Dear BJ

Until a few days ago, I hadn’t seen or talked to you since I was a teenager.

Back then, I think, I needed you. You were what I needed when I needed it, and you were in a position that let you be there to chat whenever I sought you out. I don’t remember you saying much or even offering much in the way of advice, but you must have been a good listener or I wouldn’t have felt so comfortable chatting you up and confiding my junior-high-aged problems.

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~Anon

I’ve said this before: back in the day, I had a lot to say. In the first five years I kept an online journal, I think I used a writing prompt one time. Everything else was just me, chatting away at the interwebs like it was my dear old dead Aunt Gini–just there to listen silently and wish me nothing but the best.

Favorites, without (specific) explanations

These books are my favorites. They changed who I was or what I thought was beautiful. They gave me insights and things to write on my bathroom mirror. They made me think or ask questions about things I’d never before been curious about. They made me laugh and/or distracted me when I most needed a diversion. Read them if you get the chance. And for the love of god, if you’re judging me on the contents of this list, don’t tell me.

The World According to Garp
A Prayer for Owen Meany
The Cider House Rules
The Great Gatsby
Lonesome Dove
The Secret Life of Bees
Beloved
The Stand
We Have Always Lived in the Castle
Eat, Pray, Love
Ready Player One
The Thirteenth Tale

The Drama

I think it to myself sometimes: wouldn’t it be amazing to go back to high school and know what I know now? The mom of the senior I photographed the other day said it out of the blue and I could only smile and agree. Her kid, meanwhile, looked at us like we were both crazy old people who’d forgotten what it was like to actually be in high school.

One hell of a dream

When it snows, I want to be home under one of my fluffy homemade afghans, sipping my vanilla almond tea and enjoying a good book. I do not want to be driving around town, and I most certainly don’t want to be thinking about the necessity of going out yet again later on when the step-daughter finally gets done at work. Nevertheless, that is my life tonight, and I am, admittedly, a tad resentful.

A chilly return

I haven’t stretched my photographer muscles in a little while. In fact, it’s hard to believe, but the last time I did a senior session before this morning was way back in summer of 2014. I remember thinking I’d never shoot anything else ever again, and it surprised me that I felt that way, because seniors are teenagers–who in their right mind likes teenagers? Apparently, I do. Or at least I like them when they’re in front of my camera.

Missing You

Missing you is the glowing orange tip of metal just removed from the fire. (Maybe if I wasn’t still so pissed, it would be a nice matte black.)
It smells like vanilla perfume or bialys hot from the oven or Indian spices in a warm kitchen on a cold winter day. (I never smell any of those things anymore.)

Sweet William and the Goat Wagon

When she was 16, my mother kept her horses at Kai Brown’s.

Over the years, I’ve heard Mom talk about Kai on countless occasions, and although I have a sort of picture of him in my head as a result of all her stories, I don’t know that I ever actually met him.  But in any case, I get the idea that Kai was a fairly important fixture in her life.  Although my grandfather lived until Mom was 20, I think Kai probably served as a substitute for him where Mom was concerned. 

15 Confessions

1) Sometimes I forget that my cat isn’t a person. This is true to such a degree that I occasionally catch myself getting pissed at him when he doesn’t follow simple instructions.

2) I take elections personally.

3) I also take it personally when my favorite musicians decide to retire and tickets to their farewell tour concert are way too expensive for my skimpy-as-hell budget. I’m looking at you, Elton John. Don’t you know I love you?

Not #showingupforshabbat

I thought about going to temple this weekend. I thought of dusting off my kippah and downloading my Jewish Apple Music playlist and singing L’Cha Dodi at the top of my lungs as I drove down the road to St. Louis and the nearest Reform congregation. The Judaism brought to life in that song brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart, and somehow–this week–that doesn’t feel okay. For what it’s worth, I know that it should.