A camera

to help me see. The time I spend making a photograph in order to understand some thing I did not know before.

A made bed

should take no more than 30 seconds to create. Time is sacred and sheets don’t need to be perfect, but some form of order makes the day right. In this way our imperfections can be curated and controlled, thus allowing us a power over them.

The wilderness

of a strong river that’s four + days away from civilization. Also, the wilderness that exists in certain cities.

The

restless need

to create. The haunt of a calling.

Music

that makes you dance alone in your living room.
We leave home with baggage to claim, all of us. I deal with mine by finding order.

Luggage

is packed

neat

ly so that I can later find things with ease, perhaps in a whirlwind of inebriated bliss, after a jaunt in a strange place. I travel the world with my luggage. It informs me and challenges me.

Fragrances

that defy time, that take you back in a visceral way to a specific moment and place in your life. A sort of deja vu when you least expect it.

Playlists

are curated emotions, memories and movements. They can be deeply personal, even sacred, yet are easily shared. Playlists move us along a spectrum of time and tense. Every year on my birthday I create one with exactly as many songs as my new age. These playlists become mottos, creeds, time capsules. I become them and they become me.

The number

7

is strong and unique. It’s all grit. (S)even is also balance: one straight line and one curved. It leans into the future while paying tribute to the characters before it. 7…

Postcards

are intimate relics. I go to antique stores on my travels and look for the ones that have been written on and sent off. Long before social media people scribbled their activities and desires on a piece of cardstock and sent it through the public mail where anyone else could read them. These artifacts are both vague and vulnerable, magic and inspiring.

A bound journal

feels permanent. It abates the writer’s desire to kill their darlings prematurely. The beginning and end of a journal are the most difficult. The first page is a first impression, with all its pressures. The last is like saying goodbye to a great pair of shoes. I use Moleskine notebooks exclusively. They are widely available and simply designed.

There is no wrong way when it comes to ordering

eggs

. This being said, I enjoy mine slightly runny - soft boiled or poached.

Eggs benedict

is the culmination of all cultural progress. I try it everywhere I go, lavish or plain. Greasy diner or artisan brunch.

Thanksgiving day

, before the big meal. A sentimental mood. I listen to good music and think of those who’ve stepped out a bit early. There is a certain brand of melancholy that’s healthy to experience from time to time. It’s strongest for me on this day. On thanksgiving I make toasts all throughout the day. I stare out of windows and I form the curve of a smile. I remember that I feel all things for all people.

They say

synesthesia

is a condition, but I believe it is innate and can be exercised. Colors should smell and sounds should paint your skies all manners of hues. Numbers and letters and colors and smells and patterns - they all become fuzzy at their edges, bleed into another. They step out of the bounds we have placed them in and jaunt over to the next. We ought to encourage these delightful rebellions.

The right drink at the right moment

. A gin and tonic is the perfect answer to summer heat and sweat. Dark, craft beer and a window make my winter afternoons fantastical. Martinis exist in a wonderful threshold; they are not solely celebratory, nor dour. A drink or few is a great chance to sit and stare and wax poetic with people you enjoy. As good as a cocktail may be, it is simply the byproduct of something much more profound in the world. Nothing beats good conversation and the right drink.

Time

. The time when I found myself. The time I found you in the yard, stumbling. The time that we always talk about when gathered around tables. It never gets old. There is never enough time despite its open endedness. I used to go to bed in fits and rages because I still had so much to do. I still feel this way, but need sleep nevertheless. Out of breath and breadth to be.

My

mornings

love me as I have loved the

moon

. 7AM waxes through the clouds a season of planning - and I am the bee, stirring honey into my morning routines, thinking of today and already, of tomorrow.

Windows

of all kinds. After a long winter my skin and lungs miss the open air. I drive with my windows down and the heater up to relish the changing of all things.

I’m from the high desert where it rains, though not nearly enough.

Petrichor

is the smell of rain and earth. Life itself waking from an existential slumber, greeting its morning with a smile. When it rains I breathe deep and ponder where I’m from, where I’ve been, where I’m going.

When I visit the mountains, I take time to sit among

trees

. They speak, if you are open to the idea of it. Their age brings a great wisdom, and I struggle to grasp the breadth of their being. I like to sit under trees, listening to wind and time and thoughts as they slip in and out of present tense.
When I was younger

storms

seemed to be the only thing that could understand me. The way they reached out, uncontained. Energy lashing out at the land and its inhabitants. There is a magic to storms, an enchantment found nowhere else.

I relish

telling stories

. I try to insert them into conversations at every opportunity. Robert McNamara was an interesting, if not conflicting man who said “Never answer the question that was asked of you. Answer the question that you wish had been asked of you.” I must satisfy an expressive itch, an extrovert's need for sharing. So I find my podiums and tell stories from them. Conversations though, are a balanced reciprocity, and stories cannot be told without the chance to digest another’s tales.

I’ve been said to

smile

nearly all the time. Happiness is the new rebellion, especially in times like these. Pessimism and cynicism and misanthropy are all passé. Old Hat. Joy is the new dissent. And not the manufactured joy we see on our social feeds - but a simple pleasure. There are moments in life when we smile for no spectacular reason at all; smile at the sky or a budding tree, the smell of rain, or a simple interaction with another human. My rebellion is to smile.