Last January I set myself a series of goals for the year. So, how did I end up doing on those? Let’s take a look.

Goal: Read 25 books in any genre.
Result: I finished the year having read 39 books, so, not too shabby.

Goal: Run 600 miles.
Result: I ran only 295 miles in 2015. This was partially due to taking six weeks off after hurting my knee, and partially due to working late too often, and therefore being too tired to wake up early to exercise.

Goal: Write 24 non-review, non-photo blog posts of at least 1000 words.
Result: I wrote three essays in 2015 that met these criteria. If I relax the restrictions a bit and include a couple of particularly long, essay-like reviews, I can get the number up to five.

Goal: Post 52 photos to this blog.
Result: 28. I was doing pretty well until June and then nothing.

Goal: Get accepted into at least 2 juried exhibitions or competitions.
Result: I got into 2 juried group shows this year. I also had my first solo show, so, not bad.

Goal: Spend at least 1 day shooting for my “It Forgets You” project.
Result: I just got this in under the wire, having spent Wednesday taking a bunch of terrible photos.

Goal: Finish writing the text for the “It Forgets You” book.
Result: I did not do this. Not even close.

Goal: Shoot at least 500 frames for my Mira Mesa project.
Result: I’m not actually sure how many frames I shot for this project. Currently there are 50 images in my Lightroom catalog which were shot in 2015 and have been tagged “Mira Mesa.” But I also have three months of untagged photos, not to mention that I didn’t keep track of any images I may have deleted. My “keep” rate is somewhere around one in five, so let’s be generous and say I shot around 250 frames.

Goal: Complete a rough draft of a photo book for my “All Good Things” series.
Result: I did not even start a rough draft of a book for “All Good Things.” The closest I got was a new edit and sequence for my portfolio reviews in October.

Goal: Shoot at least 12 self-portraits for the new series I’m working on.
Result: I shot one of these and then put this on the back burner while I re-evaluate the direction I want to take with the series.

So, out of ten goals, I accomplished three. And you know what? I’m calling that a pretty successful year. On to 2016!

As before, these are not resolutions. These are goals. Resolutions are commitments. Goals are something to reach for. Here we go:

• Read 24 books in any genre. Of those, at least 12 must be written by women, and at least 12 must be written by a person of color.
• Submit at least 5 proposals for solo exhibitions.
• Spend at least 1 day shooting for my “It Forgets You” project.
• Run 400 miles.
• Write at least 12 essays on any topic for this blog.
• Design and make a self-published version of my “Sheets” book.
• Conduct 12 recorded interviews with other artists.
• Design and make at least 1 new handmade artist’s book.

There’s more, but this seems like a good start. Hold me to it, people.

I saw a ghost walking down the street
today It wore the face
of a man who was my father almost
thirty years ago
when we lived
by the path that walked below
the Bixby Bridge
This apparition had fifteen years
too many to be the callused hands I knew
and fifteen years too few to have yet become
yellowed and brittle fallen
by the creekside like the cottonwood leaves
A memory's memories must be
holed and creased and worn like
old sandpaper
so if it did not know me well
I was a child then and now
I am not
Looking back
the likeness faded
into a pot belly and glasses
rounded shoulders and a tucked-in polo
I never saw him after all

"Little Bear," I said,
"that is a tiger, not a hat."
It perches
precariously for a moment, then
slides down to the floor.
Little Bear, enraged,
shakes her fists, throws the tiger
across the room where
it lies in a heap, patient
for her return,
for this is the way
of little girls.
Little Bear, undaunted,
crawls and nods
and puts the hat back on her head.

There between
A pair of sweatpants
And a spent dryer sheet,
A little shimmer of satin.
After nineteen years,
I still
Get a little thrill.

If he said he didn't love you anymore,
But then he said he changed his mind,
Would you believe him?

Would you?

Some day,
When I’m old and gray,
I’ll live in a house with an HOA.
Family smiles on the wall
And wood floors in the hall;
Nothing special, nothing at all
Like muss
Or fuss
Or need to cuss.
I’ll have an office with a view,
A nice car, or two,
A portfolio that grew
Into an existence of ease.
The sun, the breeze,
The leaves on the trees
That shade the sidewalk
Where I jog and I talk
With my neighbor about stock.
What a life it’ll be
When I’m sixty-three.
I’ll be happy then, you’ll see.
I’ll have enough hours
In the day to smell flowers,
To write, to make pictures, to dream, to engage the powers
Of my mind, if they haven’t faded,
Or I’ve become jaded
By all the minutes I traded
For money at work.
But I’d have to be some kind of jerk
Not to appreciate the perks
Of this life that I’ve built
(Not entirely without guilt)
Or to wilt
Like a plant without sun.
But enough; I’m done
With that drivel. I’ll have none.
From now on I’ll say,
“Onward and upward! Hooray!”
I’ll go to work in the day,
And come home when it’s night.
Have a drink, watch TV, start again when it’s light.

Right.

Friday morning I went to a funeral for a nine-year-old.

Walking into the church, I shook the dad’s hand and gave the mom a hug. “You took our last family photos,” she said with a sad smile.

“That was a good day,” I said, but there were more people behind me and each of them needed to be seen. I moved along into the pews and sat down.

I had taken their pictures, last summer. And it had been a good day. It was toward the end of July, a sunny day that didn’t have the oppressive heat that August and September can have. There was a nice breeze coming in off the bay, and the paths at the resort where they were staying were shady and quiet. Both parents remarked several times how good a mood he was in that day, how well he was doing. It was hard for me to tell, but I believed them. And right at the end, as I was packing up to leave, the mom gasped and said, “Oh look, he’s smiling!”

I just barely caught the moment. Today the photo was on the back of the program.

They wanted the day to be a celebration, so I tried not to cry too much. But it’s hard to see a nine-year-old die. He had been declining for the whole time we’d known them, victim of a rare genetic disease. By the time I took their pictures last year he couldn’t sit up, hold things, eat, or even make eye contact. Maybe we knew this day was coming. That doesn’t make it any easier.

I could see the pain in the way his mom clutched his stuffed Spider-Man to her chest, in the lay of his dad’s white-gloved hand atop the casket as they walked it down the aisle. But there was determination, too, to remember his life more than his death.

Just after the family entered the room, I noticed a man walk up one of the side aisles carrying a pair of big SLR cameras. I recognized the rig: the standard event photographer’s kit. I wondered to myself, if this were me, if this were my son’s funeral, would I want there to be pictures? Wouldn’t I want the memories I looked at to be the good ones? But then, I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, and I’ve never stopped thinking about their memorials either. What would I give to have a photograph of the day we scattered my grandfather’s ashes into San Francisco Bay, or of the way the synagogue looked at my friend Aaron’s funeral when I was ten—even just to remember clearly what he looked like. I do remember the other parts, the parts that made me smile or laugh. But these ones matter too.

As the ceremony began and the priest’s voice rose and fell in chanting, my mind wandered. I remembered the weight of my great-grandfather’s casket, walking with my dad and his cousins as pallbearers. The old men who walked behind us, stooped and shuffling. The way my grandfather looked in his hospital bed on the day he died. I wanted to be present, aware, paying my respects in the here and now, but perhaps we’re all selfish creatures on some level.

The ceremony was nice. The man who led the congregation in song had a beautiful voice. And then it was over. I left, went to work, and tried to focus on the next thing. One foot after the other.

How do you move on, though? I’ve been to more funerals than I can remember now, and I know I have gotten past the grief, the feeling of life being different, distant. But I don’t really know how it happens. Nor when. Nor when it should.

There are so many things I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell them that I feel for them, that their loss makes my heart heavy, or even if I should; they don’t need to bear the burden of my feelings on top of their own. I don’t know what I can do for them.

What have I ever done? Organized a charity event, once. A few visits, here and there, a few conversations. Donated money to research for a cure for their son’s disease. Took their family pictures. Sent flowers. Showed up at their son’s funeral. A handshake. A hug. Is it enough? How could anything ever be enough?

I don’t know what the right thing to do is, for them, for me, for any of you reading this. I can hold them in my heart, and think about the fact that their son had a life. A hard one, yes, a short one, but a life nonetheless, and one that I can remember had good times, too, and love. He passed peacefully, surrounded by family and friends, which is as good an end as any of us could hope for.

And there’s this: I know that his parents would appreciate it if you took a moment to learn a bit about Tay-Sachs disease, and, if you can, help support the research efforts with a donation. You can also donate directly to the family’s memorial fund here.

Life is short, for all of us. Hug your kids, call your parents, spend time with your friends. Be mindful of the good things you have, and give thanks for them.

Jan, Ferd, Audrey, we love you.

Nothing. Running is awful.

Do I love leaving my warm bed,
my warm house,
my warm family
for cold, dark, empty streets?

The way my scalp tingles
and itches
when I start to sweat?

The way my thumbs get numb from the passing of air
that's not cold enough to complain about?

Rolling my ankle in the pothole where the streetlight is out?

I don't.

But

Sometimes a little light pools,
wells up out of the dark,
a bedroom window,
a garden spotlight,
and it feels like it's there
just for me.

Sometimes a memory of a smile,
no teeth,
or just a few,
my son,
my daughter,
my daughter
as babies,
as toddlers,
fades into my mind's view.

And sometimes in the dark,
before the commuters race by,
before even the birds begin their chorus

It's quiet.

The air is cool and clean,
and maybe after a rain
(some day, some day)
I can smell new growth in the canyon.

And for a little while,
I'm quiet.

And I don't panic about my life,
about the some day
when I won't be
anything
anymore.

There's just me,
the dark,
and a four-count rhythm of my footfalls
and my breath moving in and out.

Onetwothreefouronetwothreefour

In, in, in, in,
out, out, out, out,
in, in,
in, in,
out,
out,
out,
out

See you tomorrow.

[Bright and] early.

Originally composed for Twitter.

“I’m sorry I left you up on that ridge, Mike. I’ve always regretted losing your friendship.”

Several years ago, I opened up Facebook to find a friend request and a message from a guy I’d known since fourth grade, but whom I hadn’t seen in years. He apologized profusely and sincerely, clearly having carried guilt over abandoning me, and wanting to make amends. The only thing was, I didn’t know what he was talking about.

A short conversation jogged my memory. On a school camping trip, back when we were sophomores in high school, we had climbed—off-trail—to the top of a ridgeline above our campsite. We’d gone the long way around on the ascent, coming up the shallower slope on the back side, but now the sun was setting and we needed to get back before the evening campfire. We started down the steep face together, but I froze halfway down, overcome with vertigo. He shouted for me to hurry up and went on without me, assuming I’d make it on my own. But I didn’t; three or four other campers ended up guiding me down, inch by inch. I was shaken, and angry with my friend for leaving me, but I got over it.

Over the next few years we remained friends, but as so often happens we drifted apart. He joined the football team; I joined the drama club. We both made other friends. There was never any particular rancor between us, other relationships just became more important. Senior year, we were on the yearbook staff together, and I remember having a few laughs. We lost touch after graduation, but I always remembered him fondly.

This was how I remembered it. But as I discovered when he messaged me, his version of the story was very different: I had been angry and hurt that he abandoned me, and I never forgave him for doing so. Our friendship ended that night, because of his actions, and the regret over the incident changed his life. From then on, he made it a point never to let anyone down, especially if they needed his help.

So, for him, that night on the ridge was a foundational experience. For me it wasn’t even remarkable enough for me to remember it without being reminded. That disparity has been on my mind a lot lately due to an interesting coincidence. Earlier this month, I received an invitation to a Facebook group for alums of the Monterey Gaming System BBS. As it happened, that was the same week that I finally started listening to Serial.

It’s a little strange to think about these days when social networking sites are so central to most people’s daily lives, but back in the pre-Internet days the closest thing was the local bulletin-board system, or BBS. Monterey Gaming System (or, as it was known to its regulars, “MGS”) was the largest of the local BBSes back in the area where I grew up. Boasting dozens of dial-up lines and an active user base in the hundreds, the MGS chat rooms were the place to be for the computer nerd of the early 90’s Monterey Peninsula.

I was introduced to MGS around 1990 or ’91 by the friend from the story above, and for about three years it was my main social outlet. Most of my good memories from the first two years of high school—which were generally terrible for me—come from the time I spent in those chat rooms or hanging out at the local bowling alley during one of the “get-togethers.” My first steps toward understanding myself as an individual came during experiences I had with that group. I even met my first girlfriend there. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I stopped going, though by the time I left for college it was mostly a thing of the past.

The thing that has been the most striking to me about reconnecting with the group after twenty years is how poor my own memory of that time is. In the past two weeks, dozens of threads have popped up in the Facebook group, people sharing stories about the old days. And it’s been shocking to me how few have sounded even a little bit familiar to me. With just a few exceptions, I can’t even remember people’s names. Somehow, despite this being a formative period in my life that I think about regularly, the people and places have mostly slipped my mind. The question that I keep coming back to is: why don’t I remember this better?

And this brings me to Serial, the wildly popular spin-off podcast of This American Life. For those of you who haven’t heard of it, Serial debuted last year with a twelve-episode arc examining the 1999 murder of Hae Min Lee, an 18-year-old high school student from Baltimore. There’s a lot covered in those twelve episodes, and the series is well worth a listen if you haven’t already done so, but what intrigued me the most was the way in which the people involved in the case remember the people and events so differently. The series is largely an attempt to understand whether the man who was convicted of the murder—Lee’s ex-boyfriend Adnan Syed—was guilty or innocent, but depending on which present-day interview you give the most weight, Syed is either a golden boy or a manipulative liar. And the same discrepancies pop up in people’s descriptions of nearly every facet of the case. In some ways, this isn’t so surprising given that the interviews happened some fifteen years after Lee’s murder, but the huge variations in how people remember Syed, Lee, and what happened that day is striking. What’s more, even the contemporary accounts vary wildly, and not all of it can be explained by the possibility that some people are lying.

Being the sort of introspective person I am, I have a definite picture of who I am now, and who I was at many points in my past. This sense of myself, of awareness and understanding—in many ways this is fundamental to my experience of life. I know that my identity and my ways of being have changed over the years, but even that process is something that I have thought of as comprehensible. Or at least known. More and more, though, I’m coming to the realization that that understanding is flawed.

And that stands even though my conception of my past has changed over time. Leaving high school, I saw myself at 14 as a victim, pushed around and bullied by people stronger and cooler than I was. Ten years later, I looked back with what I thought was clarity and saw the self-absorption, the arrogance and cruelty I displayed at that age, and I admitted that what I endured was at least partially my own fault. Another ten years have gone by, and neither story seems to stick on its own.

Who was I when I knew the people I’ve been reconnecting with? I can tell you about the length of my hair (long), the music I listened to (mostly metal), and the awful poetry I wrote (self-indulgent, but not atypically so for someone going through puberty). I can chuckle about how seriously I took myself, how simple my views of the world were. But is that right? Was I so silly then? Am I so much more advanced now?

What does it mean for my friend if a lifelong regret—one that influenced all of his subsequent relationships—is based on something that didn’t happen? What does it mean for my understanding of myself if it did? Is identity nothing more than a story we tell ourselves in the present? And can we ever really know what our own story really was?

Memory is such a tricky thing. It’s so susceptible to being influenced by our present state of mind, and not just in color but in the details, which can disappear or even change as the story we want or need changes. In Serial, Koenig often butts up against the fact that the narrative she gets changes based on who’s telling it, or that people have no memory of the day at all. It’s a frequent refrain that we don’t pay attention to what happens on a normal day; it just doesn’t stick. But it’s hard to know at the time which days end up being normal and which become important, and how, and to whom. And if life is mostly a sequence of normal days, what are the implications for our conception of that life if we can’t remember those days?

As I’m writing this post, my son and older daughter are in the other room playing. I don’t know exactly what they’re doing, what’s causing the laughter and shrieks. I can’t help but wonder what they will take away from this time, what they will remember in twenty years and what they will forget, and how that will differ from what I remember and forget. Time will tell, I suppose.

I’m not a big fan of resolutions for a new year. They’re too easy to abandon, and too much of a cliche. Nevertheless, I find that my life and my sense of self tend to be the most stable and satisfying when I have goals. The distinction may be fine, and despite having thought about it for a few days I’m not able to articulate the difference. But goals are something I need. Attainable, concrete, measurable goals.

Here is my list of goals for 2015:

• Read 25 books in any genre. (I read 23 in 2014.)
• Run 600 miles. (I ran 319 in 2014, having started running seriously over the summer.)
• Write 24 non-review, non-photo blog posts of at least 1000 words.
• Post 52 photos to this blog.
• Get accepted into at least 2 juried exhibitions or competitions. (I was accepted into 1 in 2014.)
• Spend at least 1 day shooting for my “It Forgets You” project.
• Finish writing the text for the “It Forgets You” book.
• Shoot at least 500 frames for my Mira Mesa project.
• Complete a rough draft of a photo book for my “All Good Things” series.
• Shoot at least 12 self-portraits for the new series I’m working on.

There’s a lot to do on this list, and the year will go by quickly. But I think I’m up to the task.