I cherish the value of spontaneity.
Most of us live in a monotonous life. We get up early in the morning, brush our teeth, shower, get dressed, use our respective forms of transportation, get to work, eat lunch, work some more, return home, eat dinner, chitchat/watch TV/go out, and then sleep. Depending on your lifestyle, job, and age this might vary but most people I know who are my age or older have a comforting, though at times infuriating, monotony in their lives.
So adding color every now and then can be crucial for the sanity/life of a relationship. Every self-help book will tell you that spicing up your relationship with an unexpected moment will have huge benefits. And I am not one to disagree.
Yet I also think that certain side effects of consistency are often under-appreciated. One such side effect is anticipation.
When I know that I go to the movies every Tuesday with a friend, I tend to get excited by the anticipation of my time with my friend or the excitement of getting to see a new movie. If I have stories to tell my friend, I tend to grow more and more excited as the day approaches until I am just thrilled it’s Tuesday. If I didn’t have this regular schedule, I wouldn’t have the time to think about it ahead of time and feel the joy of anticipation. Lately, I find myself making more and more plans and thus, feeling continuously excited by yet another event that’s to come.
I guess, as with everything else, it’s best to have a bit of both. Having some scheduled events interspersed with small doses of spontaneity might be close to perfection. I just wish that the magazines that recommend you to schedule random events would also explain the values of scheduling some consistent timeslot where you plan something that you can look forward to, get excited about and anticipate.
If you don’t believe me, just give it a try. Pick a really good friend, and schedule a regular activity. Or pick a time slot with your honey, which you put aside to do something you really like. Put aside a half-hour to do something for yourself once a week. Anything. Like taking a bubble bath, going shoe shopping, curling up with your book, playing video games. It can be anything, the only requirement is that it has to be something you enjoy, not something you think you have to do. This is based on “wanting.” That’s when anticipation does its trick.
Come on. Give it a try and let me know how it goes.
Previously? Creative Imagination.
The city morgue is a mere three blocks from my house.
I’ve been completely exhausted in the last two weeks. Maybe it’s because my back has been aching on and off, enough to stop me from falling asleep easily. Maybe it’s the essays I run over and over in my mind. Maybe it’s the assignments I desperately try to keep on top of. Maybe it’s the 7am meetings that go for four hours. Maybe it’s the ongoing bomb threats in the subways I take.
I am taking a graphic design course. One of the six I signed up for. I’ve always thought I’d like to learn how to design better. I understand the basic principles so I thought the class might be fun and instructional. I thought I might learn about the process of design and maybe even get some insight on how designers get their ideas or inspirations.
Not so.
Since the class began, I’ve been stressing twenty-four/seven. I can’t stop thinking about my assignments, I freak out about them a week before they’re due, and I am miserable each and every second I spend on them. I doubt myself nonstop and cause endless arguments between Jake and me.
So for the last week, since my teacher said she doesn’t like my background image, I’ve moved from just stressed out to a complete basket case. I’ve started housing others like heather, mena, rony and his wife over aim to ask for their opinions. Details. Whys? Exactly Whats? Trust me when I say these people are way too nice to still be acknowledging my presence. I spent six nights in a row obsessing about this assignment. I slept late, went to work like a zombie, came home in misery and restarted the whole routine. All this for a class where I get no credit and no grade.
Two days ago, I mailed part of my graduate school application. The part that contained my transcript, three recommendations, and some labels. The part that would be excruciatingly difficult to replace. That would be why I mailed it with overnight UPS. Because when you send it overnight, it doesn’t get lost.
Not so.
Today, I spent the entire day talking to maybe thirteen different UPS customer support people. I started scared, passed through angry, made a stop in self-pity, and ended the day completely spent. I cried. I yelled. I cursed. I begged.
Let’s just say it wasn’t my favorite day.
At 5:30, I decided I couldn’t sit at my desk any longer and left to stand at the bus stop on the corner. Since I stopped taking subways, finding a transportation alternative has been an experience. I waited in the bus station, realizing that my design assignment isn’t all that important. Relative to this missing UPS envelope, the assignment doesn’t even matter. As we cross 28th street, I see the posters of missing people covering the walls of Bellevue Hospital. Right before NYU hospital, I see the police cars and emergency people outside the morgue. I start thinking clearly for the first time in two weeks: the envelope doesn’t matter either.
Tonight, I am going to get lots of sleep and try to keep things in perspective.
Previously? Two Weeks.
I wore heels this morning.
In November of 2000, I hurt my back, in December, I found out that it was much worse than my doctor had anticipated; I had two herniated discs. In June, my neck freaked. So it had been almost a year since I wore heels. As a person who used to wear extremely high heels daily, this was quite a major change in my life. I bought four pairs of flats, two summer ones and two winter ones, and alternated between the four.
On September 17, when the employees returned back to work, my firm held a department-wide meeting and advised the women to wear flat shoes for the next few weeks. You’d be amazed at how many women were wearing heels the very next day. But not me, flats had become my new friend.
This morning, I got dressed and fetched around for a pair of shoes that would go well with my outfit. My eyes kept drifting at the heeled brown boots. I picked up the shoes and looked at the size of the heels. Pretty high. I put them on. In the last few months, I lost a lot of weight and the heels helped accentuate my body, so I decided what the hell. I knew one day wouldn’t break my already broken back any further. If it helped me feel good about myself, I would wear heels for one day.
I had a few sciatica pains early on in the day, but overall the heels were fine. By the end of the day, I even ran from one building to another so my manager could have the letterhead he needed. I felt good about wearing the heels.
Around 7pm, I walked into the subway and took a seat. Since I take the station down by Wall Street, the train was packed at that time of the night. On Tuesday, I learned how to knit, so I took out my scarf and started knitting. We passed through the Wall Street and Fulton Street stops without a problem. Halfway between Fulton and Brooklyn Bridge, the train halted. The conductor said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have been told to stop immediately. I will pass along more information as soon as I have some.”
The woman to my left held out her hand to show to her friend how it was shaking. The two of them were looking through wedding dress pictures. The guy to my right kept reading his newspaper and me, my knitting. After ten extremely long minutes, the conductor comes back on the speakerphone and says, “There is a serious situation in Astor place and we have been told to move back to Brooklyn Bridge. This train is called back to Brooklyn Bridge.” The conductor repeated this four times, by the second one, people in my car were muttering him to move it already.
We sat there for another fifteen minutes and saw the train’s operator walk from one end of the train to another. The conductor kept repeating the same announcement, but the train would not move. I don’t even want to share with you the thoughts that raced through my mind at those moments. I only stared at my red scarf and mechanically knit. Another ten minutes later, the conductor came back on the speakerphone and announced that the police had cleared Astor place and we were going to move forward after all. We waited another ten minutes as the operator moved back to the front of the train. As he passed through our car, the New Yorkers cheered. Some girl said, “Hurry, some of us have to go to the bathroom.” People laughed. That thank-God-nothing’s-wrong sort of uncomfortable laugh. The operator walked back to the front and the conductor said, “All right, partner, let’s get this thing moving.” Everyone broke into applause.
The train pulled into the 14th street station and I got off to switch to the local line. As I walked down the street towards my house, I decided I’m not taking the subway again. Not for some time. Nothing can compare to feeling trapped several feet underground.
And tomorrow, I’m wearing flat shoes.
Previously? Imitation.
It’s been thirteen days.
Thirteen.
It doesn’t feel right. When I think of that Tuesday morning, it feels like just yesterday. I’m still dazed and confused as if it were yesterday. I’m still numb and awe-struck as if it were yesterday. I’m still unable to work and function as if it were yesterday. I’m still as confused and frustrated as if it were yesterday.
On the other hand, the Monday before feels like centuries away. The team meeting we had on the eleventh seems so far away that I can’t recall any parts of our conversation. I can’t remember what I did on that Monday. I can’t remember what I wore or what I ate. It feels like a hazy part of my past life, not like only a fortnight ago.
When I walked down to the corner of Broadway and Cedar on Thursday, I was amazed at effect of the layers of dust on the surrounding buildings. The area gave a feeling of having been untouched for months, or maybe even years. As if an area time forgot. If it weren’t for the workmen, ambulances, and the smoke, I’d have bet it was a site preserved from a historical past. As is, it looked more like a film set than real life.
   
Two days ago, Jason aimed me to see if we were interested in going to the prayer service in the Yankee stadium with Shannon and him. I’m not religious and Jake’s even less religious than I am so I hesitated.
I wasn’t sure about the details of the event and thought being in the same place as hundreds of other New Yorkers might help me. I’ve been having a lot of trouble coming to grips with what’s going on. I’ve had a hard time crying. Or feeling in general. I thought being surrounded by others might allow me to grieve.
After confirming with Jake, I told Jason we’d go.
  
  
One side of the stadium spilled with people and the other was completely barren. The home base was covered with flowers and the pitching mound had been converted to a snapshot of the American flag. People were wearing pins and waving flags. Representatives of every religion sat on the L-shaped podium set up in the middle of the field. President Clinton and the New York senator, the governor, the mayor, they were all present. Many people gave inspired speeches. Reassuring the crowd that America was indivisible and that we would rise more powerful from this than before. I choked up several times, but I still didn’t cry.
Many representatives of several religions talked about God watching over us and the victims being proud of us, and God protecting us. While some were good speakers, I would lie if I told you that their words influenced me as strongly as the ones of the mayor and, ironically, Oprah. But only two things brought out my tears today: singing of the National Anthem and, much to Jake’s dismay, Bette Midler’s singing of Wind Beneath My Wings.
It’s been thirteen days.
I still haven’t really wept. I still can’t believe my eyes when I stare at the void in the sky. I still haven’t digested any of it. It doesn’t feel like thirteen days. On one hand it feels like one hour and on the other it feels like it’s been years.
But not thirteen days.
Previously? Two Hours.
“New York City is getting back to normal,” they say. “We really need to get back to the normal,” I hear repeatedly.
Yesterday morning, I took the subway down to the financial district. The train slowed down considerably after Brooklyn Bridge and didn’t even stop on Wall Street. But it did stop on Whitehall, my exit. As we exited the subway, cops told us to go right. What’s usually a hectic street was completely closed off except for a tiny portion of the sidewalk down which we marched like school kids on a museum trip.
As soon as we reached the end of the sidewalk, people rushed into their buildings where another set of cops checked our bags and ids. I pressed the elevator button for the 37th floor, trying to fight back the terrible scenarios that my overactive imagination played. At work, I find out that the stupid virus has caused the firm to shutdown all their internet connections. After I stare at my computer for eight dazed hours, I take a company shuttle up a completely empty FDR drive.
We’re getting back to normal, the words echo in my mind.
Today, the subway driver announced right after Fulton that they planned to make the Wall Street stop. I contemplated getting off, but figured walking around Fulton street would be more horrifying then being patient. The train slowed to a stop for a split second and the lights flickered. On a regular day, this is a common occurrence and besides being annoyed at not getting to read my book, I don’t think twice. Today, I felt like jumping up and hollering for them to move the damn train.
An hour after I get to work, we start hearing loud bangs. All the employees stare at each other uneasily, each afraid to say the words out loud. We still have no net access and therefore cannot check CNN. We rely solely on the firm notifying us of any news. The bangs come and go intermittently for a few hours. I feel sick to my stomach and decide to take a walk.
We’re getting back to normal.
They have opened most of the streets, so I pace up Wall Street and ignore the drizzling rain. I stop in front of the stock exchange to stare at the enormous flag covering the building. My passport might not say so, but I feel American. Even though the rain is getting stronger and my friends advise otherwise, I continue up Broadway. I need to see it, I think to myself. It’s important that I do this.
I reach the corner of Cedar and Liberty. Just like fifty others, I stare. The smoke coming out of the ground, the air tasting thick and bitter. I stare at the hole, the cemetery adjacent to the street and the church right next to that. I look at the broken windows in what used to be Jake’s workplace. People behind me comment on another building and how it looks like it’s expanded in the middle and skewed all over. “Is it an optical illusion?” the man asks. “No, that’s the building they kept saying was going to crumble, but it didn’t. I think it’s damaged, I can’t imagine people can work there again,” the woman replies.
Getting back to normal.
I take out my aiptek and start shooting pictures. For the last week, this has all felt unreal. As if it was a CNN special. I’ve been trying to cry, trying to understand, trying to believe. I see the posters all over my neighborhood, the flags on every building, store and person. I hear the hope, withering away. I walk around like a zombie. I stare at the street I stood in every Thursday morning and wonder if it will ever be open again. I look at the names and faces on the posters. People whose only fault was to get to work on time and to help out others. My stomach knots but my eyes are dry. My tears which flood during even a Goldie Hawn movie are refusing to cooperate.
Back to normal.
I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know if it’s over or just beginning. I don’t know whether to worry about myself or my family in Turkey. I don’t know how many more days I can take the subway. I don’t know how much more CNN I can watch. I don’t know when I will finally break down. I don’t know what this is. But I know what it isn’t:
Normal.
Previously? The Big Prize.
“Yes, thank you. We’re alive and okay.” I write in another one of the many emails I sent this week.
I’m not complaining. Many friends and relatives have popped out of the blue to ask us how we were doing and I am thankful for their concerns. This is not about how popular I am; it’s about the contents of the emails. The words I type and then erase in each letter.
I always start to type “We’re alive and safe.” But then I delete the last word. It doesn’t ring true. Yes, I am alive and my back, neck, and jaw might be in excruciating pain, but none of it matters compared to the fact that I’ve survived. So I don’t whine about my health. I am thankful.
But I don’t feel safe. I haven’t felt safe since Tuesday morning. For the first few days, I was scared to leave my apartment. And then, we went out and took a long walk. I wanted to get as close as possible to downtown. We walked twenty blocks south to Union Square but couldn’t go farther. On Friday, we met a few fellow New Yorkers. The feeling of unease never left me.
On Saturday, we went to the movies. As Keanu Reeves taught several kids how to play baseball, I kept thinking a bomb was going to fall into the theater. What if? I kept asking myself. What if a bomb fell? I had no idea of course. I have no idea. Deep down I know that the chances of a bunch of terrorists bombing my local movie theater are highly unlikely, if not ridiculous, yet I can’t get the thought out of my mind.
Today, I walked into a high-rise: a work building in midtown Manhattan. As I rode the elevator to the seventeenth floor, alone, negative thoughts overloaded my mind. I have never suffered from anxiety attacks, but today I got as close to one as I ever remember.
It’s been almost a week since the awful day. I’ve accomplished pretty much nothing in the last week, unless watching CNN can be considered an achievement. In the last two days, I’ve read a most amazing work of non-fiction about the trials and triumphs of twelve gifted inner-city school students. Their stories are inspiring, disappointing, heart wrenching, uplifting and educational. The writing is captivating and flows effortlessly. I have enjoyed the book thoroughly and learned a tremendous amount. And I’m thankful for the few hours of distraction it gave me.
But I don’t think I can feel safe again for a long time. I know this isn’t over. I know it barely began. I’m worried about the rest. I’m worried, each night I go to bed, about the world that might wait for me when I wake.
Yes, I am alive, for now. But I am far from safe.
Previously? Motion.
I was writing a short story when disaster struck.
I had about 40 minutes before I had to leave for my volunteer job and I was rushing to finish the story because we were scheduled to dine with a few friends of Jake at 8. I was behind schedule on my things to do for that weekend. I still had to finish the short story, write more words on my novel, finish the book I was reading and start two new ones, essays to write, applications to fill, emails to return. I was stressing out about getting it all done before dinner.
And then the whole world fell apart.
I have spent the last four days on the same couch, alternating between looking at the TV, computer and out the window. Speaking to my family every few hours to make sure we’re still alive and trying to register all that’s really happening some three miles from my house.
I’ve sent some forty emails to friends, ensuring we’re okay, finding out about them. Each time the phone rings, I still jump, worried about the news it might bear. My family is miles and miles away, in a part of the world that’s not necessarily safe. Especially now. But, for once, I’m glad they’re not here. I’m not sure what’s safe anymore.
I want to turn off the TV and tune out all the horror. I want to curl up into my own world and be glad that it’s not missing anything. I want to go out and walk around like things are going to be fine again. I want to move on.
But I can’t.
Since Tuesday, besides for groceries, Jake and I have left our house three times. Wednesday night, we went to ‘celebrate’ my birthday with two friends, four blocks north. On the way back, they were evacuating our neighborhood cause of a bomb threat at the Empire State building. The second time, on Thursday, for lunch mostly cause I was going insane indoors and Jason ordered me to turn off the TV and go out. And yesterday, to meet with a bunch of webloggers in New York City. I have had an entire week to catch up on my to-dos.
But I did nothing.
Even now, I open my book and my eyes glance over the few lines. Within seconds, I close it back up. I can’t concentrate. I switch between the news channels, crying at the stories of strangers filing reports eight blocks south of our house. I call all the numbers they announce on TV but they’re already filled up with volunteers. ‘Call back tomorrow,’ they say.
I reopen the Word file and stare at the line I left in mid-sentence on Tuesday.
Previously? Quiet.
September 13 2001Still at home and still in too much shock to write anything pithy.
September 12 2001
Today is my birthday and I am glad to be alive.
September 11 2001
It is not possible to put the magnitude of what is happening into words.
If you have any loved ones you are trying to reach in New York City, or you have friends who are stuck in the city and need a place to go to please email me and I will do my best to help out.
I’m not mean.
I’m sure most people would say that’s a cocky thing to say about myself. After all people aren’t allowed to make self-personality assessments unless it’s deprecating. Who am I to judge my own self? No one would really say they’re mean, would they now? So obviously I shouldn’t be allowed to defend myself on this subject matter.
Maybe in the past, I would have agreed with the above opinion. I might have said that other people’s opinions of me are what matter as you are who people think you are.
Wanna know how I feel now?
I don’t give a flying fuck.
Recently I’ve been told that I’m mean. It was a patronizing conversation. One that involved the words “I would never want to be a person like you. You’re so mean.” This wasn’t a close friend. It wasn’t even someone who can claim to know me well. However, it was a person with whom I deal with daily and it completely broke my heart.
My feelings for this person aside, the fact that he felt comfortable calling me mean angered me. Mostly cause it injured my feelings. If I were truly mean, surely his words wouldn’t have affected me, would they? For the next few weeks, I gave him several chances to retract his statements, but he never did.
And I kept caring and I kept feeling bad and I kept apologizing to him in different ways. I figured if he thought I was mean, I must be a bad person, and I kept trying to overcompensate. I bent low and lower. I tried to talk to him many times. And it went nowhere.
Well, that’s not exactly true.
It got to a point where I started having a low opinion of myself. I started believing that I was mean. I got frustrated and unhappy and actually became meaner. Which, of course, made matters even worse.
Today I got so fed up and so miserable that I hit my lowest point. And you know what’s great about being there? It can’t get any worse.
So I took a good look at myself, decided that this guy was full of shit, and started believing in myself again. I know who I am and I know who I am not. I know my weaknesses and I’m open to suggestions on how to fix them, but when it comes to abuse, I’m not your gal.
Not anymore.
Previously? New New Thing.
Here’s what’s been on my mind for a few days:
What’s a good time to let go?
When do you know that you’re in over your head?
There is such a thing as caring too much. There are people who suck your emotions and sacrifices out of you, enough to wipe you clean. Enough to drag you down with them. Enough for you to lose control of your life and not even notice it.
I’ve had loved ones with severe problems. People with substance abuse issues. Anyone who’s been on either side of that kind of a relationship will tell you that there is almost nothing you can do for someone who’s using and abusing unless they’re ready to face the truth.
Talking doesn’t do any good. It might appear as if you’re getting through to someone, and at times the person might even start understanding what you mean, but in the end, the power lies within him. And only him. (or her)
There is a fine line between being there for support and giving up your life for someone.
Let’s take the following scenario. Let’s assume you’re female (Cause I am and it’s a pain in the ass to have to write she or he each time.) You’ve been with your boyfriend Alex for two years. You like him and you’ve even thought of making long-term plans at times. In the last few weeks, Alex has started hanging out with his work friends and drinking. I don’t mean every now and then, but each evening. He always calls and says he won’t be home till late. You’ve tried talking to him a few times, but he gives you good excuses. He says that he needs to go out so that he can fit in at his job.
You can put up with it for a few weeks but after a month or two? You’ll probably eventually decide that it’s simply not going to work out. Hopefully, you’ll have talked to him about this and tried to resolve it before you packed up and left. Either way, no one will blame you for leaving him. You might be sad, but you won’t feel like you deserted him.
Now, imagine the same scenario, but Alex is an abuser. He is hooked on alcohol, drugs, he joined a movement, or he’s gotten fired. In short, his world has twirled out of control and he’s dragging you down with him. He’s depressed, he yells at you, he pushes you away. You know that he’s not doing it purposefully, he’s in pain. He’s not thinking straight. How can you leave him now? When he loves you so much and he’s fallen so low. What an awful creature must you be to even consider leaving.
That’s the thin line. There will never really be a good time to leave.
So you make a decision. Do you say, I’ll stay with him and risk going down the black hole or do you walk away and be the bitch? I’d assume the answer might depend on the nature of your relationship. If you and Alex are married you might have a different answer than if you’ve been dating a while but have no official attachments. Then again, sometimes love is the tightest bond.
Either way, it’s a tough decision and there are no right answers.
Anyone who says that there are hasn’t really been there.
Previously? Four Years.
It all starts with a single seed.
A tiny, imperceptible seed of thought or emotion. An uneasy feeling that you could swear wasn’t there a minute ago.
It has no apparent trigger. It’s not the outcome of a recent occurrence. It doesn’t have any visible relevance to the previous moments of the day.
Like the Big Bang, it expands within you in less than milliseconds. What was an annoying moment becomes an overwhelming state of mind.
There’s no going back now. The pull is too strong and it warps everything around it. The word “right” is not a part of your mind’s vocabulary anymore.
There are no whites. No goods. No positive sides.
You’re in the land of jet black.
The forest is so dense that you can’t even see the grass or the road. Everywhere you look is trunks, locking you in like a prisoner.
There is no light. No tunnel. No way out and no way back.
You try to think back to the moment all the grays disappeared but all you can recall is being here, feeling desperate. It’s as if you have never been elsewhere. You were born here and you will die here.
You want to yell but words won’t cooperate. You want to cry but your eyes are dry. You want to ask for help but there’s no one around.
You’re alone.
Anger rises within you. “Stop this,” you yell at your mind. You think of all the suffering people in the world. The people with real problems.
You start naming the good things in your life, but it doesn’t even flinch. The goods morph into not so great. They might even be bad. It has taken over your sense of judgement, perception and memory. It doesn’t like to leave loose ends.
Maybe resistance is a stupid idea.
Giving up seems to be the best option. Just thinking about it covers you with a sense of relief. Maybe the dark is not so bad after all. Maybe you’ve belonged here all along.
The phone rings. You say, “Hello?”
The voice is cheerful. “Hi, honey, just checking up on you.”
A single tear escapes.
Previously? Cynical Copout.
If you’ve been following my log for a while you might have noticed the theme of self exploration. On of the reasons I’ve always enjoyed writing diaries is that they sort of make me face who I am.
Especially lately I’ve been trying to look within and face some of the major flaws, hangups, issues that I have.
Turkey happens to be one of them.
Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to leave Istanbul. I grew up in a crowd where I was continually excluded and ridiculed for being different. While I enjoyed reading, my so-called friends spent their time gossiping and shopping. I was the nerd and the dork. It seemed the only way I could escape these labels was to go to the other end of the universe. One where people would stop treating me as the freak.
The thing is I never stopped hating those people. Each time I come back and run into one of them my knees go weak and I become the same girl with coke bottle bottom glasses and extreme lack of self confidence. Which, of course, results in my having violent reactions to their presence and I hate them. Just the thought is enough to make me cringe.
Tonight I was sitting at a concert and thinking of all those teenager friends whom I hate and I decided that hatred is a sign of a flaw in myself, not others. If other people can cause such a strong emotion to come to the surface there must be some residual issues within.
Many psychologists believe that the things we hate in others are really the reflections of flaws we have within, but I’m not sure I agree with that. I do, however, agree that for me to feel something as strong as hatred there must be something going on. So I spent some time thinking why I hate them and howcome they still have such a strong effect on me.
And I came to the same conclusion as I have been reaching for many other things lately: cause I let them.
It’s truly amazing how much more is within the range of one’s capacity than one is willing to admit. It’s so much easier to say “Oh I’ve always been like that and it’s who I am.” Just like it’s easier for me to hate those people rather than accept the fact that a part of me still feels insecure/inadequate.
So here’s the deal: as of today I don’t hate these people anymore. I might not agree with their choices in life and I still don’t appreciate the way they treated me as a child but the past is past and I am ready to move on and let go.
Hatred is a wasted emotion.
Previously? Regret.
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projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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