Dear reader,
I write from the place I’ve spent the vast majority of this year: at my desk, in the living room, in our first New York apartment. I’ve resented this particular view for much of the year, but today I feel content writing to us both.
There is so much I want to say at this year’s end. Throughout this week, I’ve taken notes when sentimental things occur to me so that I could compile them here. None of them really go together, but they all go together, of course they do, do you know what I mean? They’re at the bottom, below the photos. In the meantime: an incomplete retrospective of the year as told through various photos made when I remembered to bring a camera along.
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Early Spring: This year, Nick and I joined a softball team. I can tell you this now: I only said yes because Ava invited us, and I just wanted to spend more time with Ava. We were the worst ones on the team by a very large margin, but joke’s on them because Ava is very special to me these days. (We also had loads of fun and everyone was kind.)
Us before practice at a bench on Lake Fayetteville, where Ava met us beforehand for pizza. “I don’t give a fuck how full I am on pizza; I’m gonna run my little heart out tonight.” -Nick (last words)
Spring in our yard. There is something about understanding in the moment how viscerally you will miss something (“It is sheer good fortune to miss somebody long before they leave you.” -Toni Morrison), and then viscerally missing it later (“I’m awake and feel the ache” -Regina Spektor).
It feels like finishing a circle. Though round and round the circle, I go.
My 25th birthday. We were in Baton Rouge, and Lilly and Sam spent the day with us. I spent the day oscillating between presence and anxiety. We ran into my ex’s family for the first time since we parted ways. All I can say is that it was a beautiful, beautiful thing that I’ve carried with me, and will continue to.
As May dwindled, we left the life we’d built in Fayetteville. In a U-Haul driven through the Ozark foothills in purple dusk light, I wept.
Shortly past the Missouri border, the U-Haul became zero-gravity. Do you know, reader, how life is so good and so hard all of the time? Fayetteville was no exception. I could write a book about the vitality I found in that town: it is where I Became. It also was too small to breathe sometimes, and I was ready to leave. And leaving, I didn’t expect, was the most potent feeling of freedom I’ve ever felt. With every mile we moved closer to New York, I became more and more buoyant.
And New York, like Fayetteville, has been everything at once. The picture below (by Nick) documents the “hard”: sitting at the aforementioned desk working my brains out, wondering why we spend so much to live here when I’m too swamped to leave the apartment. It’s also been near-constant beauty: “dreaming of nothing,” kissing in bars, dancing til sunrise, winking, twirling, knowing myself ever more deeply (and in the process, I hope, the world), singing and soaring til the cows come home.
In August, we visited Sarah in Massachusetts, where she was housesitting for a friend. We visited one of the most amazing places I’ve ever been: a tiny cidery in rural New Salem, run by one elderly woman from her home, with a view that goes on and on and on — one that activates the blue of distance. I love Sarah so much. We’ve never lived in the same place, so we see each other rarely, but I feel an unquestionable, uncomplicated sisterhood with her.
Late August: My Nic in the Portland sun, dimmed and warmed by wildfire smoke. They came with me to Oregon for a wedding I was photographing. Being together is being home, no matter where. We mostly stayed at the Airbnb because it was so beautiful with its porch, the cat named Kaitlyn (lol), and the hosts who were warm and good and let us linger in their garden. We got a new slice of pie every night from the pie shop down the street. On our second to last day, we drove to the coast. The day was a fever dream: meandering through the tallest grasses down to the most open ocean I’ve ever seen (serenity distilled), finding our place on the beach then being warned that we’re on a beach road and could get run over (also lol), moving to another beach that we later learned is colloquially called “Meth Beach” and having the time of our lives anyway.
Michael and I in our building waiting for the elevator. He visited in October, and I can say non-hyperbolically that I loved every second we spent together. There is no faking or replicating the intimacy of knowing someone for twenty years; we’ve grown up together. I can’t wait to know each other for the rest of our lives.
Ferris at home in November. He made us boulevardiers (drink of the year) and we sat for a long time in the dark untangling things and wading through murk. We’ve become so much closer this year. He is a striking person with a striking presence; he is many things convalescing into beauty. I’m proud that his spirit feels true in these — Nic said that you can see his “handsomeness of mind.” I also loved that his ‘fit and the Hasselblad conspired to make these decade-ambiguous.
Our darling dog. Our Harley. He is 13 now. I wrote earlier this year (of a bump on his head that turned out to be benign): “I know enough about grief to know that this is part of the process. These quiet moments where I understand his finitude, so that his eventual death isn’t so much of a final blow, but an exhale. So I will hold my Harley close and listen to his grunting breaths. Feel his freshly washed fur, so soft and fluffy. His soft, floppy ears. The way his body curls into a ball that fits like a puzzle piece into the curved bowl of your body. How when you open the door and it’s nighttime, he likes for you to go first, and will only go as far as you.”
My love and I in our apartment. It’s a shame that my brain is running out of creativity (I’ve been writing this for hours), because Nick deserves new languages written for his character. 2023 has perhaps been the year that’s contained the most multitudes for us — the transitions of moving across the country; of finding oneself post-grad school; of my work consuming me; of becoming co-workers in this endeavor. Both believably and unbelievably, we move into the new year as the strongest, closest, safest, most spacious iteration of what we’ve been. I continue to want to hang out with him all the time; I continue to both tremendously like him & profoundly love him.
Taken on the same day. Nick in his “studio” (the half of the room that isn’t our bedroom).
Miscellaneous:
Last week, I bathed in the bathroom my brothers and I shared growing up. The tub is enamel, or porcelain, something like that — and it gets very, very cold in the wintertime. It wasn’t until I was sitting there full of goosebumps that I remembered this to be a refrain of my childhood. Yet my muscle memory knew all the motions: glide around so that the surface heats up faster; cup hot water onto your knees; in dire cases, wet a washcloth and lay it over your chest, or wherever you’re coldest. And, well, I was just thinking about how I don’t have a porcelain tub anymore. And how sometimes things are uncomfortable for just a short while, then they stop being that way. And that it’s good to give thanks for how your life has gotten easier. And it’s good to remember the way things were.
After quite an identity arc in 2023 (becoming crippling scared that maybe I actually hate art, and then realizing that in fact, I love about 0.1% of art with all the fervor I can muster), the thing I am unequivocally most interested in in 2024 is being inside of that 0.1% and letting it do its work on my craft, my heart, and my person. This is fertile ground.
Things I am proud of: this year, I learned to use contacts, I took Krav Maga lessons, I knitted my first scarf (then no more), I sang and played guitar for a group for the first time in my life, I read two of my favorite books of my life (The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson & Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury), my work was published in two major places.
Lastly, and really most importantly: the birth of my niece Kyla was the most profound event of the year. When Joseph died and Brooke was widowed, never in my imagination could I have dreamt of her, or of what we have created. Sitting together on Christmas night in the company of Brooke, her husband Dustin, his son Kayden, and their daughter Kyla, I am reminded that this is chosen family. The love we share is more beautiful than any fiction. I will always be grasping for words for this, and none will ever be adequate. I can’t stop thinking of the moment that night when Kayden told me his favorite song is “Never Grow Up” by Taylor Swift. He said he listens to it and thinks of Kyla, who is 10 months old. I held his hand and sang, “Your little hand’s wrapped my finger, and it’s so quiet in the world tonight.” He sang, too, smiling at me, not breaking eye contact, all the way through the chorus, neither one of us leading, love melting us into one thing for that time. I think of his little face so close to mine, and I cry and cry. He is singing to Kyla; I am singing to him. In a sea of questions, all of this is an answer.
In:
Laughing things off; laughing easily
Libraries
Light-heartedness
Experiments
Sincerity
Sotce
Saving food scraps for a big winter stock
Liking oneself
Breaking script
Talking to strangers
Generosity
Strengthening exercises
Honesty
Darkroom printing
Handwritten letters
Hair oil masks
Out:
Close friend lists
Meanness
Over-editing (in all ways)
Resistance (of what is one’s nature)
Onlineness
Nit-picking
Impulse purchases
Clout-bombing
Suffering through overstimulation instead of pulling out your neurodivergence starter-pack of Loops, full-coverage sunglasses, and Xanax
Foundation
Store-bought oat milk
Bows
HAPPY NEW YEAR,
Camille
This made me giggle and cry. So happy this was shared with me. <3
Thank you so much for sharing. Love your writing and photos! ❤️🔥