Time will Tell: July 7th, 2015

Woodstock, NY. 

We're here for an Amanda Palmer concert I simply had to attend, despite the 5+ hour drive there and back to Wilkes-Barre later that evening. My boyfriend of over three years is with me. Our relationship has gotten weird in a way foreign to me. Maybe I'm too withdrawn. Maybe we BOTH are too withdrawn. Am I boring? Uncompassionate? Unrelatable? I'm tired of figuring it out, so I opt to go on adventures with him to see what happens, figuring if we keep moving whatever the problem is will level out and we'll pave over it.

To take advantage of the long drive, we leave early to check out the town.

The street is busy, narrow, and full of folky thift, music, and noodle shops. I bought throat losenges at an old apothecary, and refer to the tin of elderberry candies as if they were from an antique shop.

A park in town offered the public pieces of chalk to draw and write on its asphalt and concrete walls. 

I buy a ukulele at the music store and wind up holding it beween my legs during the entire concert.

Then we went into the candle store.

At this time in my life, I wasn't one to gush over tapered candles or candles in general. I liked them plenty, but they weren't present at my altar as much as they were scattered on countertops and passively in in the living room.

This shop had every shape, color, texture, and scent of candle you could possibly imagine along with a selection of small gifty items I don't remember buying. I grabbed a few mini neon drip candles as a gift for my friend.

In the back they had this mostrosity. It was a pillar cluster of dripped wax. Layers upon layers of wax. Years and years of wax. Small knick knacks were nestled in the colored stalactites.

A sign nearby told us oglers how many years it took to create.

It was far more than three years.

Time will Tell: June 26th, 2017

 

Myself in Nana's backyard with a sword.

Who does this sword belong to, anyway? 

At the time of this photo, my Nana I suppose. Bestowed upon her by the death of her husband, my grandfather, who had died several years before. 

My Aunti Kris is in town from Japan to clean out Nana's house. Nana has been moved to a retirement home and her house is going to be on the market soon. With a discerning eye, Aunti Kris pillages the attic, basement, and bedrooms - finding treasures from her parents, her and my mom's childhood, and my own. A lot of the items are gifted away to people who will cherish them. Props are donated to the local theatre where Nana worked, project pieces are donated to the thrifty craft shop down the road, photos are organized and properly stored on family shelves. (They won't find their way to the superjunkfest of the internet or a local yard sale just yet.) We did make time to play with the Little People Village Circus/FireStation/CarWash play set before it went off to its new owner.

Then Aunti Krist found this sword, see? I never knew it existed. My grandfather loved King Arthur and was an avid reader of history. I assume he sourced a lot of these texts while he worked at Barnes & Noble during his retirement. My childish mind too young to imagine him pilfering through historical texts at local bookstores. (Which is now what I believe to be far more accurate.) I guessed this sword was a memorabilia piece of some kind, unpresented in their home decor during my lifetime. Maybe it was a prop from a play? They were actively involved in theatre, too.

Nevermind the suspicions of origin or meaning - the sword becomes an online sales piece and we have a photoshoot with it underneath the pine tree in Nana's backyard. That's what I'm doing here. Dusting it off and exposing some strange piece of my grandfather's niche underground world of interests.

Scroll. Find a Memory. Time will Tell.

Today is one of those gloomy overcast days where 2o'clock feels like an aimless early morning hangover, It pitied me enough to allow me to realx in the living room for the majority of the day.

I took a nap, wondering why I wore anything but pyjamas.

Retrospecively, I imagine I did very little other than eat sugar cookies my mom and I made for a holiday promotion later this season, and work out a rhunic code dictated by a family friend who overcomplicated his holiday light decorating with the idea to encode the lights with a secret message.

Did his house get adorned with a message for the nerds? 

Time will tell.

Some of the afternoon I spent reading a book by a lovely friend I met at a Zinefest in Scranton several years back. It's called White Elephants, and while I'm unprepared to give a glowing review at this time due to slow metal processing, (it well deserves a timely review), the habitual documentation of unearthing strange neighboring treasures laid within its pages has inspired me to undertake a new project. 

After scrolling through photos on my social media platforms searching for one photo I knew existed digitally somewhere, I realized I have all of these stories and fragments of my life captured in time but rarely, (if ever), spoken about with anyone. 

Does anyone besides me really care about any of these stories?

Probably just my mom and she's the only one I could imagine reading this, but I'm going to give this project a shot anyhow.

At least for me, so I don't forget.

Pictures found in a feed can be just as mysterious and becoming as one found in an antique photo album at a rummage sale down the street.

In fact, that's a great comparison.

My photo albums are buried within the rummage sale of the internet - all the glory of looping GIFs, formulated ads, and hypocritical advice columns.

Today I will begin with the first photo. Twenty minutes to write about a memory provoked from it.

Will I overcomplicate this idea or slough it off completely after a few days?

Time will tell.

Although, I really would like to do this.

10/8/19

Today marks two months.
I always choose a fitting time to visit.

On my walk today, I found a marble.
A white opaque one with a blonde streak on one side.

It's good mental exercise to think about what this marble reminds me of.

Rolling them.
Gazing through them as if they are a spyglass into another universe.
Holding them.
Sliding on them.
Losing them.

White and glittery.
Cratered.
Orange tiger's eye.

I think about knocking them out of a circle, and what that circle might represent.

My head-losing one of the many, and if there are any to spare.
If "spare" is the correct term because in bowling, (another rolling ball game), to get a spare means that some have toppled over and you've successfully knocked out the remaining few.

This is only one marble I have here, and I'm walking around Ephrata with it.
What else do I remember about marble games?

I remember the marble game my grandparents had in the living room.
I would build connecting tracks, like the exit ramp of a parking garage.
They would fall down the hole at the end of each slide until they reached the bottom pool with the other descended marbles.
I would drop multiple marbles down at the same time to see which ones would reach the bottom first after clattering and intersecting with each other.

I don't feel the need to address that this memory of a toy reflects my current interests, conflicts, and worries clattering and intersecting.

I did anyway.

Before I know it, I'm pressing the white marble with the blonde streak into the dirt in between your headstones.
Confused about my offering, I deem it safe.

One level-dropping marble, spurned from its circle is now fixed in space.

Maybe it's one less thing for me to worry about.
Reservation about commitment.
Feeling concerning UFOs and UVOs.
My ability to keep a succulent alive.
If I'll forget you.
If I'll forget about the possibility of forgetting you.

What's the point value of a marble that has been excommunicated from the street and pressed into the dirt?

Does anyone win this game?

Written last December 2018

The other day on the ride home from work, I wound up watching a video on an experimental 30 day social media purge that a couple did together.
(I watched their 30 day sugar cleanse, and enjoyed their contrasting commentaries, so I clicked on the next video.  That my friends, is how the YOUTUBE BLACK HOLE begins.)
I really enjoyed their dynamic. They were honest and verbal about their expectations, nervousness with coping, and their critiques and impressions after their 30 days without social media.

It struck me. I have thought about abstaining from endless scrolling for a few years. I've deliberated the idea only because I thought my personal craft business might suffer. But honestly, I never post that stuff as often as I wish I did or imagine myself doing.

I am disgusted with how I act with this black screen in public. And in private. I should respect myself the same way I respect my time with others. After some daily analysis, I decided to make an immediate change.
(Mainly, I am guilty of checking Instagram. Facebook has been annoying me, and I find it easy to ignore. I deleted it from my phone anyway.)

Typical day with my phone:

Wake up, pick up phone.
On toilet.
Looking at phone.
I wake up while looking at a digital scrapbook other people's interests and what they are allowing me to see and learn about them. Then, I get feedback on what I choose to show them.
I think about what I could show them next. Or if I even care about what they think about it in the brief time it takes to double tap a screen.
I wonder what I enjoy doing while I drive to work listening to a YouTube video on something factual.
Hoping that learning something concrete will help me figure it out.
At work, I check occasionally. Maybe I'll look up a recipe. I'll check Instagram to see if anyone liked my post from yesterday.
When I drive to the gym I listen to music or another YouTube video. Maybe its motivational, maybe it's factual, maybe it's advice.
At the gym, I listen to music. I scroll Instagram if I am on the stationary bike. I look at it again in between sets.
I realize I am vain for looking at myself in the mirror in between sets, in between looking at Instagram photos of people with more toned bodies than mine. I talk to myself about the process. Even though I already know it subconsciously, making comparisions makes me justify why my process is different. Even though I already know it's OKAY.
I go home and listen to music. Scroll Instagram again while at my desk. Making an excuse that I am looking for inspiration or learning something. I'll work on some art. When I find myself losing any bit of focus, I'll post or scroll.
I'll look up some real information about something I'm curious about.
I go to bed.
Scroll again.
Set an alarm.
Start the day over again tomorrow.

There are many issues here.
What worries me most of all, is that I am unsure of what I like or what I like doing.
That is terrifying.
Too many distractions and endless available content provides so many diversions that I find temporary and disturbing solace with having ZERO ideas about what I like. It hinders the human process of hands-on experimentation and natural mental process.
So, i decided to let it go for a while.
I started a few days ago.

The only things I use the internet for are:
-Email
-Maps
-Factual Searches
-Music
-Recipes/Work

So far it's going well. I took note of the moments where I felt "lost" and had the urge to scroll Instagram. I addressed why I was feeling that way and moved on.
Holy shit, I processed something! 
The only negative thing I'm doing is intensive cat adoption searching. I miss my cat and I want a new furry one, so I am really binge-ing on cat profiles. Not exactly healthy, but I know what my reason is. I love cats and I want a pet.

I have felt more patient with regular things. Resorting to looking at my phone in moments of awkwardness or as a way to fill brief moments of time, has been less frequent. I have been practicing pointed pen calligraphy daily, and have used my time to make art and read books.
Some of my goals feel more attainable. Now that I am only fighting with my OWN inner critic and less with myself as a result of quick comparisons, it feels freeing to know I am the only real judge of what I do. Maybe that's the most terrifying thing--at least for me. When I am forced to look into the black mirror of my phone, I see who I truly am for a split second. It's unsatisfactory, so I switch on the light, and outshine myself with false representations of what others are projecting onto me, which results in me feeling simultaneously hopeful and inadequate.
It's all my own fault--this thought process. In no way am I blaming others for what they are posting. It's my fault for how I choose to see it and for allowing myself to feel that way.
All of this introspection is a result of being off Instagram for two whole days.
I can only imagine how I would be doing if I didn't use my phone or computer at all.
At this point, it isn't practical. I have a job that requires me to be available and I use my phone to get directions. For now I will stick to this experiment. I'll see what else I can accomplish when I, myself, am the only device to search.

For Joey

They’ll fall through the gasp

burrowing a hole they bore in the world

that calls you weird.

You build sanded walls of worry.

wash your hands in a tepid undertow.

The salty sting answers the question of what makes you, YOU.

Whisper the answer under your breath.

Pilfering through hypochondriac growths

you name each forced positivity stretched across your youthful face.

Unsettled

And

Wondering.

Each one scrambling for the crumpled legal sheets you stack aside.

A broken sentence list.

A punctuated dick-joke.

A single line of an unfinished sex story.

You’re on a stage rubbing your head

wondering why you’re even here.

You’d rather pinch your head closed

than to have it swollen

with regurgitated tawdry when your back is turned.

Build your own foundation upon which to stand.

Leave peep holes on each floor open.

Uncurtained.

The chain on the front door wont lock.

You wrote your own escape clause

tucked it in the door mouse frame

for when you make yourself feel small enough

to crawl through

and get it later.

You’re authentic self-searching for the pull of a confetti cannon

you won’t set off

for fear of kickback.

You carved your own corners to fit inside a rounded blueprint

Flipped the yield sign

to hinge from its rusted screw

It’s safe to feel the heat from the baseboard with your hands

The bathwater won’t seep through to the first floor

The body comedic will fall from its teetering rungs

and crush you if you let it.

Handicapped or not

you can still walk your feet across the sky

Lying on your back

Flailing.

To A Dream on 6/27/18

We're plating salads around model cars.
Cubbies of vintage plate.
Tables like lily padded lakes.
There are too many plates for this space.
I'm annoyed by the stacks of them in corners around the room.
Everyone is moving in time-lapse.
I'm anxious about space and salad greens.
When I start plating, everyone is deep in conversation.
I can't relate, so I start yelling and moving plates around on the tables.
Take one.
Shuffle two.
I yell, "The more I put in, the less I take away.
But that's fine.".