an ode to 208 e clark

someday i will tell my kids about the time i lived in an apartment next to a bridge for 350 dollars a month with a bicycle in the living room. someday, i will tell them about the rundown place the color of rice pilaf, which had this magical sort of quality that made everyone fall in love with it. 

someday i will tell them what it's like to be 23 in wyoming. it's an underrated thing. 

six months, one post

there has been too much to write poetically. too much, in the last six months. so all i will say, is this--

things have been strange. i am getting ready to move on. my time here in laramie is drawing to a close, in an organic sort of way--but my god. the west has been so wonderful to me. it has healed me. the mountains. the big sky. the 300 days of sun. so often, i stop what i'm doing and wonder, to myself--what have i done, in this life, to deserve such good things? 

so here's to the last six months--to 2018. to hikes, to books, to nights in denver, to friends + family i do not deserve. i'm the luckiest kid. 

boston i.

Boston // December 2017 // canon 6D 

I missed this place. 

My mother drives us in from the suburbs--it's a grey day, foggy and cloudy, and a factory sends big smoke clouds into the sky, which we see from the mass of multi-leveled roads just south of the city. We're in city limits, technically, but we haven't entered it, not really--right outside of the tall buildings and bustle.

Downtown is in rare form, tonight. Snow and rain gently falls from the sky, making the pavement glisten. The common is lit up with multicolored lights, and people rush here and there, carrying bags of Christmas gifts, girls and their mothers dressed up for the Nutcracker. That's where my mother and sister and I are going--a yearly tradition.My ten days at home--ten days, an eternity and nothing all at once--are marked by bitterly cold winds and temperatures, and this evening is no different, so we put our collars up and brave the temperatures. I meet up with a friend and we run off to see the lights, taking photographs, and meet up with my sister and mom for dinner--the Potato Bowl is playing at the bar in the restaurant, and I keep my eyes averted from the Wyoming--Central Michigan game. I'll watch it some other time.

I don't know how to explain it, but whenever I go to Boston, a weight falls off my shoulders and I feel at home. And that doesn't really make sense, because I grew up in the suburbs and, all together, have spent only a year and a half of my 23 years on Earth breathing the city's air--but it's home, it's home, it's home. The minute my feet hit the pavement, I walk quicker and I stand taller and I know exactly where I'm going and why. I am a Boston person. This is where my family is from, this is the city my father was raised in, this is the city I've always dreamed of living in. I know downtown Boston, Chinatown and the North End and the Esplanade like the back of my hand. I trace the T stops in my head when I can't sleep, the way some count sheep. This must be the place, the Talking Heads sing, and I wonder, off-handedly, why I ever leave it.

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