“This is not Werner Herzog. This is his blog”
Writing is in backlog. Photos are in backlog. My time is my own, but my tools, they are failing. My computer was wiped clean and still isn’t working. I don’t even know where to start.
Flew into town this morning, head thick with the memory of dancing with Rafael and Tony in Seattle after That Mike’s Valentine’s show. Something about the motion, about the movement, reminded me, the weightless acceleration, the droning, continual prop plane hum. Despite the novelty of being in the air, (a day where I’ve been flying never feels quite real), I curled up against Will and napped for part of the trip, bag in the back, camera tucked against my belly, my hands warm against his side. Cracking my eyes open to look down at the water and islands smoothly running past below me, I felt safe. I felt safe and protected and alright. Everything in my head, no matter what it was, was alright.
Last weekend, in Whistler, was much the same. Waking up on the couch after after three hours of sleep to Dragos on the porch, knocking at the top of a champagne bottle with a samurai sword, attempting to slice through the glass so he could make properly extravagant mimosa, that also felt like home. The sheer absurdity that no one questioned, like flying, was an every day miracle that we all passed through, as comforting as curling up exhausted and wrung out, but not dry. It was exactly the sort of pretty thing I needed. It is important to have perspective, to realize and deeply understand that our lives are all minuscule grains of sand, but it is equally essential to learn that there are always a million fascinating, beautiful things happening in every direction during every second, and that sometimes we are lucky enough to be part of them.
