I've always loved going home at twilight and looking in at the unshuttered lives encased in the homes along the way. On rare occasion a figure is seen in the blue flash of the tv or crossing in front of the butter light of a desk lamp, but mostly it's the light itself that attracts, the color and shade of a home. Here in Portland, OR we live in a city full of empty home-laden streets where everyone is tucked away at sunset. A family of eight 22-year olds. A family of one widow and one ghost. A family of man, woman, baby. In a few weeks this space will become a home of sorts as I spy on my own 36th year (okay, technically I turn 36 so it will be my 37th year).

I have learned that there are a lot of things I love, but no matter how much love there is I don't necessarily remember them. I have bookshelves full of books I've swooned over but can tell you nothing about. I don't remember the names or faces of most people no matter how wonderful, beautiful, influential, etc. they may be. Therefore, this is an experimental document of pictures and words. I doubt that it will act as a remedy for my forgetfullness but maybe it will be a balm.