what are we but the sum of our stories?
and, possibly, our ability to tell them.
Sometimes I find myself thinking that nothing cool has ever happened to me and I remember that in fact cool things do, for instance, my cast iron skillet? picked up on a sidewalk in brooklyn, near Green-Wood Cemetery, it was sitting nicely on an aqua blue bathmat waiting for me to come along. Of course I carried it around the rest of the day too.
That is not elaborated one bit, but occasionally i realize I am my father’s daughter and despite all my childhood eye-rolling I can claim a few falsehoods just because they sound good. The other night for example I claimed to be the owner of an axe, but in fact I am not. My brother has his own axe and it’s at Sunshine right now which sometimes I consider to be my home, but I don’t have an axe, I was just trying to sound impressive. I do have a sledgehammer.