chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things


bridge postcardsI used to collect postcards of bridges. It wasn’t an aggressive pursuit, more like opening a door. But over the course of some years, without reason or clear intent, perhaps a thousand of them found their way to me.

In my studio on Madison, in Seattle, I stapled some of them to a wall, the end of one bridge meeting the end of the next in a meandering line. When my parents came to visit me, my father gazed at the postcards for a long time and then said, ‘How long have you been interested in bridges?’ I told him they had fascinated me for years and he shook his head and said he’d always loved bridges and designing a bridge had been one of his earliest projects when he studied civil engineering. It was a connection — a bridge — we had never before discovered. Except for that time, the postcards have never had any purpose beyond fascination with the universal impulse to connect, to reach, to cross the impassable. The box of postcards still languishes in the closet, awaiting some inspiration, some undrawn conclusion.

There are other things that I have many of — books, earrings, maps, purple plates — but none that amount to a collection, none that I lust to own as a body of stuff. These things gather, but also leave, finding their way into other people’s lives. I borrow them; they live with me temporarily, on loan from the universe.

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