& all of it
(mine)

i used to wear this black beret, everywhere. it was some kind of statement, i guess; or maybe it was the fact that a beret, all stretchy and malleable, was the only thing to fit this big head of mine.

she always wore the fanciest hats, picked from the shelves of vintage stores, estate sales; her hats had history, color, and intrigue.

i felt like my beret was ordinary, that it was trying too hard. but still i wore it. i was ever trying to project some kind of difference. but still i felt invisible.

i remember as a young girl, reading 'deenie' in my bed at night with a flashlight, far and away past bedtime. i remember deenie had scoliosis. she had to wear this hideous back brace that stuck out everywhere, but still she remained invisible to everyone else. i could so relate. i always felt like i got lost in the walls and cement sidewalks of every place.

and sometimes i still feel like that, too big and awkward, and yet still fading into nothing, nothing beyond forgotten. and, when that rush of insecurity flames through me, i try too hard.

yes, much too hard. i can hear it in my voice, and the way even breathing catches taffy stuck sticky in the back of my throat. i laugh a bit too loud, i tell too many stories. i find myself talking in these jangly circles that hold no real meaning.

inside i am screaming.

can't you see me?
can't you see i'm trying?
trying.
dying.
trying too hard (again).

those are the days that i feel as much of an outcast as a plastic spork in some faux fancy restaurant with no marked prices on the menus (if you have to ask...); you know the kind with eight forks for one meal. not that i'd know how to distinguish any of them from one another.

i'm really more of a diner girl at heart. milk shakes, jukeboxes on each table, lots of good, not strained, conversations. friends who know me for who i am, big head and loud laugh. gullible me, with or without a beret, and all of those contrived trappings of just trying to be. all of it, and none of it.

all i need ~ air & beth hirsch
all i need (video) ~ air & beth hirsch

i could lose my soul right here

the vagabond ~ air (featuring beck)

& the video

through blue summer nights i will pass along paths,

pricked by wheat, trampling short grass:

dreaming, i will feel coolness underfoot,

will let breezes bathe my bare head.

not a word, not a thought:

boundless love will surge through my soul,

and i will wander far away, a vagabond [...]

~ arthur rimbaud

you're my playground love

some days when my head is spinning with worries, and i forget how it feels to breathe, i look to the music and other's eyes to bring me back to a state of calm. i am a sucker for imagery matched up with song, anyone who reads this space is most likely well aware of this. there is something so interconnected in my mind, and heart, that weaves together a photograph or a painting with the lyrical refrains and melodies.

i miss the barefoot simplicity of my younger years.

but some afternoons i grab the babies and we run off to play in the park. the slides are my favorite, and i still climb up into them and let my body slip. i struggle with control issues that dictate many of my life choices, but in that moment of sliding i allow myself to free fall. i remember the appeal of parks and playgrounds, we all had some magnet pull to them, no matter how we were dressed, or where we had been.

how many times did we climb to the top in dresses, not caring at all?

playground love ~ air (from the film the virgin suicides)
& the video

my mother would braid daisies in my hair, but only that one summer when she had allowed me to grow my hair long. he used to weave together a crown of daisies for me, i remember. i always figured i'd wear them in place of a veil when i married, though i've married twice with no flowers anywhere. suppose it isn't the same, they were never weddings, not the way a girl dreams them to be. perhaps it was all just meant to stay that way, memories and the wishes of young love.

i have not given up on dreaming, though.

polaroids remind me of my childhood, of aunt annette and her shoebox collection. she kept it under her bed, pushed to the back and flush with the wall. some were blurry, others were taken at uncomfortable angles. but there were a few that told stories in their particular play at shadows and light. i never found out who took them, whether it was her, or if these were stolen/found images. i know my family history is fraught with petty thievery.

i like to believe she took them, and hid the camera somewhere i never discovered. her secret mystery.