My earliest of memories mostly begin the same, with soft, chubby fingers wrapped around a pencil, scribbling in composition books. I wrote to experience, to understand, to remember. While my brothers were tuned in to their Atari, and mother plucked towering weeds out of garden beds; while my friends played with tall, blonde dolls; in the back of the school bus, while the other kids smoked cigarettes and laughed unforgivingly at one another, I was hiding in my own made-up universe, telling my secrets and dreams to wide-ruled pages.
Writing happens differently for me these days - in a sliver of quite during his afternoon nap, on leftover construction paper or envelopes from bills. But here I am, back again, writing urgently with the hopes of remembering it all, especially the happy parts.
Photos from the year past.
1 - 3: 35 mm film
4 - 5: mobile, edited with VCSO cam