The cracks in my skin and the chalk that settles there, skin woven, white lace over burning sand. These are the things I’ve remembered, among things I carry, ephemeral as the action of having written them down: … More Yosemite Notes: The Things I Carry
Looking back, it’s easy to identify these things, but at the time, I was blinded by my drive to merely work out. I mean, I knew I liked it, but was I going to start incorporating these ideas and practices into my everyday life? Eh. Probably not. I wasn’t one of those hippy granola people. I’d like to think of it as being in the “talking” stage of a relationship. I liked yoga; but wasn’t totally invested quite yet…just keeping my options open, you know? … More Dither Me This #16: OmWork
“I don’t believe in laziness,” I heard through my computer’s speakers while on a conference call with the prolific artist and best-selling author, SARK. She was responding to my question, “How can you tell the difference between honest burn-out and laziness?” … More Dither Me This #15: Edges
I caught myself pondering what aspects of my life I controlled. Are they small things? Big things? Strange things? How do I even define control? I started jotting down a list and eventually categorized them into three groups of things I feel I control, have trouble controlling, have no control. Then I made it look pretty, because that’s how my brain works best (a fine example of control): … More Dither Me This #9: Control
Dark Portraits of Me by Sara Aranda 1. Trailer court trailers by the river Leonard or Leonardo drunkenly embodied sound spoken-word sounds, rhymed love for rocks and the river— how the rocks fall boom boom boom each an ever-deepening drum beat watch out for the water babies he said how they like to have fun. … More Dark Portraits of Me
By Sara Aranda This piece takes a look at mental health issues that often coincide with an extended injury. I write from my own (current) experience, and that is it. But the more I talk about these things, the more I learn how common they are; yet how silent and detrimental the rabbit hole can … More Injury Diary: Cyclical Mourning
Adventure Haikus By Sara Aranda ~~~ Tree bark, buried soil the snow catches the pine boughs wind-blown like sand dunes. ~~~ Elk track through the trees gentle dimples for white flesh, my eyes are too late. ~~~ Abandon your boots let wet laces paint the floor let the floor melt too. ~~~ Ice on the … More Adventure Haikus
The following is an account of a series of dreams, strange in their nature, and thus only that. However, dreams seem to offer insight and sometimes an uncanny meditation on life and death. In 2009, I lost my mother to genetic breast cancer, after 7 years of fighting. I’ve had many, rather mundane, dreams with … More Mother of My Dreams
Words and photos by Sara Aranda Creeksgiving, 11.24.2016 Hungry, fervent hyenas, eyeing the foil and fire, giggling with the steam and prospect of turkey. Side dishes begin to pop up around the table: sweet potato, mac and cheese, sausage vegetable medley, cornbread stuffing infused with mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, broccoli cheese, pumpkin … More Giving and the Pursuance of (Unknown) Space
By Sara Aranda Wind. Desert towers. Pink dawn. Red dirt. Outhouse shitter and the smell that comes with it. Daily ritual in down booties. Sling a rope across the entrance so everyone knows you’re taking a shit. I’m one of those “hover-ers” and when it’s done you get out of there as fast as you … More Indian Creek: Find Me in the Darkness
10.9.2016 The undulate sea lifts us up and down. Soft, salty belly. We are flecks of flesh roving the coral reef. Our goggles dig in beneath our noses and my jaw wears from biting the snorkel mouthpiece. This world is so bizarre. Large mazes of brains, bulbous and alien in their nature, and striking fans, … More Costa Rica, Part 4: The Undulate and the Imaginary
The Aura of a Self-Willed Land by Sara Aranda “Mountains have many moods.” – Jack Turner I At night the Milky Way dusts the sky falls to powder the Earth by day snow cluttered labyrinths between the trees and ice-laced river. Shadows paint numb strands of bark as scattered as old elk tracks now gentle … More The Aura of a Self-Willed Land
By Patrick Hodge Down in the basement, I laid on my make-shift bed on the floor, as I didn’t yet own a mattress. My room had no windows, creating an atmosphere similar to a cool, dark cave. I shut my eyes to find solitude from the small sliver of golden light fighting its way in … More Memory and The Self
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