it's near impossible to think back to just a little over 2 years ago, spend a moment with those memories, and relate to them. that wasn't me. THAT girl is not THIS girl. that life is not mine. i wake and stretch wide in my own bed. my hand reaches down down down and i give myself cause to smile. a roof i pay for above me and a blanket i made with my own hands. and for however humble my accommodations may be, they are mine all mine and i love every inch. my satisfaction is deep and abiding. i begin to take pictures of the small moments... the silly bear planter that i use to hold my pencils and crochet hooks, the books piled in to a boarded up window ledge, Seth sitting on the kitchen counter...
i was once so miserable that the very idea of making a visual record of my life - a life i was so utterly at odds with - was a humiliating, horrible thought. i didn't take pictures for years. i had absolutely no urge. no instinct to nest. no instinct toward joy. i made lots of pretty good art and i will not say that era is without value... but i'll never be grateful. i will never say Thank You for those days. i'll feel thankful, rather, that i somehow managed to acquire the wherewithal to find a way out.
slowly, the camera has found its way back into my life. i want to know myself and my life through different lenses and films, different croppings and configurations. i take pictures of my mouth, my smile. i take pictures of my naked form in the mirror. i take pictures of my friends. i take pictures of the things my neighbors leave on the curb and the defunct churches down the street. i take pictures of my diary. i take pictures of the notes i leave to myself stuck to the door of my armoire.
i take pictures...
i'm in an era i want to remember.