A few resolutions. Small and to the point. 1.) Study my 7th grade French book for 30 min every day. Start back at the beginning. It’s beyond time to learn it for real. 2. get back in to photography and take these stories and horror show dreams out of my head and on to a photograph. On to anything, really. As long as they don’t keep swirling up here like a brain ghost. (ps if you want to get picture freaky with me, lmk.) 3.) self publish the first novel I ever wrote, sell it for 50 cents. Just get it away from me That’s it… I want a quiet year. I want it to make sense. Books, learning, music, making things with my hands, and writing… that is where I belong. That is where life makes sense for me. And I’ve drifted very very very far away. I wrote an embarrassing rough skeleton of something today and slipped it in here for you. I even included the word/image dumps and frustration. Writing is a puzzle. It is the only thing I know how to do. Photo 1: In a little pink nook in my bedroom, I keep my most prized gifts. All given to me by either my mother or friends at different points in my life. Some of them contain intimate notes, torn covers and tear stained pages. Most of them smell like my childhood home, all but Baldwin & Bukowski. Bukowski smells keenly like the end of a precious life and I don’t mind it one bit. Another Country smells perfectly musty, like the back corner of a forgotten library. The two mix well, although an unlikely pair. They are only slightly held apart by Mary Oliver. An intentional held space for grief and grace. These books are stand ins for the friends they represent. The special ones who I loved and could not keep. Some are representatives of my former selves. I couldn’t keep them either. But their company and lessons remain impeccable. A small hope of mine is that some day I will write a book and it will mean enough to someone that they’d want to share it with their dear friend, lover, crush, daughter, and I will sit curled in a woman’s room on a special shelf that means more than just the story within. That maybe something I have to say could become an act of love, a gift that says, these words made me think of you. https://www.instagram.com/p/CYaew12sVPp/?utm_medium=tumblr
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