Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Going natural, looking professional, shaving it all off
I am not so sure it is “we” who look back. The commemorating imagination seems to come alive on its own. We are not the sole instigators of remembering; memory seems to push itself on us.
A memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin. Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams
A memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.
Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams
Seeing and hearing are selective. We register what is needed at the moment and unconsciously ignore other input. It may seem that our eyes are like a camera and our ears are like microphones, objectively recording everything, but . . . our senses are not at all like those devices.
I counted because I had told myself that if the count was right, my mother would be spared. My father would not die. My older sister, Jeanne, would make it to high school. But only if I kept the count.
I have bipolar II disorder, which is characterized by rock-bottom lows interspersed with occasional bouts of manic hyperactivity. After some tweaking of my antidepressant cocktail, this maelstrom, too, will pass. I just have to lash myself to the mast and wait.
I should have seen the breakup coming. After just a few months with Shaye I was frightened by her inability to make concrete plans for the future. She was like an iceberg: pretty from far off, but scary the closer you got.
I’m the one who was so desperate for a dog that I sat on the wood floor of our living room, hour after hour, week after week, and memorized the dog section of the encyclopedia.
I wondered if I had stumbled upon some universal principle: the more beautiful the illusion, the more egregious the lie.
A new feature in the magazine, A Thousand Words features photography so rich with narrative that it tells a story all on its own.