firecracker and ice.

So I went to Surf Summit last week. A big event that unites the Wigs in the surf industry. I never fit in-- I don't own a china-sourced, publicly owned apparel company, and I'm not one of the purist surfers (who, thank god for, keep gut-checking the companies who recycle employees lately like those shitty "eco-friendly" water bottles that practically melt in your hand). Working with a trade show in the industry was good for my networking and working now with retailers I have a view from the ground up at how challenging it is to succeed. But every single person, whether you're a "whoa-is-me" or couldn't care less if you're poor bc you're doing the industry a service, or nearly dying every fucking time you paddle into a wave, clings to it so tightly.

In spring of 2004, there was a girl with blunt bangs and wavy hair who held shut the floodgates from the what-ifs and how-abouts. She lived in the now and the far-away future. On a windless, balmy night at a place called 7B she floated into a semi-brief like-love with a tall, lanky boy who was cuddly despite his frame. Similarly insulated by a cozy layer of living day to day, there was no better a match to be seen.  

As time passed they spent it arm in arm. The apartment on N. 7th they lived in for three months together was a strange, bare hallway of rooms. Within its temporary walls the windows were permanently open. Old fashioned radiators blasted their heat to battle the winds, which blew the tattered sheers inside like gray-blue locks of hair. The mattress where they dreamed laid on the floor in the corner, making it difficult to be made. But their place was empty most of the time. They spent their free minutes up one more floor and a fire escape ladder on the roof. It was tarred in some places. Had mysterious vents and patches and peelings. There was a broken chair that one could sit in just so. And oh, the views! Smog made for the most colorful of sunsets, and the City was much more romantic when they weren’t standing precisely within it. They spent 91 days in that apartment and much of it up on the roof. A lot of time with various friends with similar dreams. They mused at the few stars strong enough to poke through the night light. Had picnics and small parties.

Three months ended. The girl made new choices, and rarely returned to the neighborhood. The boy moved in with friends two subway stops away. After six years had lapsed the girl impulsively jumped on the train one day, popping out at their old stop. Ignoring the new she hurried the blocks to the old place. Walked right through the front door which was held open by a rock. Climbed up four flights and the escape ladder and popped out her head. A new building pretending to be old blocked their very few stars, the city and surely the sunset. Yet she was greeted by dreamers just the same.

I've decided to write mini stories about my favorite images. Something I've wanted to do for a while, perhaps with a partner like one of my friends whose art moves me always (he knows who he is). Until then I'll appreciate the ignition sparked by my new favorite writer and dreamer Erin Morgenstern by using images from the tumblrverse and beyond. God knows I need an outlet for my right brain juices. Click "Inspried Writings" in my description - V

why is it that inspiration most often comes in dark forms?

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