Oh MAN!

My friend Jodi sent me a notebook in which she suggested that I record my life and surroundings. I've been taking mindless Polaroid photos and writing obsessive little captions since. These pages mean the world to me, but I feel ashamed to admit such a thing.

How could a three-inch by three-inch square of a dead and drying-in-the-sun-blowfish mean any more to me than a scrap of garbage?

Yet, somehow these photos and their scribbling reach a certain kind of profundity. I think I know that I'll leaf through the tiny book with bug smears and coffee rings over and over again come July and my life gets just busy enough to schedule, reschedule and reschedule again a visit to the island that was home to me for a handful of handkerchief-drenching summers and bubble bath-warming winters.