I have a million photographs to post up here, a million things to write about, events that maybe I did or maybe I didn't take photographs of but happened. I've been busy sucking the marrow out of life in the Thoreau way, running like a banshee until my bones feel like they are made out of glass and my skin itches and I have to sleep or I will fall over, right off my shoes onto the floor.
There have been trips up to Winter Park to ride my bike in the mountains, climbing passes, descending in the rain. There was a day spent in bed watching bad TV and eating Nutella straight from the Jar. I took a ride in the mountains in a car that costs more than I'll make in four years, flying along the highway with the top down and my hair whipping in my face. I celebrated my anniversary, a hard won beautiful prize for steady, relentless love. I have danced until the break of dawn, sewn until my fingers could hardly hold a needle.
I have been busy living, busy making sure that I am treasuring each second. That I remember to count my blessings and breathe my thanks to God for them. That I take time to hang on for dear life to the ones I love the most, whether it be by phone calls, emails, letters, or sitting with them drinking and singing on the stoop in front of my house or digging through my closet with them.
In the middle of a city filled with flags at half mast, agonizing news reports, an apartment that's deliberately death-trapped, living abundantly, fearlessly, and with great gratitude is the only way I can figure out how to do them justice.
(Gold glitter and cigarett butts, spilled on the pavement. A little magic with the mundane - isn't that how it should always be?)