.332 day 309

country, city gyal.

bare feet on cracked concrete

with stones etched into it's surface.

 stationed nomad on the roam,

searching for a way back home.

  

.290 day 261

le sigh...

my running sneakers that i never run in. at most, t'is a brisk walk.

i want to get back into film. there is an intimacy there that i presently crave...

sometimes...we're merely an extension of each other. this love is incomparable to any other.

.281 day 254

bare.

toddler toes

.210 day 186

toots is still sick. if she isn't vomiting, she's pooping. if she isn't pooping, she's sleeping. and if she isn't sleeping, then she's curled inside my lap, tiny hand in shirt, holding on to my nipples for comfort (residuals from breast-feeding, perhaps?).

lying on her stomach, breathing softly, peacefully, i massage the aches and pains out of her neck, back and legs. when i'm done, she stretches, yawns and smiles faintly. "thank you, mommy", she whimpered. "you're so welcome, baby", i replied, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose and chubby little cheeks as i do. i inhale. she still smells like baby and bliss. nestling further under my chin, she points to my fingernails while holding out her own. "paint"? i chuckle. she doesn't have her ears pierced, but i have softened in regards to letting her wear polish (light, one coat, so it doesn't last long).

in these moments, i find myself excited for a future filled with spa visits and dresses and picnics and travel and a life ripe with art and cultural experience with a tootie by my side...or even...on my shoulders...

.094 day 79

she was the first person i ever blew doja with. fourteen years old. perched at the height of a barren, chilly sliding board in an abandoned playground, she taught me the proper inhale/exhale protocol. she was a natural. soon i would be, too. felt groomed since childhood and watching my father tediously roll his "special cigarettes", my calm. cigarettes that smelled entirely different from the tobacco 'old man archie' rolled at the corner store. cigarettes that made him laugh loudly, scat to bebop and create delicious dishes for me to try. it wasn't until she began to "roll-up" did i even make the connection. my 'aha' moment. a smokey, green light bulb hanging above my head. and i suddenly felt like scatting, too.

i stopped by her house on my way back from the market. a semi - "pop-up" visit (i called from the driveway, as i'm also semi-respectful like that). and there she was. barefoot, and pretty toed, clad in black tights and tank top. stretched across her bed, a cigar box filled with doja by her side, she was more open than usual (never has she done this when my camera was near) and i relished the exposed energy. chided her about her use of 'wraps' (my father thought it disrespectful to the herb), she laughed. and when she clowned me about my overly cliché use of nag champa incense, i laughed. and somewhere within giggles and jokes and watching her roll her nightly therapy, i calmly captured the spaces in between. 

 v

.052 day 41

watching the olympics is one thing. seeing an eleven year old, with dreams of reaching such, on one leg, atop her tiny bed post, quite another...

.013 day 3

meet...b.

b loves nail polish.

meet b's toes.

b's toes wear nail polish.

the end.