… it was never for me. it was for them.

Doing something I’ve never done as I sit in bed, preparing for tomorrow.

I’m writing an article from my phone. First time for all things 🤎

Late night thoughts…

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This weekend, when asked why I collect cameras, old and new, I almost (naturally) said what I’ve been saying for the last decade.

“I’m a memory keeper.”

But, a quieter, more resonating voice said…

“Because I’m too afraid of being forgotten.”

Not by strangers.

Not by those who devour my books.

Not by those who read my Substack column.

Not by those who consume my art.

It’s by the ones I love and the ones who come after me that I would’ve loved. And, already love although they’re not here yet.

Great greats.

Great great greats.

Great great great greats.

Grandchildren. Nieces. Nephews.

Those who make me want to get out of bed and continue my strides daily. Frankly, none of this was for me. It was always about those after me. Them. They’re who matters to me.

And, I refuse to be a vague conversational piece or an old family tale without tangible proof of life.

After some thought, I realized…

I don’t mind being forgotten for what I’ve done.

It’s who I am and how I lived that I want to be remembered by best.

Confident.

Ambitious.

Trailblazing.

Strategic.

Analytical.

Firm.

Fun.

Well-mannered.

Well-dressed.

Raw.

And, because I won’t be able to, I’ll let my cameras tell my story.

I’ll let my messy vanity prove I paused often.

I’ll let my extensive pajama collection prove I was well-rested

I’ll let my fragrance collection prove I smelled divine.

I’ll let my bathroom prove I accomplished great things in life.

I’ll let my pets prove I cared.

I’ll let my children prove I loved.

I’ll let my wardrobe prove I chose my threads well.

I’ll let the drapes in my home prove I was tasteful.

I’ll let my study prove I was an avid reader.

I’ll let my material prove I was studious.

I’ll let my books prove I was a writer.

I’ll let all of the memories I’ve been keeping keep me alive long after I’ve gone. Because, that’s what memories are for…

Maybe none of this will make sense in the morning. Maybe it’ll make all the sense in the world. I can’t wait to find out.