Welcome to my blog. I document my adventures in travel, style, and food. Hope you have a nice stay!

I wasn't keeping score, but...

I posted that last entry on what, a Friday? I come home Monday to find a neighbor's National Geographic stuffed in my mailbox. Now, I have to say (on the looking for things that mean something front) that I have never seen, or noticed, anyone getting any subscriptions to National Geographic until now. It's not like they're strewn all over the entryway, and one was on the table of mail kind of lined up with my mailbox. They're never there. And there was one in my mailbox. It was the only thing in there.

I thought about taking it, and then I was like, no, there's one other one in someone else'e mailbox, and then this guy will be all, why didn't I get mine? And it might have gotten ugly. So I left it.

I conferred (sp?) with Kristin immediately afterwards. She said, well, I think you should take pictures for the Advocate, because, well, it's National Geographic. And I responded with the story about the time I went to see the psychic with a bunch of George's family, and the only things that I remember my dad saying were: Chi Chi, that the dog was with him and was okay, and that I needed to take more pictures. Specifically too that I needed to frame some black and whites, that my mom and I went through some pictures and found, and I think they're the right ones. So, that National Geographic in my mailbox meant to me, without thinking about it too much in that moment, that it wasn't silly to put the time and energy into something... frothy. Into being an artist. That I could be serious about it, and put the work into my website, and that it was worthy and real and important and okay. And that maybe, it wouldn't hurt to find out what National Geographic requires of its photographers or potential photographers.

I've been lazy / depressed / not sure which / not putting effort into a lot of anything, but it's shifting every day for the better.

My head's been full of snapshots today, of moments stuffed into the bottom of my bag, of hospital passes on bright yellow paper. I'm thinking in prose.

My mom has to go in Tuesday for an angioplasty. I would suppose that the best place to determine something is wrong with your heart is in a hospital, but still. She's not allowed to even like, go up and down the stairs. Her heart's not okay, and as the chemo started to really affect her body, the problems that were manageable got worse. I think I already wrote about how her toenails came off, and how her denture screws fell out, and now her heart - which has survived two heart attacks already - isn't too happy. She'll be in the hospital for about a week. I fucking hate hospitals. Mostly because it's the place where you roll the dice on whether or not you leave once you go in. That's pretty rare at like, Stop and Shop, or the Gap, or even Toad's Place or something. Hospitals suck and they smell like band-aids and all the nurses and doctors - unless you're one on one - are programmed to be indifferent to people crying in little piles in the hallway. It's their job to make this... well, a job. A job to be done well and cleaned up and then you go home and cook your chicken and you can't save everyone, especially not the girl losing her shit for eight floors on the west pavillion elevator, because it's not going to help anyone. People die. People get cancer. People go to war and don't come back. And some second shift nurse isn't going to save the world, and she knows it.

Photographer: 1
Hospital volunteer: 1

There's much more to follow. Stay tuned.


long live KEXP

the thing under the thing.