fair isle navajo

In this space, I mean to share some things I like, some experiences I’ve had, and some images I’ve been compelled to capture. Maybe even some sounds I’ve had the good fortune to hear. I keep trying to pare down my ideas to a singular theme, but maybe that’s just not in the cards for me. It seems, anyway, that I’m destined to share whatever happens to come to mind. So for now, that’s the plan.

Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been hopelessly prone to blurting out embarrassingly honest statements, usually about myself. Sometimes this is a dangerous habit. Rewind twenty years or so to my early years of foolish honesty:

Mom: “Ali, did you hit your sister?”

Me: “… noo…”

And then, almost instantaneously, it strikes!

Probably around five minutes go by, during which I suffer from a serious, conscience-crushing, inner-monologue-of-guilt before turning myself in.

Me: “Mommy…? I lied. I did hit her.”

Mom: “I thought so.”

Couldn’t I have just kept it to myself like any other self-respecting child fibber? I’m sure I knew other children who lied all the time, and then grinned smugly to themselves as they enjoyed the fruits of their lying labor. But I’ve never been able to cut it.

Socially, I probably could have advanced much further by now, if I could only keep my mouth shut. If I could be more careful about which information I dole out and to whom… But this is one habit I really do not seem to have the power to avoid.

Now that I’m too old to catch myself confessing to crimes against my sister, the truths that spill from my overeager mouth are more likely to fall into the general “overshare” category. But this too, is an early style element that remains a part of my adult personality.

Take an example from our beloved collection of family home videos, circa 1987. Mom is taping us as we fight over dollhouse furniture play upstairs, and asks us to talk about ourselves at different points throughout the video. I’m sitting at a plastic desk, trying to figure out what to do with my sister’s coloring book, when our mother asks me what my favorite food is.

I tell her, as I bounce up and down, ravenously licking my lips, “I like butter!”

It doesn’t stop there. I continue into a litany of foods that are good to two-year-old me… “I like oatmeal! … Noodles! … Cookies! … I like ice cream!” I momentarily begin to branch out, “But I don't like spiiinaaach….” Only to give in again, seconds later: “I like spinach!”

Who was I kidding, I liked everything. I still like everything. And who would I be, otherwise, if I didn’t keep on blurting it out for anyone willing to listen?