August 14, 2017:

Drunk. Bikini top selfie with roomie, shades up, tongue out sideways, playful.

Strong. Roaring at the gym, weights and intervals, supergirl.

Hilarious. Selfie with deer, selfie with potato chips, selfie with sk8board. Humor and self-deprecation.

Brilliant. Galleries, performances, installations.

Shy. Sweet smile, bashful, humble, kind.

Beautiful. Jaw-dropping, heart-stopping. Stunning.

August 13, 2017:

Nineteen. Looks much younger. With braces and Iron Maiden studded belt you'd guess fifteen. Brown-haired, with her blonde girlfriend who claims all the attention from boys.

On a rock cliff at the seaside, hands thrown skyward, triumphal.

On a rock cliff at the Mountain of Moonlit Rocks, hands on hips, strong as Wonder Woman, beautiful as any woman alive.

You'd still guess much younger.

August 12, 2017:

I had no conceivable notion what that song meant — if it meant anything. It sounded to my seven-year-old understanding like word soup. Something grownups could fathom that remained mysterious to little kids.

But I could feel the excitement. The performance, the volume, the feel of spontaneity with its out-of-tune guitar. The aliveness.

There's a world here. You can walk through this door. Enter. Don't look back.

July, 1965.