Some other writing exercises.

Here. Someday everything really needs to be in one place.

ten-minute timed writing exercise: Tracy

Tracy with long red hair, Tracy with a blonde pixie cut. Waiting on my front porch with a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. The phone ringing at work in the smoky room behind the bar, Tracy calling in sick. "What was wrong this time?" Someone would've said "I don't know, she threw her back out, fucking. Who cares." Tracy coming home crying, dripping from the rain with lank wet hair and wearing ruined suede, says she has to have another abortion. Tracy at the beach when we were all younger - when even I was as thin and white as a bone or a baby - both of us wearing black hoodies and glaring at the sand in the 90s. Tracy in my kitchen helping me pack boxes on my last day in her town, but really wanting to borrow money for beer. She would leave too, she said, if she could buy the gas. I gave her my last five dollars and told her to disappear. Maybe she went to her mother's...maybe she went to heaven. Maybe she went to get her hair done, or to bed, to let her hair down forever. Waiting on some saviour.

unpacking the past

Seriously, digging into the past by way of developing old film is to open the old Pandora's Box. Oh, Pandora, you bitch. I can't easily brush off the significance of the last two rolls of film that were developed - one from the edge of a broken and bad time in my life, the other from one of the happiest - and both were shot just before major life-changing events.

The earliest roll was from a beach trip with Tracy, an old roommate and co-worker, following bad breakups for both of us. God, how everything was washed in liquor, and sun, and the blood-of-the-lamb-like sea. We travelled with a blender and a handle of tequila - the self-destruction maintained the importance of ritual and well-made cocktails (some things you just don't compromise on). Even though I'd go on to be in the darkest possible place in the coming year, these pictures capture a startlingly brilliant time - everything shot through with white: sun-streaked sky and fake-innocent sand. We flew kites, made castles. Still, we clothed ourselves in dark and shadow and heavy denim, because, you know, nothing gold can stay, etc. The most recent camera, it turned out, had been shot leading up to/shortly after my wedding with Ford. The saddest one of the photographs on that roll was of Tracy wrapping up glasses in my then-kitchen, preparing for my move to California with Ford. I remember how stressful and sad that week was, recovering from wedding chaos (ours was as low key as it gets but still hectic and even featured our car being broken into - bonus). We had a week between the wedding and then heading to the opposite end of the country for him to start a new job. I said goodbye to all my old friends, the only city I'd ever really known (I mean *really* known), and I quit college. The dark and poorly-exposed shot of Tracy in the kitchen like a ghost took me back to the tedious, administrative part of one of my last big life-changes, but also reminded me of the loss of friends and familiarity.