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razuri

I Miss Everything 

a personal photo zine about manual errors in photography and longing for solitude.

a story about running away and trying to come back.

photos from Sudbury
and Toronto, Ontario

September 2022

we start with the woods because they're full of memories.
you can recall things that happened there, things that didn't. you can have a conversation with the woods.
you can believe they heard you.
you can focus on the light that shines through,
you can stare closely at the bark of a tree.
find what you like, the woods know more than you.

what would it take
to write sharply?
not how anyone expects.

you can end up in a cabin in the woods
with an orange fire in a small chimney.
you can listen to rain hitting the roof, you can wear a headlamp, you can grab a pen and maybe still
no words will come.

there is a way to live pastorally. there has to be.
there is a way to slide away from what is keeping you stuck.

there is a way to translate a light leak on a roll of film into the confidence to spread your arms wide, dance, do whatever feels right with an uncrowded mind.

I, Ms. Everything

everything is about me.
and if it isn't actually about me
then there is surely some way to centre myself
amid constellations or a small crowd of horses,
nodding to myself,
knowing: yup, this is going exactly as I predicted.

like a puzzle or a game
where the prize is the ability to say, I knew it,
this was always about me.

if being sad is selfish,
then call me the King of Crab, because
I'm as shellfish as they come.
even trying to be funny, looking expectantly at someone as you crack a joke, is a way to make a casual interaction slightly more interesting and, most importantly,
about me.

sadness is selfish because you spend time worrying, living in your mind.

surely it's much more valuable to pick up a pair of gloves and get to work somewhere that requires gloves.

Miss Everything is actually a very loving and kind person, if you get to know her.
typically when people are sad they hide away, or they cut ties with people who love them or they find ways to complicate their lives. the centre of a crisis is a comfortable place
for the kind of person
who's always thinking about themselves.

do I remember someone fondly?
or do I want to remember
how certain combinations of person, place, time, and thing are more
love-filled than others?

you're supposed to be obsessed
with love, so
that stays in the past, pristine.

missing someone you loved who is dead
is hard. missing someone you loved
who is alive is a mistake.
why dwell when you can find new people that you can miss eventually?

is missing someone a sign to do something differently? to move on, to call them,
to look at old pictures, or remember conversations?

I miss my grandmother so much and I don't think we ever talked.

I saw a strange sculpture of two skaters outside a motel.
one grabbed between the other's legs, and she had her head thrown back, her chest stretched out.
it was as if the motel wanted you to know:
yea, you can do that here. pull over.

later I fell asleep with a piece of chocolate
in my hand.
the candle still burned when I woke up
to a soft pile of sludge
sitting between my fingers.
it slipped between knots in the yarn of the blanket
I crocheted that one winter
I was really into crochet.

I remember saying: crochet, more than a hobby,
is a metaphor for repressed sexuality.

think about it.
you have a hook that you push through holes in yarn,
over and over
making the holes yourself by pulling loops closed.

if you're me, you pull the loops extra tight, because
in my metaphor for sexuality, things aren't loose.
it's not like anyone or anything
is going to come flying through those holes.

pull it tight, the yarn.
where there's only room for me,
and room for the things that melt in my hand
and burn on the windowsill.
I sleep in a very small bed. there isn't much room.

there's a bird sanctuary that is also a dump.

it's really just a spot for a lot of ducks
and geese and seagulls to hang out.

going there, I though I'd found a place for myself.
me and the birds. I could lay on a rock in the sun and no one would bother me. chickadees flew inches from my face. I know people can get really into birds, but I don't care about knowing the names.

but people need people.
swarms of ducks and quiet forests can only do so much.
and maybe I miss everything way too much to ever feel like everything's okay
and there's a plan and place for everyone.

not everything is about me.
but there was a time I thought it was. that billboards and police cars were all part of an elaborate prank. songs were about me. there were messages in the tv.
I don't miss that.
but I do miss the birds.