Postcards from another's life: a one-woman collaboration is an ongoing personal photography and creative writing project.
It was originally my 100 Day Project for 2018, based on an unexecuted idea I had for NaNoWriMo in 2017.
I set myself the following 'rules' for the project:
1. Take a new photograph OR edit a photograph I've not previously edited and published OR re-edit a photograph I've previously edited and published in a completely new way.
2. Write 750 words inspired by that photograph. The writing can be fiction, prose, autobiographical, stream of conscious, poetry. It may or may not be edited beyond a first draft depending on time constraints, but it needs to be written from scratch on the day of the project.
3. All photographs will be cropped square if the original was not taken in square format.
4. Photographs can be black & white or colour. No restrictions on subject matter, the date the photo was taken, or the camera it was taken with. Though for the sake of image quality I'm likely to stick to photographs taken with a dSLR, rather than my iPhone.
5. Where possible, the photograph and writing are to be published to my Patreon profile on the day of editing and writing.
6. All posts are included on my blog, date-stamped per the date and time they were published to Patreon though only made public a week after original publication on Patreon.
The photos and the opening section of each instalment so far is below. As each piece of writing is 750 words or more, I've included a link to each piece on my blog rather than including all the text below.
poker face
every morning and every night she stood in front of the mirror practising her poker face. hoping one day she might master the art of hiding her true feelings when she most needed to. she stared deep into her own eyes, willing herself to lose all expression; keep her eyes fixed upon her own eyes; let no betraying tic or flicker of lashes reveal what she was really feeling inside. what she really thought. of herself. of them. of this whole situation.
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overpass
As children, they crossed the overpass every day. They congregated near the 'tin tabernacle' as each of them arrived. They swung their schoolbags, pulled up their white knee-high socks, and lingered as long as they could by the entrance to the overpass.
They talked about antics in the schoolyard the previous day. They gossiped about the boys they liked and the girls they didn't. They compared their bruises and blisters from swinging and twirling on the monkey bars the day before.
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family tree
As children, we spent regular weekend visits climbing the trees by North Pine River. I didn't know the name of the river then, and it didn't really matter. My brothers and I were more interested in the trees and the pine cones that fell from them. We would throw fallen pine cones at each other as we ran around the sprawling thick roots of the trees by the house. Roots so thick and sprawling that young children could hide between them. Nestle into the dirt between the roots as though nestling between the craggy, spindly fingers of an ageing giant. Which they kind of were.
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in dreams
Another restless night. She doesn't know any other sort of sleep. She doesn't always wake from sleep during the night, but often the act of sleeping is more tiring than not sleeping.
Her dreams are, by turns: disturbing, hilarious, heartbreaking, nostalgic, violent, melancholy, full of love, full of anger and frustration, sad, arousing. Sometimes they are all that at once. They are always vivid and full of passion, whatever the overarching sense is.
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colour theory
It started slowly at first. Shoes, of course, were a given. Socks were par for the course, though she always ensured they were as close to the original pairing as possible. Being the same colour and style wasn't enough. They needed to be of a pretty exact equal length, equally worn. At least bought at the same time, even if it wasn't possible to ensure they were a 100% matching pair from those bought.
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on the rocks
I watched you as you talked. My eyes read your lips as you spoke, though I could hear every word. When you paused my eyes rested on yours; watched your eyelashes as you blinked and squinted in the sunlight. In the longer pauses, I let my eyes leave your face and follow your gaze out to sea.
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into the blue
They walked together in the cold dusk air in silence. Holding hands, gazing up at the clouds moving across the sky. The clouds transforming, breaking apart and reforming, moulded by the wind before their eyes. The blue hour came and went as they walked along the beach; a layer of sand clinging to their damp feet, the excess falling from their toes as they walked. The clouds, at first plump and white before sunset, became thin and wispy and moved at the whim of the salty night air.
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nesting
She stumbled toward the edge of the forest. Broken, bewildered, disoriented. She wasn't sure quite how she got here or quite how she was going to get home. She wasn't really certain of anything, of anyone. Of herself.
As she entered the forest, the birds gathering on branches above her called to one another. An insect hum provided a white noise bass line to their melody. The snap and crack of branches underfoot as she walked further into the forest created a syncopated, faltering percussion.
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fairy stories
As she flicked through the brightly coloured pages, the smell of the paper, the ink on paper, wafted into her nostrils in great waves. It drew her back. Back to the sunny front room of her family's home in Aspley. The sun falling on the pages of the book of fairy stories her grandparents had given her for her sixth birthday. She lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows on the green and black mattress of the stacked beds in her mother's sewing room. She was utterly engrossed by the tales of witches, evil stepmothers, princesses, princes, cats, wolves, frogs, soldiers, giants, pigs, bears, genies, elves, dwarves and birds of many varieties.
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new york, new york
She'd walked these streets so many times.
Sometimes slowly, taking in the apartments along each block as they moved from utilitarian buildings to grand terraces. Sometimes quickly, dodging and weaving between the other pedestrians on the sidewalk; looking mostly at the concrete, or dashing out in front of yellow cabs, but not taking in her surrounds.
The sounds of the city washing over her. The various vehicles and people clamouring to be heard, but all of the sounds merging into a cacophonous melody that threatened to overwhelm her.
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a room of one's own
She circled the brown wooden structure, running her fingers along the wooden slats on the side and the back of the building at waist level. Feeling the texture of the wood and the few remaining thin daubs of white paint worn away by wind, rain and the salty sea air over the last few decades.
To the left of the door, she ran her fingers down the canvas nailed to the wood. Revelling in the contrast of its texture to the wooden slats.
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encrypted
I don't remember when death was first explained to me. Strangely, because I have a lot of vivid memories from childhood and adolescence. I feel like it's something I should remember.
When did I first become aware of the fact that everyone dies? That my grandparents would die? That my parents would die? That I would die?
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a bird's eye view
They talked of little things. Of big things. Of middling things.
The sort of things that stuck in their craw, or alternatively that made them sing. Not that seagulls are particularly known for their singing. If you can even call it that, and most don't. But sometimes, just sometimes, there were things to speak of good enough that they made them sing, even if they were the only ones to call it that.
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crying in the shower
I mostly cry in the shower. Or more specifically, in the bath, because I can't currently stand to shower.
I could be all poetic and say it's because I can hide my tears, even from myself, in the shower. The tears mingle freely with the spray from the shower rose as I douse my head; rinse shampoo and conditioner from my locks.
But it's not that. It's just that they seem to come most freely in there. Where the white noise from the water and the exhaust fan drown out everything but my own voluble and constant thoughts. Thoughts I can no longer shut out.
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tunnelling
He ran his fingertips along the wall as he walked toward the light. The surface of the wall crumbled away, falling to the tunnel floor as he moved forward. He raised his fingers to his nose, looking ahead into the light, not pausing for a moment.
The smell as he ran his fingers under his nostrils brought back so many memories. Days spent with his mother in the yard picking strawberries from the patch. Gathering blackberries from the bush out front of the house.
The damp, dank smell of the tunnel mixed with the dirt to bring back a sense of petrichor without the grass. There was no grass to be seen.
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leonine
She shook out her hair, giving nary a care, and glanced around at the flock
She arched her back, gathered her pack, and plotted the demise of the stock
She watched and she waited, anticipated, observing their comings and goings
She paced and she paced, assessed the enemy she faced, she watched for their weaknesses showing
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beautyberry
They unfurled the blanket on the damp ground. The sun had appeared. The rain had stopped long enough ago for them to feel confident of a pleasant, warm spring afternoon. But the soil beneath their feet still held a lot of water. And, here and there, raindrops still rested on the leaves, flowers and berries around them.
The berries, in particular, caught their eye. A royal purple. A vibrant, saturated colour set off by the green of the leaves separating the bunches along the branches. The berries clustered in groups at regular intervals along the stem, like disordered regiments at ease on their tea break. Clustered but unorganised.
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burst
I remember that day so vividly.
We'd been told time and time again not to play there. Not to go beyond the chain-link fence at the edge of the village. We had the run of the quiet dirt roads, the open gardens of our home and our neighbours' homes. But we weren't to venture beyond the fence at any time, for any reason. It wasn't safe.
Of course, that meant we had to. It was a challenge, not an order, wasn't it?
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still water
He gazed out over the still water, eagerly anticipating the feeling of the cool liquid on his feet.
The water was so still. It reflected the trees around it perfectly with barely a ripple. He desperately looked forward to changing that.
Not that he didn't enjoy seeing the water so calm and perfect. But he always enjoyed getting his feet wet and watching the way the water rippled behind him and his siblings.
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on the edge
I don't know how the hell I got here.
I mean, really, I do: I walked up here.
Mostly due to the coaxing and pressure from Sean and Nathan not to be a chicken. To climb under or over the barrier off the main path and ignore the clear signage telling us we weren't to go beyond that point.
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landlocked
He was back in front of this window; the window that had ended his school days, every day.
When he was young, he used to stop and gaze up at the model boat and the marine rescue vehicle as he arrived home each day. He would stand there, distracted for long moments.
So long, that his mother - waiting, anxiously, for him to return home from school - would open the curtains and find him stood there. Motionless, head tilted back, mouth slightly gaping and staring up at the boat.
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memoirs of an invisible man
In his early 20s, before he'd typed the closing line of his first play, his agent arranged a photographer to visit his attic apartment. She was sent to photograph him for the publicity stills.
The photographer had carried an unwieldy medium format camera and a wooden tripod up the narrow, rickety staircase. He'd had to stay still for long minutes in the soft light cast through the dormer window. Gazing intently at the curious device in front of him. Feeling awkward and ungainly and wondering to himself if she was capturing the dirty dishes to his left. Dirty dishes that had been clogging up the kitchen sink for weeks now as he worked tirelessly on finishing his debut play.
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'til death do us part
She wondered to herself - not for the first time - how many other's parents had set the bar for romantic relationships so high. So high that their children's expectations for their own relationships seemed a pipe dream. That anything less than what their parents had was a pale imitation. Anything else left them feeling wanting.
Her parents had shared everything. They had no secrets from each other. They trusted each other implicitly and loved each other unconditionally.
They supported and encouraged each other. Cared for each other and lost sleep worrying about each other.
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