My Kettle Creek bag

Mom gave me this backpack some years ago. It's my most prized possession. Even my computer doesn't evoke such sentiment as this canvas bag.

It's a product of Kettle Creek Clothing Company, now defunct, so the bag is irreplaceable. Nylon packs tend to come apart at the seams. My friend, Bob, repaired this one once. But it had earned its scar. The red drawstring broke a few months ago and I replaced it with a blue lace from one of my daughters' discarded garments.

It goes practically everywhere with me, over my shoulder. Sometimes it even suffices to carry all my needs for a weekend visit, though I'm inclined to pack my clothes in other luggage and save the space in here for the usual things: my notebook, fountain pen, whatever novel I'm reading, camera, sketchbook, and—in the front pocket—wallet, keys and Rolaids.

I'm surrounded by metaphors for life: shelves of books, the river where I walk. But this durable bag is most potent and present. It's a red canvas heart enclosing the tools of my creativity and navigation, necessities for buying food and passing through portals. It will probably wear out before I do, some sad day.

( Sketch notes, farewell to Suite101, mirtazapine weirdness )