i just died in your arms tonight

I love photography.

Le duh, you say, we know this. And I take a lot of pictures, especially this summer, at least 1000 shots a week. Despite those startling numbers, I can without a doubt point to three photographs that I cherish above all else... and they're probably not what you think - i.e., none of them are Matt Nathanson.

First is a photograph I took while in California with Jordan, my best friend through high school. It's black and white, and what Pez calls the perfect example of an Ansel Adams' picture with it's foreground, subject and background. The lighting, the composition and the model are absolutely perfect, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to create something quite that beautiful again.

Second is a picture that I didn't even take - Jordan took it of me. Again, black and white, and I'm standing in her garden, under her trellis, wearing my prom dress from the year I went with Bobby. My hair is short and flipped out, and my eyes are quite serious. I think ti's my favorite picture of myself, ever.

Third is a photo I took at Brew Mountain Coffee, at the Cool Hand Luke show years ago. I was just figuring out my SLR, wasting film right and left. This particular show, I shot probably two or three rolls and got maybe one or two photos I could bear to look at. One of them was a posed photo of three skateboarders, holding their boards, pointing up at a sign that said "No Skateboarding Allowed." Even though I created the picture, I love looking at the irony and feeling like I captured a Moment.

A long time ago, I hunted through my box of negatives to find the negatives for these three photos. I can't even say how amazed I was to actually turn them up - searching through negatives is tedious and difficult and not nearly as easy as browsing through photos on a computer. I pulled the negatives out and set them aside in a sleeve so I could go to Target and get them made into 8x10s. I carried them in my planner for the better part of a year, hoping I'd remember to get them made.

Tonight, I realized I never got them made and pulled out my planned to check if they were still there. A sinking feeling grew in my stomach as I flipped through the pages and looked in the pocket where I stashed the sleeve - nothing. I searched my new planner, knowing it was futile. I looked over my desk, checked in drawers, looked places I knew it would never be.

On a whim, I looked in my box from MAC that currently holds sharpies and other odds and ends. I knew it wouldn't be there, but I looked inside a Target photo envelope for kicks - and between pictures from the Virginia Newsies Rally (believe it or not), there they were. I couldn't believe my eyes, and the knot in my stomach slowly dissipated as I breathed out, checking to make sure it was really them.

It was, it is. They are. I have them.

That feeling of utter hopelessness, of futility, of helplessness, is one I am unfortunately all to acquainted with. Sometimes it's over something as innocent as a negative - other times, it's heavy, like a memory. And it's the worst when it's both and you feel so stupid crying over lost pictures when people are dying in the world, and you will be able to take more pictures tomorrow - but it still hurts. Pain is real no matter where it comes from. I know this more than anyone else.

But tonight, I will be able to sleep, knowing I'm lucky enough to hold onto these insignificant items.

And Monday, I will make the damn photos, because I know a second chance when I'm given one.

he took his straw, unwrapped it, and plunked it in my water

I'm a week out from Spring Break. And no, it does not escape me what I was a year ago.

I've got this book that's pretty much the most emotionally unhealthy item a girl could ever own - it's a large, black sketchbook that is filled with skeletons from relationships past. There are four chapters for four boys that each left their own mark on me, took their own little piece of me.

Yes, I look at this book when I'm frustrated and bitter and cynical. Yes, sometimes it just gives more fuel to the fire and keeps my depression burning. Sometimes it just makes me sad.

But really? Most of the time, I look at this book when I'm desperate to remember. Because life goes so quickly, and I can forget the details that I once worshiped. This book is filled with the tiny moments that one thinks aren't worth remembering because they're so easily collected - and then when they're gone, you wish you had just stuffed your pockets with one or two more for the road.

The details and memories keep me company. I like knowing them, I like being able to run my fingers over the artifacts and not be cut, just warmed by their existence. They are mine, you see, only mine. No one else (especially the boys who left them behind) will ever be able to touch them. That satisfies me, selfishly I admit, but it's such a rare treat for me to have something entirely for myself.

This life moves so quickly, changes so hugely, that these details are my most treasured items. In my memory, they will never change - I replay them over and over and thank God that for some reason I am able to recreate these snapshots of time frozen. I can't even begin to tell you the insignificant, ridiculous things I have collected in the most desperate cry for things to REMAIN THE SAME while I fight the most obvious losing battle in the history of the world.

Whether it's denial or courage, you can be the judge.

And despite my best attempts, my pockets are still only half full.