Minding the Past.

This is the season for creative nonfiction, which in all honesty, intimidates me a tad. It has always been my plan to write on my parents' storied pasts (because there are just so many stories to not to), but lately I have been tasked with the job of doing this with my own life.

In looking back through all the pictures I have taken just from the past six years or so, and thinking to all those waterlogged photo albums stinking of mold waiting back at home, there is just so much to sift through. According to Flickr, I have 12,923 items on my account. Which in of itself is not a horrible thing.

What is horrible, is thinking of myself as a character - the protagonist - it's enough to make you puke in your soup. I have a mental shelf filled with heroes and role-models aplenty. Fictional and real, they embody certain characteristics I would like to have for myself, but alas, not there or near that.

I am listening to various folk artists as self-assigned homework. They tend to put the ugly parts of themselves with pretty melodies. I think it is all a matter of doing the same with language. Both serve as the sugary reprieve from bitter medicines/ truths.

Luckily, I'm just a bit player in this story:


One final note - get a load of my kin. I could not be prouder.