on the art of curation and privacy

in an overshared world

Dear reader,

I took the day for myself.

Oh sure, I could have and probably should have worked. My bank account is begging me to constantly engage in some sort of hustle.

But today?

That wasn’t the case.

Instead?

I went to the cottage to read and recover and dream and lay down the outline of the next experience that I’ll be delivering to people (through another company) this September.

This cabin is on a hill just beyond my Nanny’s house up from the boat launch on Lake Charlotte.

I’ll visit her later today.

But for now?

I’ll sit and write here in this cabin that I built.

As I look around all of the studs and framing boards are still bare and easily seen.

I remember handling each two by four, truss and sheet of plywood.

I’m so fucking proud of this little cabin that we built here.

Before moving home, this was my family summer home.

Six summers were spent here for weeks at a time.

Laura recovered from chemo here. She wrote her phd here.

It was the launching place for so many surf adventures.

Most of all though?

My kids grew up in these walls. They fell asleep to Bon Iver and Lori Cullen. They protested and campaigned to create elevators to get the dogs on the beds.

The walls are lined with their early art work.

And the kitchen window sill?

It contains countless beach treasures - sand dollars, sea glass and a four and a half legged sea star.

I’d take a picture and share it with you but no.

It’s too personal. Too private. I’d send you all a dick pic before showing you the kitchen window sill.

So if you’ve been here?

Consider yourself lucky.

Sure, I’ll share lots. I’ve even been accused of oversharing.

But we all have our limits eh?

Welcome to the troll army!

Keep your privates private, private.