This fall and winter, I am inviting two new words to guide my creative life: attention and mischief.
A few days after Christmas I’m eating veggie curry watching the sea through the window. There’s a lighthouse on a little island that appears and disappears through the clouds. Sometimes there are figures walking on the headland near the tower.
I’m here as a kind of halfway house—after spending Christmas with my family in the suburbs and before going back to my tiny studio in the city centre.
All of the things are blooming. Have you noticed? June is here. The Cecil Brunner rosebush is magnificent this year--an explosion of flowers so heavy that its top has fallen away from the white wall of the little city cottage where Lucia is made, and is spilling toward the alleyway. There is a lesson here for me, in expectation and fruition...
Sunday, April 9, 2017 - Daily Notes, From the Editor (550 words). Whoa, April is intense. Burgeoning. This thing we call Spring is aptly named. To the untrained eye, new growth appears suddenly, but if you have been paying attention you know: this all started long ago.
Happy New Year! Oh, the plans I had for ending 2016 with a neat bow, a perfect email, and an announcement of a new offering I've been working on for early 2017. Out the window they flew sometime in the last week while I struggled to balance heart work with paid work, dreams with reality. Instead, I woke this morning unfinished. Like I always do...
The teacup drops from my hand unprovoked. It simply falls to the tearoom’s wooden floor and wobble-rolls under my chair. The cup is empty; there’s no splash or mess, only the noise of the cup’s landing that may have been a firework for the look the woman across the room gives me. Cocooned on the couch, the woman pulls the plush white robe she must have brought from home closer around her neck and returns to her journal.
“We do not remember childhood – we imagine it. ”
A Childhood Imagined by Sarah Anne Childers
“Will you tell me your first memory?” I ask my daughter, Anita Belle. It is morning and we are in the kitchen. I slice strawberries for her lunchbox. She balances on her belly on the edge of the table and kicks her legs in the air, stalling on brushing her teeth.
I ask because it has occurred to me that Anita Belle has long ago formed the impression that she will name her first memory. This is not a momentous revelation; she is seven after all, practically a teenager according to her. It baffles me that I do not know the first memory of this creature that shares my home and owns my heart. I am greedy for her recollection, like a treasure hunter obsessed.
Anita Belle looks over at me, slides off the table. “Well,” she begins, and the word never had so many syllables. “I must have been about one year old and...” I hang on her words but pretend not to. Her eyes don’t leave mine. The space between us in the kitchen has become her stage, and she fully inhabits it to unspool a story conjured on the spot. I frown. I do not assume exclusivity between the ides of memory and story. I know how one can dissolve into the other, that memories are both fodder for stories and stories themselves of course they are, the moment memory is narrated whether to ourselves or to others it grows story wings. I know this, but a story unmoored from her history our history is not what I’m after from my daughter.
I interrupt her tale. I do it kindly because the child hates to be disbelieved, all the more so when the story is fantastical. She will scream and stomp away, sob face down on the rug if she senses doubt. I am very careful when I stop her. “Sweets, what I meant to ask is can you think of something that happened when you were very small? And once you’ve thought of that time, can you think of a time from when you are even younger, your very first memory?”
Anita Belle is quiet for a moment, gazes up and to the side, which is where she looks when asked to recall. Then she tells me her memory in one rolling thought. “I was with Evie and we were at the beach and Evie was a baby and I threw rocks for her.”
I smile because I remember that time at the pocket beach by the ferry dock when Anita Belle was just two and her cousin Evie was a few months old. It was late winter and the sea and sky were the muted gray of new concrete, the sea freshly poured and dark, the cured clouded sky shades lighter. Only the beach rocks offered color. Anita Belle chose a rock the size of her fist. “Do you want to do it?” she asked, offering it to Evie who balanced head lolling and arms flapping on her mother’s knee. “Oh honey, Evie’s too little,” said all of us adults at once, the chorus offering explanation, moving things along. "Ok," Anita Belle said to her little cousin, nonplussed. "I will do it for you." Splash!
In the kitchen I tell my daughter how she pronounced "it" as "eet" and that her tangled hair was pulled back into the messiest of ponytails because she wouldn't let me brush it, and that after the beach we went to a diner where she ate only fries with loads of ketchup. Anita Belle laps up these details, trills in a high voice "Do you want to do eet? I will do eet for you!" through teeth brushing and our walk to art camp.
Later I wonder if Anita Belle will swap out her first memory like she does her favorite color – today teal but violet only yesterday. I wonder if she will forget about that time on the beach throwing rocks for Evie in the winter all together in the inevitable though troublingly named process of childhood amnesia, a culling of the majority of our earliest memories.
I am sentimental about memories, mine and now too Anita Belle's because I know the stakes. I do not care so much for things; memory-stories are the heirlooms I collect. From the most minuscule knick-knack to the sturdy fainting couch with ornate carved legs, I clean and arrange because it gives me an excuse to touch, even the ugly ones, even the ones I never desired to own but memories don't have return policies. It is truth that I cannot curate my daughter’s childhood memories. I cannot pick and choose which impressions survive amnesia, cannot display them chronologically or perhaps thematically, cannot pen the explanatory text posted beneath each one on walls painted to complement the memories' hues. It is truth, and while I am smart enough to know it, I am not wise enough or good enough to extinguish my longing for a crack at ghostwriting through memory-story the autobiography of my child's imagined childhood.
Sarah Anne Childers is the online editor at luciajournal.com where she happily toggles between curating creatives as an editor and creatively curating ideas and the words they live in as a writer.
sarah@luciajournal.com
Channeling 8 by Karly Siroky
Today it was 107 degrees outside. Inside, it was a cool, crisp 77. That’s Southern Oregon in mid-August.
Lately I’ve been focused on being productive, on bringing in new clients, on moving product. Traveling home from meetings in Seattle, I made a list of thirteen things I could do to improve my business and my finances: set up monthly tax payments, select a new health plan, decide which cloud storage platform would be most cost-effective.
Since when did I become such an adult?
Often times in an effort to lull myself to sleep, I’ll indulge in a good old fashioned YouTube binge. Last night it was dance videos by Adam Sevani (think, teenage heart throb from Step Up 2, 3, etc.), including a dance battle between him and Miley Cyrus. These are not my proudest moments.
The night before, I had a dance party in my driveway. The radio was playing my jams, and instead of getting dolled up and going out on the town (it was Wednesday, and this is Ashland, where you’re more likely to find a Bunko Club than a night club), I decided to just dance, right there, with only the barn cat as my witness. She eyed me curiously.
Photo by Karly Siroky
I was searching for something, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
With the weekend fast approaching, I realized that for once in my life I had no plans. Typically, when faced with 48 hours of empty calendar, my Type A brain goes into overdrive, and I immediately conjure up a tall stack of check boxes.
This weekend, however, with temps in the triple digits, I simply wasn’t in the mood. If there were one box I hoped to cross off, it was simply: SURVIVE.
I called Grandma. We packed the cooler with Dutch cheese and a six-pack of Limonata, and headed for the neighbors’ pool. A friend and his daughter were already there, along with her two giant, inflatable companions: Sea Turtle and Stingray.
“C’mon!” she shouted, “Join the party!” I worried about messing up my hair, about my very non-waterproof mascara running down my face.
Who was I trying to impress? I chose Stingray.
We laughed and splashed ourselves silly. I asked how old she was. “Eight!” she smiled. “Well, I’m twenty-eight,” I replied, cocking an eyebrow. “If you didn’t have the 2,” she said, “then you’d also be 8!”
I lay on the grass, studying the micro communities of insects, imagining that the cast from Honey I Shrunk the Kids was still lost down there somewhere. I watched the vapor trail of an airplane silently spread its way across the cobalt blue sky. I didn’t bother worrying about my makeup, nor any missed messages that might be waiting on my iPhone, which I’d purposely left at home.
Finally, I realized what it was I’d been missing: PLAY.
Karly Siroky serves as Lucia's design advisor. A brand strategist and visual designer, she is based out of her '88 motorhome (Big Betty) and migrates with the seasons. She spent the summer traveling the American West, working via Wi-Fi booster from national parks, sweltering deserts, and inspiring mountain heights in California, Nevada, Arizona, Colorado and Utah. Read about her travel adventures at her blog, C'est la RV, and see her work and connect with her at karlysiroky.com.
