Aug 2024
August 12, 2024

I have been spending a lot of time with my mom lately.
We've started this crazy carnivore diet together that my doctor recommended as it is supposed to be good for mental health. She's doing it too just to support me. As well, as "75 Hard." We said "bring it on, man!"
You can eat anything from an animal on the diet- and nothing else. That means: ground beef, steak, butter, milk, heavy cream, chicken, fish, cheese, lamb-- you get the point. The first two days, I went wild with the butter and cream. As much decadence as you want? Not so bad, I thought as I excitedly began killing my love for creamy things... night 1) our own ice cream: 5 egg yolks and heavy cream. Ahhh. Not sweet, but not terrible once frozen. It's all about the texture. My step-dad was out of town so we ate it as we binged "Your Honor" on Netflix. Then, we had two nights where we sat in front of the TV (still binging "Your Honor") each with a cup of whip cream, which we eventually offered to the cats and fridge monster. Well, I'm about a week in and I'm having trouble even looking at butter/any of the allowed foods without triggering my gag reflex. My mom says that "food is medicine for now... we can't think of it as pleasure."
But pleasure is coming from being around this incredible woman I cannot believe is my mom.
Each day - and just as I get older I guess- I grow more and more in awe of my mom. She's been through more than most people still standing and yet each word she speaks is a little gift in the form of sound and syllable... an invitation to notice, to love, to give, to empathize. We pass a bunny and she goes "awww hello little friend!", I say the diet is making me nauseous and she goes "alright! well we know it's working," she tears up and dreams about people who struggle- willing to take the shirt off her back or offer her last bite to anyone (literally, not figuratively), she always acknowledges that it 'could be worse, that others do have it worse" and that we have a choice to be grateful. She hops around the garage in these bouncy shoes she calls "Kanga boots" and sings kareoke by herself when no one's home. She watches reruns of Britains Got Talent as she drinks her coffee- rooting for everyone who's brave enough to step foot on the stage. Her presence is a life raft and she pulls up as many as she can- even if it causes her to sink.
I always ask her how she does it- exudes this gentle positivity, loves everyone, and she sometimes teases that she just shoots down negative thoughts like a military defense system. Other times, she says what my grandpa used to say: "sometimes in life you have to "keep it light" in order to survive." And if that's true--by keeping it light, she has become light. Pure light. The very thing we are all born as- our first form. She has swam through wild waters, trudged through mud, sat through storms, endured snow and cold until the sun rose once more, dried her off and offered her a return to pure radiance. Never passing up on a beautiful time, obviously she accepted the offer.
She is the reason why I don't give up. She shows me what's possible in this lifetime.
We've started this crazy carnivore diet together that my doctor recommended as it is supposed to be good for mental health. She's doing it too just to support me. As well, as "75 Hard." We said "bring it on, man!"
You can eat anything from an animal on the diet- and nothing else. That means: ground beef, steak, butter, milk, heavy cream, chicken, fish, cheese, lamb-- you get the point. The first two days, I went wild with the butter and cream. As much decadence as you want? Not so bad, I thought as I excitedly began killing my love for creamy things... night 1) our own ice cream: 5 egg yolks and heavy cream. Ahhh. Not sweet, but not terrible once frozen. It's all about the texture. My step-dad was out of town so we ate it as we binged "Your Honor" on Netflix. Then, we had two nights where we sat in front of the TV (still binging "Your Honor") each with a cup of whip cream, which we eventually offered to the cats and fridge monster. Well, I'm about a week in and I'm having trouble even looking at butter/any of the allowed foods without triggering my gag reflex. My mom says that "food is medicine for now... we can't think of it as pleasure."
But pleasure is coming from being around this incredible woman I cannot believe is my mom.
Each day - and just as I get older I guess- I grow more and more in awe of my mom. She's been through more than most people still standing and yet each word she speaks is a little gift in the form of sound and syllable... an invitation to notice, to love, to give, to empathize. We pass a bunny and she goes "awww hello little friend!", I say the diet is making me nauseous and she goes "alright! well we know it's working," she tears up and dreams about people who struggle- willing to take the shirt off her back or offer her last bite to anyone (literally, not figuratively), she always acknowledges that it 'could be worse, that others do have it worse" and that we have a choice to be grateful. She hops around the garage in these bouncy shoes she calls "Kanga boots" and sings kareoke by herself when no one's home. She watches reruns of Britains Got Talent as she drinks her coffee- rooting for everyone who's brave enough to step foot on the stage. Her presence is a life raft and she pulls up as many as she can- even if it causes her to sink.
I always ask her how she does it- exudes this gentle positivity, loves everyone, and she sometimes teases that she just shoots down negative thoughts like a military defense system. Other times, she says what my grandpa used to say: "sometimes in life you have to "keep it light" in order to survive." And if that's true--by keeping it light, she has become light. Pure light. The very thing we are all born as- our first form. She has swam through wild waters, trudged through mud, sat through storms, endured snow and cold until the sun rose once more, dried her off and offered her a return to pure radiance. Never passing up on a beautiful time, obviously she accepted the offer.
She is the reason why I don't give up. She shows me what's possible in this lifetime.
Aug 2024,
A conversation with my friend/mentor Jess Almasy and a brewing new perspective.
A conversation with my friend/mentor Jess Almasy and a brewing new perspective.
Dear Obie,
I found your name, your art and your words tonight and I feel silly even trying to express my thoughts to you about it all. Because no configuration of words I could compose could possibly capture the way you made me feel or think or… I think that you captured something that I’ve been wracking my brain over and over again the past few years, months, and days of my life:
Could this be life? Could these finite, horrid atrocities… these vigorous intense, and sometimes unending, pains really be life?
Can the four walls of a prison cell or a broken body that will never get better or a broken mind that continually spins tricks or a broken system or or or…
And clearly the answer is yes. Yes. This is in fact life.
So, what does that mean? And how does one go on living?
I think that just maybe when four walls close us in, something else has to open. And it’s not — entirely — magical and it doesn’t really make any of the tangible shit entirely better (I think it’s like what you wrote “I am free. But if I resist it constricts”), but I think that opening might bring us toward an eternal truth. That maybe everything we deserved or were promised or imagined or needed is not the point at all.
I’ve come to believe life is more than just the predicament of having these human bodies. But, maybe we can discover life/god/meaning in the space between that predicament and our soul’s reaction— the “stimulus and response.”
I, in no way, mean to glorify what you are up against and I hope it hasn’t come across that way. I also don’t want to pretend to at all understand how it feels to live your experience day in and day out. My days of course look different than yours. I know everything looks different. But, maybe certain things feel (just a tiny bit) similar - maybe I can understand some of the feelings you have had or do have but not at all the access points to them. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I think that you have a beautiful soul and that what you have said, painted, felt and opened up is the truth and I feel really grateful to have encountered that truth tonight.
I’d love to know more about you if you’d like to write me— your joys, your routines, your thoughts on life. If you're willing, I'd love to learn more about your world and share mine in return.
Sending love, Audrey
Aug 6, 2024
Transcribing old journal entries:
Transcribing old journal entries:
July 31 Studying the end of life as a doula, I've been thinking about just how temporary the body is. While it is a living record of our experience here on earth, it is also just a little vessel we jump into to take us from shore to shore. And at the end of the ride, we get out and say "thank you" as the ship stays at sea. |
July 30, 2024 And what about this place? The stories it has held? The stories it tells If we listen closely The shadow on the wall Where a picture used to hang Scuffs on stone Stains on ceiling Dusty plastic fruits That smell like candles A table that wobbles The light switch turns on nothing but curiosity Tethered curtains Old books Empty chairs Maybe the stories places And empty spaces tell Are nothing but our own The ones we are reminded of Or dream up Based on what we didn’t know we knew The ways we didn’t know we felt Until the light hit the frame Which triggered a thought Then a feeling or A feeling then a thought A story. |
July 2024
I had the life changing and humbling opportunity to make pictures and videos for the Aniwa gathering in June and connect with indigenous elders/wisdom— as well as many others fighting to protect our earth and people… fighting for love. These humans planted seeds in me that I will continue to water. Deep lessons in our connection with nature and spirit— in care and reciprocity. This is the beginning. In the words of my friend Lauryn, “We are ancient beings remembering how ancient we are.” |
June 2024
An attempt to photograph grief.
A window into my childhood, my imagination, the place I used to sit for hours with my grandpa as he told me his life.
An attempt to photograph grief.
A window into my childhood, my imagination, the place I used to sit for hours with my grandpa as he told me his life.
June 2024
July 24, 2024
I’ve been struggling pretty severely with my mental health since I was 11. The severity comes and goes- windows and waves- but it’s always with me.
I’m currently riding a wave - or being pulled under one. It’s hard and it’s awful and it continually stretches my understanding of what it means to be alive just to comprehend my own experience. How and why this could be? How much can one person take? Is there a reason? When will it dissipate? Will it? What am I being asked to learn? To share?
I’ve tried everything: medications, pcilosybin, yoga, therapy, prayer, meditation, in-patient treatment, chanting, gratitude lists, running, vitamins, ketamin, you name it- I’ve tried it… some of it has worked slightly but nothing fully. There has been no “miracle cure” or divine intervention. I’ve powered through when it’s felt impossible and will continue to do so. This is my brain, this is my body and this is life as I know it- for now. Luckily, there have been a lot of beautiful moments and people in between. So much love - and I am really grateful for that.
My friend Ekani did a reading for me and she said “you are really sad, but you are also really positive.” And she was right. I am really sad a lot of the time, really anxious and afraid- really trying. But, I am also positive. Because that’s the best I can be. And, because there is so much I don’t understand yet. So much that might become clearer with each step I take - or make sense only when I take my final breath and look through that giant window and say “oh!!! ….” And, “I am so proud you, Audrey.” Well, I am already proud - most of the time.
I will not give up and I will keep loving and fighting to tell honest, true stories.
—— “Life isn’t a search for happiness- happiness is the side effect of a life dedicated to making the right choices.” —--
Thank you Mark Duplass for setting an example for artists - and people in general- to share our hard truths. I’m looking forward to the day that we create art on this topic together.
I’m currently riding a wave - or being pulled under one. It’s hard and it’s awful and it continually stretches my understanding of what it means to be alive just to comprehend my own experience. How and why this could be? How much can one person take? Is there a reason? When will it dissipate? Will it? What am I being asked to learn? To share?
I’ve tried everything: medications, pcilosybin, yoga, therapy, prayer, meditation, in-patient treatment, chanting, gratitude lists, running, vitamins, ketamin, you name it- I’ve tried it… some of it has worked slightly but nothing fully. There has been no “miracle cure” or divine intervention. I’ve powered through when it’s felt impossible and will continue to do so. This is my brain, this is my body and this is life as I know it- for now. Luckily, there have been a lot of beautiful moments and people in between. So much love - and I am really grateful for that.
My friend Ekani did a reading for me and she said “you are really sad, but you are also really positive.” And she was right. I am really sad a lot of the time, really anxious and afraid- really trying. But, I am also positive. Because that’s the best I can be. And, because there is so much I don’t understand yet. So much that might become clearer with each step I take - or make sense only when I take my final breath and look through that giant window and say “oh!!! ….” And, “I am so proud you, Audrey.” Well, I am already proud - most of the time.
I will not give up and I will keep loving and fighting to tell honest, true stories.
—— “Life isn’t a search for happiness- happiness is the side effect of a life dedicated to making the right choices.” —--
Thank you Mark Duplass for setting an example for artists - and people in general- to share our hard truths. I’m looking forward to the day that we create art on this topic together.
April 2024
A while ago, i read about a burn survivor who said “if i did not have to walk through fire, how would I ever have developed faith?”
I’ve thought about those words over and over again the past few years of my life which in many ways have felt, in no uncertain terms, like walking through fire. This past year, I did not know if I would - or even wanted to - make it out alive.
I will eventually share more, but this is just a post to say that what’s on the other side of pain (or at least some good part of the way through?) is so worth crawling through fire for. it burns and stings and feels like many small and large deaths, but it will change everything you thought you knew, everything you thought you were, and everything thought you needed.
i am here today because people showed up for me in the most unfathomable ways. Kindnesses that have radically changed me— and instilled me with that sort of faith i think he was speaking of.
if you ever need support or love or someone to talk to, i am here. no questions asked.
a few brewing thoughts:
1. Love is the point
2. It is a joy to make efforts for people
3. Pain brings you closer to the meaning of life
4. the universe maintains equilibrium
5. gratitude, gratitude, gratitude
6. We are just here to learn
I’ve thought about those words over and over again the past few years of my life which in many ways have felt, in no uncertain terms, like walking through fire. This past year, I did not know if I would - or even wanted to - make it out alive.
I will eventually share more, but this is just a post to say that what’s on the other side of pain (or at least some good part of the way through?) is so worth crawling through fire for. it burns and stings and feels like many small and large deaths, but it will change everything you thought you knew, everything you thought you were, and everything thought you needed.
i am here today because people showed up for me in the most unfathomable ways. Kindnesses that have radically changed me— and instilled me with that sort of faith i think he was speaking of.
if you ever need support or love or someone to talk to, i am here. no questions asked.
a few brewing thoughts:
1. Love is the point
2. It is a joy to make efforts for people
3. Pain brings you closer to the meaning of life
4. the universe maintains equilibrium
5. gratitude, gratitude, gratitude
6. We are just here to learn
May 17, 2024
i would do anything to step into this little world for a day and hug both of my parents, my little self and bossy older sister (hehe)
i didn’t know these tapes existed until my dad and i were moving out of my childhood home in 2020 and found them in a box
I’ve been watching them over and over filling in the gaps of who i am and where i came from
this is the love that has gotten me through everything
i don’t know what to make out of these tapes yet- how to put them into a sequence or order that conveys how much it all means to me
but i will keep looking and rearranging
i would do anything to step into this little world for a day and hug both of my parents, my little self and bossy older sister (hehe)
i didn’t know these tapes existed until my dad and i were moving out of my childhood home in 2020 and found them in a box
I’ve been watching them over and over filling in the gaps of who i am and where i came from
this is the love that has gotten me through everything
i don’t know what to make out of these tapes yet- how to put them into a sequence or order that conveys how much it all means to me
but i will keep looking and rearranging
Winter, 2023
A goodbye letter to New York, my home for the last 8 years
A goodbye letter to New York, my home for the last 8 years
At age 19, I stood in line at Sunny and Annie’s Deli in the East Village at a silly hour of the night and, for the first time, understood what it means to be a “New Yorker.”
As I waited for my sandwich, the full attention of the deli turned towards the door. A woman stood frozen, looking at Annie as tear piled in her eyes. When Annie noticed, she immediately closed the register and walked towards the woman. Everyone stared as the two hugged and years and miles melted away between them.
The man accompanying the woman shyly explained that she used to live upstairs many moons ago.
I often think about that hug and the miraculous intimacy of two unlikely people who fell in love with each other’s souls in a wild, tiny bubble tourists call the “big” city… A place that somehow contains 8 million+ people, 472 subway stops and overtime begins to feel like a neighborhood to people from all over the world who make it their home- true “New Yorkers.”
After 7 years+ in New York (but really living here on and off since age 11), almost every corner, bar, bridge, bodega and subway stop jars a memory of a very special time in my life where a family of strangers and friends helped me grow up.
I’ve spent the past few days moving out of what I think will be my last New York apartment- for, at least, the foreseeable future… It is a move I have thought about for some time now and, with its arrival, I am filled with a magical combination of nostalgia and excitement.
I do not know exactly where I will be next - I know I will be close to New York (in NJ) for a little while longer as I figure out plans- but damn am I hungry to explore new lands, meet new people, clumsily learn new languages, embed myself in nature and, hopefully, continue to expand my comprehension of this worldly and spiritual life we’re all granted.
Thank you, New York, for holding some of my favorite memories and so many of my favorite people.
One day, I’ll return to my corners of your city and maybe another young, curious soul will be affected by our reunion.
Until then xx
My New York Addresses:
Lipton Hall - Washington Square Park
Coral Dorms - Union Square Park
181 E Houston St - LES.
93 E 7th St - East Village
135 W 16th Street - Chelsea
|___ moved home to NJ for Covid —|
949 Willoughby Ave, Brooklyn
200 W 58th Street - Columbus Circle
2109 Broadway - Upper West Side
180 Devoe St - East Williamsburg
7204 Forest Ave - Ridgewood, Queens
As I waited for my sandwich, the full attention of the deli turned towards the door. A woman stood frozen, looking at Annie as tear piled in her eyes. When Annie noticed, she immediately closed the register and walked towards the woman. Everyone stared as the two hugged and years and miles melted away between them.
The man accompanying the woman shyly explained that she used to live upstairs many moons ago.
I often think about that hug and the miraculous intimacy of two unlikely people who fell in love with each other’s souls in a wild, tiny bubble tourists call the “big” city… A place that somehow contains 8 million+ people, 472 subway stops and overtime begins to feel like a neighborhood to people from all over the world who make it their home- true “New Yorkers.”
After 7 years+ in New York (but really living here on and off since age 11), almost every corner, bar, bridge, bodega and subway stop jars a memory of a very special time in my life where a family of strangers and friends helped me grow up.
I’ve spent the past few days moving out of what I think will be my last New York apartment- for, at least, the foreseeable future… It is a move I have thought about for some time now and, with its arrival, I am filled with a magical combination of nostalgia and excitement.
I do not know exactly where I will be next - I know I will be close to New York (in NJ) for a little while longer as I figure out plans- but damn am I hungry to explore new lands, meet new people, clumsily learn new languages, embed myself in nature and, hopefully, continue to expand my comprehension of this worldly and spiritual life we’re all granted.
Thank you, New York, for holding some of my favorite memories and so many of my favorite people.
One day, I’ll return to my corners of your city and maybe another young, curious soul will be affected by our reunion.
Until then xx
My New York Addresses:
Lipton Hall - Washington Square Park
Coral Dorms - Union Square Park
181 E Houston St - LES.
93 E 7th St - East Village
135 W 16th Street - Chelsea
|___ moved home to NJ for Covid —|
949 Willoughby Ave, Brooklyn
200 W 58th Street - Columbus Circle
2109 Broadway - Upper West Side
180 Devoe St - East Williamsburg
7204 Forest Ave - Ridgewood, Queens
Thinking about how many hours of my life I've spent walking the streets of New York City. Looking into restaurant windows, making eye contact with strangers, holding my breath through mystery smells, stumbling upon adventure, getting lost, getting found.
If I spent one hour a day walking - which I easily did- that would mean I've spent about 2,500 hours walking through the NY streets. That's about a 1/3 of a year. I don't know if my math is right.... It must've been more than that.
Thinking about how many hours of my life I've spent walking the streets of New York City. Looking into restaurant windows, making eye contact with strangers, holding my breath through mystery smells, stumbling upon adventure, getting lost, getting found.
If I spent one hour a day walking - which I easily did- that would mean I've spent about 2,500 hours walking through the NY streets. That's about a 1/3 of a year. I don't know if my math is right.... It must've been more than that.
Winter 2023/24
Needville, Texas
Needville, Texas
Fall 2023
Dear Mom,
Look at you here, bundled like a little loaf of bread. Big round cheeks illuminated by the same sun that has aged your skin to its present shape. There was a specific word you used when we were little and you would bundle us up like mini Michelin men. A word for your technique. I wish I could remember it now. But just thinking of the sound reminds me of the silly, made up things you and Dad used to say that had to have been created by two teenagers who decided to have kids. I saw it in the baby videos— each night’s entertainment created by the laughter and lunacy of toddlers. Naked bodies wobbling and weaving through the living room, singing “Maria,” and sharing big wet kisses with you and the camera as you learned how to parent. That clip of Dad holding me on the couch as I slept. He noticed you and said quietly, “what do you figure, Kath. 5 more? 6 more?” You laughed, exhausted, but held the camera on him, seeming in that moment to recognize what I have known since I could: that all he ever wanted to be was our dad. No matter how incompatible you were, that was one thing you definitely shared.
The picture above is dated May 1967. You were 11 months old and 9 months into living with the eager family that would love you, raise you as their own and bundle you up like this little snowman. But to 2-month-old you, this was a new place in an already new world, full of new people, 1300 miles away from where you were birthed by a woman you wouldn’t meet until your mid thirties when she would tell you she forgot your birthday. Your little mind probably couldn’t comprehend all of the changes that your little heart surely felt.
But, I always think of those first two months of your life. The ones you spent at the orphanage. I like to imagine that one of the nurses fell in love with you there. That she mothered you during those days and weeks they say are the most important. I like to picture this soft, kind woman rocking you and feeding baby you from a warm bottle that felt like a nipple to your little lips, so at least you would get a chance at being fed with bodily love. I picture her putting her bare skin against yours so that you could be warm and whole as you fell asleep to her song and not the echoing cries of other orphans.
Thank you for giving me so many things you never had.
I love you more and more each day,
Audrey
Look at you here, bundled like a little loaf of bread. Big round cheeks illuminated by the same sun that has aged your skin to its present shape. There was a specific word you used when we were little and you would bundle us up like mini Michelin men. A word for your technique. I wish I could remember it now. But just thinking of the sound reminds me of the silly, made up things you and Dad used to say that had to have been created by two teenagers who decided to have kids. I saw it in the baby videos— each night’s entertainment created by the laughter and lunacy of toddlers. Naked bodies wobbling and weaving through the living room, singing “Maria,” and sharing big wet kisses with you and the camera as you learned how to parent. That clip of Dad holding me on the couch as I slept. He noticed you and said quietly, “what do you figure, Kath. 5 more? 6 more?” You laughed, exhausted, but held the camera on him, seeming in that moment to recognize what I have known since I could: that all he ever wanted to be was our dad. No matter how incompatible you were, that was one thing you definitely shared.
The picture above is dated May 1967. You were 11 months old and 9 months into living with the eager family that would love you, raise you as their own and bundle you up like this little snowman. But to 2-month-old you, this was a new place in an already new world, full of new people, 1300 miles away from where you were birthed by a woman you wouldn’t meet until your mid thirties when she would tell you she forgot your birthday. Your little mind probably couldn’t comprehend all of the changes that your little heart surely felt.
But, I always think of those first two months of your life. The ones you spent at the orphanage. I like to imagine that one of the nurses fell in love with you there. That she mothered you during those days and weeks they say are the most important. I like to picture this soft, kind woman rocking you and feeding baby you from a warm bottle that felt like a nipple to your little lips, so at least you would get a chance at being fed with bodily love. I picture her putting her bare skin against yours so that you could be warm and whole as you fell asleep to her song and not the echoing cries of other orphans.
Thank you for giving me so many things you never had.
I love you more and more each day,
Audrey
Winter, 2023
A picture of my ride home from ICP (Lower East Side to Ridgewood, Queens)
I had the most trouble on the subway.
As I do in the --- in-between---- of real life.
A picture of my ride home from ICP (Lower East Side to Ridgewood, Queens)
I had the most trouble on the subway.
As I do in the --- in-between---- of real life.
Fall, 2024
Saugerties NY
Saugerties NY
i hope to spend the rest of my life surrounded by magical badass women who tell stories, drink wine, laugh wildly, share music and treasures, eat pancakes with dollops of butter pooled in syrup, shake their bodies, sit in the sun a little too long, and pull over on highways at random hours of the night to set up tripods and imagine more adventures |
Fall 2024
Queens, NY
Queens, NY
When asked how they knew each other, the words “family,” “sister” and “best friend” left their lips like overhead trains seconds after the minute and curse words from neighboring courts.
No parents in sight, they tossed soda cans and algebra under the stroller and took turns forgetting. |
Fall 2024
Bronx, NY
Bronx, NY

"We’d fight and spit chew into Big Gulp cups
and have our hearts broken nightly." - Oliver De La Paz
and have our hearts broken nightly." - Oliver De La Paz
Fall 2023
A photograph of my leg by Ottavia Giola
A photograph of my leg by Ottavia Giola
I often blame ballet for my thick and hearty calves Calves that say "no" to zip-up boots and nylon socks. That thunder as I walk and mar quickly with my clumsy. Calves I often try to hide behind table cloths and dresses. At almost 6 feet tall, I'm sturdy. My shoulders stick out far and wide as my feet, Which I trip over far more often than seems acceptable at 26 years old. My skin is soft and pliable, sensitive and reactive I'm hyper flexible and easily injure. My spine is curvy, not straight My jaw almost always aches. I am my body I embody It is a living record of my life Every fall, leap, and sit in the sun. All of the words spoken to me And everything I have ever said to myself. |
Fall, 2023
A rainy day.
The last few exposures on the roll.
Nostalgia.
The interum.
A rainy day.
The last few exposures on the roll.
Nostalgia.
The interum.
Fall 2023
August, 2023
Dad painting pictures in the Colorado sky.
Dad painting pictures in the Colorado sky.
If I could ever properly convey to my Dad how much I love him, he'd shrug it off like the little hugs I give him when he's driving. "You think I'm going to drop dead," he says. I laugh and tell him "I just love you" and he says "alright" in a way that really says "that's enough." He wears an uncomfortable smile and I know that if I held the hug any longer we'd both cry, because that's all you can do when you love someone as much as me and my Dad love each other and when you've been through what we have. So, I sit back up and we drive until we have to say goodbye again. The sports radio hums softly underneath our teasing conversation and reminds me of being a little girl in his car, of begging to change the channel to "actual music" and feeling a little bad when he inevitably relented each time.
Summer 2023
The love behind Librandi Gastronomia: Vincenzo + Petouilla They told me their story through pictures and the few words we knew of each other’s language. Their love and laughter felt as alive as the memories they shared. They sent me home with meat, a six pack of Moka drink, and their address. These pictures will soon be on their way to Amantea. |
July 22, 2023 (age 25)
Journal Transcription
The snake outgrows its own skin and each time that it does, before leaving its own skin behind, it reaches a point of intense discomfort- squeezed, suffocated, restricted by a skin that now longer fits. I feel a lot like a snake. I am feeling a lot of discomfort right now— waking up anxious, facing my monkey mind, but it is forcing me to change and build a more sustainable way of doing things- a healthier and happier way to think and be in this world.
Journal Transcription
The snake outgrows its own skin and each time that it does, before leaving its own skin behind, it reaches a point of intense discomfort- squeezed, suffocated, restricted by a skin that now longer fits. I feel a lot like a snake. I am feeling a lot of discomfort right now— waking up anxious, facing my monkey mind, but it is forcing me to change and build a more sustainable way of doing things- a healthier and happier way to think and be in this world.