7:15
I will not unlock my eyes.
7:20
I nestle in the sunshine, clutching it.
7:25
I want to linger in its delicate warmth.
7:30
I want to linger in its radiating newness.
7:35
I cannot spoil a new day if it hasn't truly begun.
7:40
I can dream in this light.
7:45
I can wallow in possibility.
7:50
I pull the covers even closer, shielding my face from inevitability.
7:55
I peek as the sun is sitting high.
8:00
I see the hour hand make its mark.
8:05
I feel logic's nag.
8:10
I remain wrapped.
8:15
I fear and loathe the clock.
8:20
Spoiled.
Sunday, November 21
Friday, October 15
Silhouettes–Definition Through Simplicity
All images featured are from Lens, a photography blog associated with The New York Times.
Thursday, October 14
The [Brent Spence] Bridge Song
You were intertwined with him on your father's couch, and I lay displaced nearby. I overlooked the river as we talked, seeing it divide city from country. As grown up as I felt with elitist upperclassmen, I was aware of the divide, and certainly on the fringe. If I had my license, I would've left, but you wound me around your finger, convincing me to stay and watch The Royal Tenenbaums, braiding me into belonging. You bathed in the uniqueness of this "new" music, mimicking the poetic sounds while deaf to their meanings. I mimicked you.
I discovered the "59th Street Bridge Song" by Simon & Garfunkel long before I recognized that the 59th Street bridge connected Manhattan to Queens, and that for three months, I walked past this bridge almost daily. Past, not over. I was never in the lighthearted mood the poetic sounds insinuated, but then again I was moving so fast, stirring up a deafening wind, that I camouflaged any possibilities of connecting. I ran past, and continued to encounter the divide.
I'm intertwined into an unlikely city now with 1/7 of the population. I drive the Brent Spence Bridge daily, linking work and home. Windows down, I blare "The Seventh Seal" from an old high school mix, the only CDs that play in my car now. The car, the music, the bridge—nothing unique, but all propelling me toward and through. Spinning my straw into gold, I am sewn into the fabric of this city.
I discovered the "59th Street Bridge Song" by Simon & Garfunkel long before I recognized that the 59th Street bridge connected Manhattan to Queens, and that for three months, I walked past this bridge almost daily. Past, not over. I was never in the lighthearted mood the poetic sounds insinuated, but then again I was moving so fast, stirring up a deafening wind, that I camouflaged any possibilities of connecting. I ran past, and continued to encounter the divide.
I'm intertwined into an unlikely city now with 1/7 of the population. I drive the Brent Spence Bridge daily, linking work and home. Windows down, I blare "The Seventh Seal" from an old high school mix, the only CDs that play in my car now. The car, the music, the bridge—nothing unique, but all propelling me toward and through. Spinning my straw into gold, I am sewn into the fabric of this city.
Wednesday, September 22
Meyer Lemons
How do you view the lemons that are handed to you? Do you see the sour truth or contemplate the possibilities?
Thursday, September 9
Scattered Pieces
Between the beaches and the mountains the fog churns. I sit outside the Kodak Theater in the grey, tangled in dreams of the past and present. Angela Lansbury and Lawrence Welk are sex shop doormats, and the Golden Age of this city hangs as a mink stole across my arms, tossed by the gale of a passing Porsche. I feel blindly for a totem, for time has folded up onto itself, broken into pieces and rearranged into something indistinguishable.
The ground is covered in a mosaic of small pieces, stories of dreams realized and grouted into place, stories about packing up and heading west, about leaving everything to gain something. But what happens when plans change, when the mosaic you have laid is now scattered in front of you?
"I went to film school but became known for the dinners I gave, not for my camera work. Now I am a producer of parties, with the guests and the food as co-stars." —Caterer
I gather these pieces from my once mosaic, distorted ideas that are now shrapnel. The pieces cut my hands as I am unable to let go of my design. How do I create from this brokenness?
My pieces must be sorted and rearranged into something more exquisite, to tell a story exceeding my dreams. I can't sort these fragments of my life on my own, yet the pattern of the One who knows the passions of my heart is hidden. How do I trust in the fog?
The ground is covered in a mosaic of small pieces, stories of dreams realized and grouted into place, stories about packing up and heading west, about leaving everything to gain something. But what happens when plans change, when the mosaic you have laid is now scattered in front of you?
"I went to film school but became known for the dinners I gave, not for my camera work. Now I am a producer of parties, with the guests and the food as co-stars." —Caterer
I gather these pieces from my once mosaic, distorted ideas that are now shrapnel. The pieces cut my hands as I am unable to let go of my design. How do I create from this brokenness?
My pieces must be sorted and rearranged into something more exquisite, to tell a story exceeding my dreams. I can't sort these fragments of my life on my own, yet the pattern of the One who knows the passions of my heart is hidden. How do I trust in the fog?
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