most dear to me

Photos by Andrew

If you ask what matters most to me, my answer would be quick:
Billy and William and myself.
Our small fragile family.

I wonder why actions don’t always follow.
My cryptic, chaotic lists of things to do boast other things:
-Plan for kindergartners!
-Send out two new stories
-Clean the bathroom shelf immediately!
(I cringe at our once sorted toiletries, now buried beneath an avalanche of cotton balls, shaving cream. How can anyone find anything?)

I do try to keep William’s face wiped cleaned. I do try to make room for all of Billy’s beautiful projects…to ask him about them. What are you doing, love?

Still when I think of what matter most? What matters at all.
Billy. William. myself.

How do those three things stay the stuff of my everyday life?

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staying with grandma and papa

Apparently Mickey Mouse Pancakes are delicious even if you don’t know who Mickey Mouse is

Photos by Papa Johnson

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poolside

Here I can see my own face in his.

Photos by Billy

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stories that break your heart

My son, William, in the light
Photo by Billy

I just reread the S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, and dear lord that story is compelling. Never mind that the first time I read it, I was twelve, and fell instantly in love with the protagonist, Ponyboy, and all of his greaser friends. Or that, when I was thirteen, my then best friend, Danielle and I watched the Francis Ford Coppola version over and over, until we could recite nearly every line.

Twenty plus years later, I am still so impressed by this story, how it’s archetypal and specific all at once. It’s amazing that Hinton—a teenager herself when she wrote it—was so crafty and compelling. Twenty plus years later, I found myself up late again, turning pages, wishing I could save them all.

What are your very favorite stories?

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uncle steve

Photo by Billy

Billy’s brother Steve visited this month. Him and William had a good ole time. Ever since he left we’ve been enjoying this video, promoting Steve’s team racing video.

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peace in the big apple (part II)

“Billy, how did you know I was going to make a peace sign? You knew exactly what I was thinking!”

fisheye holga photos by Billy

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when animals attack

Photo by Billy

In between loving on me fiercely—burrowing under the bottom edge of my shirt toward the bare skin beneath—William has been pinching up a storm, taking fat chunks of our flesh in his fingers. It hurts, actually.

I hover over him at the playground, positioning myself between him and some tender-fleshed girl wearing pink bloomers. His attacks are often unannounced, sometimes unprovoked. Afterward, if prompted, he’ll apologize, diplomatic as a politician. Even so, he might go back for seconds.

Remember, I tell him, No pinching! Pinching hurts people. If you pinch anyone, we not going to stay and play. If someone is irritating you, here’s what you can do instead…”

A few minutes later, I read his mind and catch his hand mid air before it reaches some unsuspecting tot.

Today I was too far away when I saw that look cross his face; he reached out his hand, fingers poised by the naked arm of some boy playing with an ochre colored digger-truck in the sandbox. William was ready. William was going to pinch that boy hard. But he didn’t. He just stood there a second, his fingers suspended oddly in the air.

William felt me looking; looked back at me coyly. Mama, he said. He shrugged and went back to digging in the dirt.

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bright lights, big city (part I)

Billy and I set out for New York City last weekend, on our own

Photo by Billy

Check out Litscribbler, started by a writer-friend, a nice resource for short story writers

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how we see

Two views of William and I, in the spring and more recently

Photos by Billy

Billy and I went to New York this weekend, and walking around Williamsburg—disserted streets and warehouse galleries—I felt a different person looking out of my eyes.

She saw among a few sharp, gorgeous photographs, a mess of blurry paintings, an installation of lampshades strung from the ceiling. they just didn’t look all that interesting to her.

But then I think, who is she to judge?

What makes art worthwhile, worthy for you?

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