My name is Amber Courteau.
I was probably born more than once.
I am to be continued. I adore. watching airplanes through the skylights in my attic. honey in my tea. movies on projector screens. big earrings. rock shows. running. breathing deep. dresses. podcasts. public radio. pigeons. dancing. being dipped while dancing. red red wine. stepping on cracks. letterpress. black and white. being weird. prints. traveling afar. near. San Franciso. sushi. Sunday brunch. avoiding growing up. avoiding malls. riding the bus. the metro. French films. NASA feed. offensive humor. singing to myself. my baby sister. laughing. poking. people.
Sometimes I write. In sepia. In quiet secrets. In your stereo. And sometimes I want to share it. And no matter what it is, I can feel it when I blink. With hope, it will be read on trains slicing fields of sunflowers, in rosebushes, on overpasses, in high altitudes, on docks up North, in the backs of closets, on houseboats, and in tree houses. Especially tree houses.
Welcome to it.