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2002-01-07 || 11:45 a.m. || paper dolls kept in old books with pressed flowers and cookie fortunes. || my dad's a fisherman and your dad's a carpenter and i like to think it is somehow ingrained in us, the smell of wood and splinters, the fish scales and seawater, bound in winding bundles of the G-A-C-T of our dna. i have never lived more than 5 miles from water and you wake up in the middle of the night to sneak out to your workshop garage, to stow nails in your pajama pockets and hold the 2x4's that have swollen from wet portland air in your hands. we have cookie cutter parents. carpenter-hairdresser-nurse-fisherman. we are not so easily classified, not yet at least, although in my dreams i see us outlined with dotted lines, instructions for cutting with tiny black scissors blaring smudged text above our heads. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |