Those eyes.

My favorite fixed

Sunday Shoot IV

Sunday Shoot III

Sunday Shoot II

Sunday Shoot

Bloodclot

Oh my god there are so many boring blogs out there. Here's a hint, if people wanted a shitload of links and random strings of information, they'd go to google. Just thought I'd put that out there.

Tim Armstrong has a voice that's silly, ridiculous, creepy, and amazing, all at the same time. If you haven't listened to rancid lately, check out one of their new-ish albums, Life Won't Wait, and play "Who Would've Thought." Rancid rules because they're from Olympia, so when you've lived there you pick up all these little references in their songs that probably no one else gets. Tim doesn't drive so they would always take the bus to their gigs... they mention the Oly bus lines all the time. "The fourty-one comin up the hill..." It's six a.m. and I'm standing at the corner of fourth and division and here it comes, right after the one that loops over to spscc. I have been so thoroughly nostalgic about Olympia lately. In truth I want to go back by myself for a few nights, to drink, to take pictures at midnight, to stay out until dawn, to see Tahoma again.

Rugby is sitting behind me pulling the black liner from the inside of his soccer ball, and I have a photo shoot tomorrow, and and and. Life is marvellous because of all of the things that we could be doing, but aren't. I am exactly where I am right now because I willed it. And I thought, I am so in love with my life right now, and I would marry him if he asked. It's so strange to just say that. Like it's nothing. I've always said I'm so afraid of the "m" word, always been so completely sure I'd be single forever. We might not have much, and he makes shit wages, but we both have this crystal clear vision of a dream that is just around the corner, and it means everything. Nothing is perfect except the ability to find joy in the imperfections. To adapt, overcome. And at that we're aces.

But I Was and You Are.

Hangin out with her down on 4th street, something burning deep inside of me. She knew that I was in trouble, I was feeling much like the devil...

How many times will it take me before I go crazy, before I lose everything?

Standing on the corner of 58 and college, watching the cars pass by but none of them seem to be West enough. Wish I was on the highway like some robber baron, back to Olympia. No plan and no place to crash, no sleep til 5th and Franklin.

But I can make things work here. Really work, I think. Really start something.

What I wanted to say was that I think you're wonderful. And that I love you. And that we'll make it. And that 4th Ave will always be there and there are always more cigarettes.

:)

We Sing For You the Happy Children

A grey Saturday afternoon after a night of helplessness and broken bones. The words she says across the coffee table cut through my lacerated and rattled spirit like blow darts through flesh and for some reason all I can think of is the night in Olympia when they were waiting for my shift at the Y to be over in the stairwell to the massage room. I came bounding around the corner singing Toyland only to find her crying and him looking worried and instead of asking anything I waited outside on Franklin Street. It was winter, I think, and nighttime. The streets were wet with rain and under the cover of night they looked like symmetrical oil slicks, the sound of passing cars made me think of Miles Davis and taxi cabs when you’re in a city that doesn’t feel like home but you’re on some tour of duty that has only just started.

We lost something last February, and I wish like hell I knew how to get it back.

June will be here in two days, and then, and then, and then. There is this back porch and I’m sitting there on Division Street and we had just come in for the night and they are both together in that room that used to be a garage and he walks through the door and the feeling of infinite possibility invades absolutely every pore of me. It’s gone now, and I think it was packed somewhere in the U-Haul they took when I was still at SGS and realizing that the world will really cut you if you don’t have hard edges.

And the Russian children continue to sing.

Photo of the week, March 5

Sweetness

The juror at the photography show thought I was a student at the Cleveland Institute of Art! I wish I could JUST do photography, rarararrar

Moy Loobeemwee

He finally did it and I don't feel the elation that I had expected. Relief is a better way to describe the afterglow.

Three little words poised on my lips.

*Ahem*

I GOT JURIED INTO THE PHOTOGRAPHY SHOW AT FAVA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy crap, how exciting!!! If you are around on Sunday and related to me, be my guest at the awards ceremony!!!!!! My photo got juried in!!! Holy crap!

In other news.

It's funny how things are synchronous, but the other night I was listening to some of the old Strokes stuff we would listen to in HoH and it made me really damned nostalgic. I thought about the night on the porch of the old house right after we'd gotten Euc's earthcaller. Those were such good times. In breath out breath. My fingers try to grip around smoke rings and all I do is muddle up the simple chaotic beauty that they dance so easily.

And,
also,

I want to be your friend like the one she wrote about sitting across the table from her in the kitchen. I want to be your lover and your mistress. Your rock and the one who would arm herself with spray paint in the middle of the night. I don't understand the male mind, though, and I am beginning to wonder if it is even an acheivable feat.

www.plentyoffish.com undermines my greatest efforts to understand who/what you are. You know what I really want you to do? Delete all of that shit. Out with it. Part of you is attached to it somehow, and as long as that part is attached I will always be eyeing that crack in the doorway in the back of the room. Forward, march! My fingers look skinny and my grip seems so weak; all these damned smoke rings and what I yearn for is some concrete proof. Something tenable.