Mother's Day Card for my Mom, a retired midwife, May 2015
Source: pictures from a Soviet calendar (1988) I found in a free pile.
Birthday Card for Sarah, July 2015
(She is a computer programmer, hence the zeroes and ones)
Birthday Card for Jane, August 2015
Goodbye Card for Hank, Moving from SF to LA!, August 2015
Wedding Card for Sarah and Ryan, September 2015
Goodbye Card for Jared (summer intern), September 2015
Card for Rob, "Come to Oakland, Let's Go for a Walk!", October 2015
Thank You Card for Kristen, December 2015
Sampler for Maya Rose (Rosie), Rob's New Baby!, December 2015
Goodbye Card for Jessica, Interior, March 2016
Condolence Card for Raquel, May 2016
Flashdrive Holder, May 2016
Goodbye Card for Sarah, Front, June 2016
Goodbye Card for Sarah, Interior, June 2016
As ever, change is the nature of the universe. Comings and goings, births, weddings, deaths. Celebrations. Losses. These are the things we mark, the ways in which we measure time. Changes that feel momentous in the moment fade into memory sooner than we care to admit. How, then, to mark the things that don't seem to change? Or at least not fast enough? Is the answer to take the long view? To accept things as they are? To push forward and burn a different path, both in our neurons and our environments?
Just today, I was taking my periodic walk to my local credit union when I decided to walk home a different way, veering by only one block from my usual trek across Broadway and down 15th St. Rather than take 15th St., I decided to take 17th, and in so doing, learned of two different art galleries and performance spaces I had never seen before, and saw some art I wouldn't have otherwise seen. It's so easy to lose consciousness even when we think we are awake. It takes so little to wake up. A turn. A block. No more.
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