew atlanta was a real live happening thing. can I tell you? nothing makes me happier than planning road trips. if I could do this for a living, in a second, a nanosecond. I love to coax out the plans, hash out the possibilities, to research, calculate mileage, determine budgets. I am that girl that falls down internet rabbit holes and does not resurface without gems of information. I leave room for spontaneity but admittedly, am hardcore with the planning. I have orchestrated many a road trip in my time but this one. this one is my magnus opus. steeped in greatness from beginning to end, save for the occasional hiccup (i.e., fairly tame backseat arguments, soggy breakfasts eaten from coolers most mornings and the time we learned spicy cheetos and windy roads do not mix). I don't even know where to start. so much road magic, it doesn't feel real. did it really happen? did we actually do it? yes, we did. we did. and already, I want to do it all over again. 

so, if you don't mind, I'm going to share the ever-loving heck out of it here. I'll take my time with it, as I am wont to do, but it might get old. there's a lot, folks. a lot. there are pictures. there are so. many. pictures. and words, good lord, there are words. and now finally, there's time.  

squam + city

to the folks who showed up to roam the streets of providence, rhode island with me to do my absolute favorite thing in the world (wander and shoot, shoot and wander), thank you. to the downpour of rain that magically held off and the golden honey light that finally showed up, thank you. to the dean hotel and the wonderful staff and all the lovely/quirky/thoughtful details, the tiny lift with the chandelier, the hotel bed that gave me my first real amazing night of sleep in months, thank you. to the fascinating people we met as we wandered the streets, the man with cotton white hair feeding the swans, the 95 year-old portuguese grocer still doing his thing, the prize fighter who turned his life around, thank you. for talking with us, for letting us photograph you, thank you. to the streets of providence, for your hundred year-old buildings, impossibly narrow alleyways and gorgeous old fire escapes, your bright-colored doorways and complicated wrought iron fences, your bicycles at every single turn, thank you. to xanthe and amy for a rooftop/wasteland golden hour shoot like no other, thank you. to all the lovely folks who showed up to squam in the city completely open to new things (and new people), who showed up to stretch and learn a little, thank you. and to elizabeth, maker of squam magic extraordinaire, thank you. until next time, friends.

list of right now

currently:

1. salted pistachio nuts
2. ezra's tiny folded paper stars
3. everything in glass jars, everything
4. the magic of memory foam
5. the light in the living room around one o'clock
6. leah's unforgettable grocery list
7. dera's things for remembering
8. portland listening, atlanta listening
9. new york and san francisco too
10. big fat bags of leftover color powder
11. big fat stacks of old forty-fives
12. blackcattips out in the burbs
13. imaginary shopping sprees involving clogs of the maguba variety
14. the sorting through of the road trip polaroids
15. the reading (devouring) of the book the gold finch
16. dorothea lange and her hunk of lightning
17. combinations and across the floor with twenty young terrific movers
18. unexpected packages of instant film from lovely friends
19. the obsessing over a gallery wall
20. the beginning of life as a coffee drinker
21. the teeniest, tiniest crockpot
22. vivid dreams where I am grocery shopping with my mom
23. mexican blankets for days and days
24. sonic cherry limeades forever

cities, states, colors

red // portland, oregon


red // portland, oregon


yellow // crescent city, california


pink // shady cove, oregon


green // somewhere in texas


green // somewhere in new mexico


purple // palm springs, california


purple // atlanta, georgia


orange // palm springs, california


orange // palm springs, california


blue // tucumcari, new mexico

this time, color//colour lovers stretched itself out over perhaps the seven craziest weeks of my life-- beginning with our last two weeks in portland and ending with our first few weeks in atlanta. sandwiched in between: a magnificent two-week road trip across the country. seven different colors from nine different cities and five different states, all collected with the iphone because that's just about all I could handle. actually, I wasn't sure I'd even be able to handle that much but I had to try. I absolutely had to try.

(more over at color//colour lovers, specifically from my partner in color crime, ms. xanthe b)

silence hereby broken

let me interrupt the quiet here with a few things.

over the summer, ava turned fourteen. ava turned fourteen, started high school and the moment she walked through those heavy front doors, my heart dropped all the way down to my knees. ezra is now a decade old, a bonafide top-of-the-food-chain fifth grader. a few boxes got unpacked, a few hundred didn't. lightning bugs flew around, I got pretty excited about it and the first time I heard the roar of the cicadas at dusk here in the south, I wanted to cry. old friends and family stopped by the new house and I watched (with a lump in my throat) while my dad taught ezra how to shoot a basketball. the beginning of a path was forged between our house and the cousins' house, as it is now merely steps away. for the first time in life, we live on the same street as family. and what we have now, between the two houses, is a compound-- a wildly wonderful, mildly chaotic compound, with a trampoline in one backyard and a homemade fire pit in the other and a lot of overgrown trees in between. also, there's a neighborhood swimming pool and we have the toasty brown chlorine-scented skin to prove it. that chlorine is baked in, folks. additionally, the public library on the corner was visited, new library cards secured and several trips made to the sonic drive-in just up the street. we're sonic people now. I'm not afraid to say it.

a few walls were painted white, in a feeble attempt to cover up some of the beige in the new house. there's a lot of beige. did I mention the beige? BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT OF BEIGE. we are going to need more white paint. we are possibly going to need to start a savings account for all the white paint. still, I find I enjoy the challenge. I putter around the house on my off days, wander from room to room, head crazy with ideas. secret pinterest boards have been created, books have been checked out. I enjoy finding new places for our things, I take my time with it. I do my best thinking when I'm messing with the placement of books, plants and pictures, when I'm moving furniture and lamps around. but this is also when I miss my mom the most. with every new home we've moved into, she was there. she was the one (the only one, really) who'd listen to me go on and on about house stuff, the only one who'd help me exhaust every possible paint/rug/pillow/table/lamp/curtain/plant option. endlessly, tirelessly. and she would love the new house. she would scoff at all the beige, the staggering amount of boob light fixtures but she would see straight through all the crap, she would see the possibilities. she would listen to me yammer on about bargain pendant lamps and thrifted mexican blankets, she would understand. and you know what else? she would help me paint.

we found our thrift shop, our donut shop, our bargain theatre. I found my camera shop, my crazy camera guy. we're nowhere near our old, familiar atlanta neighborhood and it's a little like starting over. everything is new is old is new again. we'd barely unpacked our suitcases before we went barreling down ponce to hit up all our favorite old spots. movies at the plaza, slices at fellini's, ice cream cones at zesto. long drives around our fair old city revealed that nothing has changed, not really. but everything is different. trees tower over places in ways we don't remember, there are new parks, new restaurants, new murals and the beloved old boulevard tunnel has been completely transformed. but all the old places are there, all the old feelings, as if we never really left. I'm teaching modern for my old dance company moving in the spirit again, and really, it's like I've just come back from a very long trip. not a beat has been skipped. and then there are the new things-- an opportunity to shoot for the radical non-profit street art organization living walls sort of fell into my lap and I had a bit of work exhibited for weloveatl, a mobile photography truck. it was all very whirlwind and I will always be grateful for the unfolding of it.

over the summer, ezra fell in love with cactus plants and ava fell in love with the german language. ezra declared his room would be decorated to look like the state of new mexico and ava covered her bedroom walls with thrift store landscape paintings and old tree branches. I could never have predicted these things, which is what I love most about parenthood. ava went on her first solo bike ride and ezra went to his first real rock concert. I watched his eyes double in size the minute listener took the stage and I saw him exchange a look with his cousin-- the sort of look you give someone when something big is about to happen and you know it and they know it and you just want some sort of confirmation of said momentous event. afterwards, we let him pick out a t-shirt and he chose the black one with the yellow skull and jagged yellow lightning bolts because, of course. then we took them to waffle house because that's what you do after a show, we told them. you sit and eat waffles at midnight while your ears ring and you talk about the show.

other things that happened over the summer: humidity. humidity happened, it's still happening and truly, it is as oppressive as I remember but you know what? I don't hate it. actually, I find great comfort in it. also, I stopped watching the news. I'm not burying my head in the sand but I can't watch anymore. there's a good chance we've broken ourselves from the habit of cable television altogether, mostly because we're too lazy (and too broke) to have it hooked back up but also because we found we liked the quiet. surely we'll be singing a different tune a few months from now but until then, we are those people I have always loved to hate, the ones who say they don't need television. I'll tell you, I intend to ride this tv-free pony as long as I can.

lastly, we failed to purchase a bed this summer. in a moment of blind optimism, we ditched our old one (it really was pitiful) when we left portland in hopes it would force the mattress gods to smile down on us. 78 days later and we are still sleeping on an air mattress, which may have two or three holes in it, we're not exactly sure. what this means, friends, is that it must be re-inflated three or four times during the night. someday we will laugh about this, I am sure of it, but that someday is not now. until we have saved enough money for a new bed, the best we can do is cuddle up with netflix, a few bowls of fruity pebbles and listen to the hiss of the mattress, the sound of air slowly escaping and acknowledge that these are the good times. really and truly, they are. 

until then

what I can tell you is that we've been on the road. for two weeks, we've been on the road. and in the time leading up to our departure (from that late great city they call portland), a hundred million things happened. and then the road happened and now atlanta is about to happen and as I sit in this small, dark motel room in little rock, arkansas, I am realizing I need to say some things. maybe all of the things, before it's too late, before it all gets away from me. but the dust needs to settle and then there will be time. the words will tumble, I trust that.

the phone photography project

honored to be a special guest contributor for the phone photography project 2, friends. 28 days of photo tips, app tutorials and general iphone photography goodness. I will admit to slaving over a fifteen minute video (where I talk about the hows/whys of my personal iphone photography process/practice). I will admit that the making of it was way out of my comfort zone, that I almost pulled my hair out in the process but I will also admit that now that I've finished it, I'm a little bit of proud of it. I sort of poured my heart into it. and so did a whole host of lovely teachers, which you can read more about here.

if you're looking to learn a little more about crafting images with your iphone, this is a pretty terrific place to start. more information and/or sign up here, if you please. class starts july 17th, yo.