It's all too fast.
I wish I could somehow slow things down (at the same time that I am greedy and impatient for what's next). No better illustration than a dinner I had last week with an old friend from far away. Over Violette liqueur and cheese we counted years and all that's filled them since we last spoke. Thirteen or so. Has it really been so long? I do not feel that old.
On both a micro and macro level, it seems to gush by.
I've finally reduced my time at Multiply to three days a week. Thursdays and Fridays (and parts of Satrudays and Sundays) I spend on whatever project is up on the docket. (Behold; the docket)
Also, whatever family and household things I can accomplish.
For several of my projects, I've been going through some old notes and letters; scraps of life I've saved. I've pretty much shed any hoarder tendencies my father may have passed along, preferring simplicity to accumulation. But not when it comes to paper and words. Those I sit upon, like a dragon on her gold.
In amongst my folded bits of gold,I did small but hopeful indications this week, that some things are refined but ultimately unmoved, by the passage of time. For example, my inclination to be a writer, which apparently formed even before that pre-requisite skill of writing, itself. Found evidence for this thesis? A little scrap of a journal from when I was 4 or 5 years old, a dictated story, in my mother's faithful hand. Flossie's Cat. A riveting saga about a young girl's cat, the hats it wore, the sounds it made...
I actually remember there also being a sequel, in the highly acclaimed Flossie series. If memory serves, it was called Flossie's Clock, but it, alas, has been lost. At some point, cleaning out my room, or maybe when I was older and had thrown the journal away - I don't remember which - mom must've snagged it and salvaged the page, because I came across it, taped to a blank paper, in a folder in her desk.
The folder also contained, in assorted sizes and amounts, many copies of the Paris photobooth photo, and a few other Photo Booth shots in black and white of mom and her sister when they were young. These are my favorite. As always, photos remind me how much I love photos.
The hoarding is worth it. To me, anywway. Going back and recovering parts of life that would've been lost to time.
Like finding this letter from when I was eight. I know Dad and I did lots of jingles, but I don't remember them all. I don't remember this one, which I apparently did for Gannett.
What struck me the most was that they addressed it to me c/o the business name Dad and I used. He actually printed business cards with both of our names, when I was 5 or so.
Pals and Partners
I think he was entrepreneurial through and through, but as Aaron and I have learned, entrepreneurial without some solid leadership to follow requires that you self-install discipline and a ferocious work ethic. And the road will be harder for it, and you have to be okay with the heinous middle, and you can't ever quit, not even when everyone else does, and most especially not when you start to feel like the whole dad-blamed idea was a little bit insane. You aren't done when version one fails, or after the 135th no.
Dad never made it to those things, so that potential, although promising, never really figured out how to express itself successfully. And lo, I too have the gene, although I never would've put a name to it, without Aaron. That wild mashup. An Artrepreneur.
And there were these. A favorite quote of my mother's, in her own hand, and the envelope upon which Aaron sketched the original Pie-Shaped Wedge logo. To me, saving these kinds of things and finding them later reminds me of what has value in life. I think that's why I love writing and photography, too. Is it silly that these things are my treasures? That above anything, I'd rather get a card with a note in it for my birthday than anything else?
Words. Papers. Images. I am wholly made of these.