28 December 2008

365

*Inspired by the Emily of my dreams (aka Matilda. The Hun.) who is planning on writing 365 poems this year.*

Since photos are easier to force than poems (in my opinion), the rules I have set up for myself are as follows:

1. I will use, at the very least, one roll of 36 exposure 35mm film or two rolls of 12 exposure 120 film a week.

2. I will take at least one picture a day. I am not allowed to put off all my exposures till the weekend, for example.

3. I will have my film developed and scanned on a timely basis.

4. I will post seven pictures from each weekly roll of film. I am not allowed to select more than one picture from a single day.

5. I will update this blog with results every Tuesday.

Good luck, me and you.

12 November 2008

To Do

1. Actually SLEEP (not haunted by potentially brain-cancerous migraines) on this BED (not a throwaway futon/cheapest spring mattress at IKEA on a bare floor) that I PURCHASED (not found on trash night/left behind by previous tenants) almost a week ago.

2. Choose career over motherhood: Admit that I am not yet ready to adopt a cat at this stage in my life. Rock your right to multi-task, ladies.

3. Visit bike shop on lunch break. Drown out tickings of biological clock (?!) with soothing gear-clacks and chain-whirrr. (Seoul just may be the least bike-friendly metropolis ever. Alas, a bike-less life no longer feels complete.)

4. Do something about this stupid long hair, stupid.

5. Purchase 35mm lens for F3 because without it, I just feel so small-dicked and inadequate, really.

6. Schedule optometrist appointment.

7. Eat more fresh fruit. Give yoga another try. Anything to prevent my entire body (organs and all) from developing carpal tunnel syndrome.

8. Visit post office.

9. Call bank (U.S.). Figure out how to wire C. money.

10.

16 October 2008

This is what I do with my days now.

7:45 AM. The alarm goes off (I manage to actually drag myself out of bed by 8:00 AM.) I make my bed. I eat my freakin' tofu. I get dressed. I put on sunscreen and powder my face.

9:30 AM. I scale a ridiculously steep hill towards the bus stop. This takes four minutes. The bus usually comes within two or three minutes. Fourteen minutes on the bus, and fifteen more on foot gets me to my desk, where there is a computer (PC) and an organized mess of paperwork. There is a metal division that separates me and a colleague from the other employees. There are print-outs (ink-jet) and photographs (mine) secured via little round magnets.

This is where I brave poorly designed Flash websites and carpal tunnel syndrome in order to seek out and secure "next season's face". I repeat English sentences to Latvian/Estonian/Lithuanian/British agents and argue about contracts and earning potential.

I send email after email. I put together and print out calling cards. I drink instant coffee. Occasionally I rush out the door with some really really ridiculously good-looking male model, or a wispy, leggy girl-child to a photoshoot, where I have to act as translator/babysitter/photo assistant. I make small talk with the staff and gush over the equipment. I stress about what they order for lunch.

7:00 PM. I punch out and stroll towards the bus, on the look-out for a place to grab a bite. It's stressful, realizing that my soymilk lists gelatin as an ingredient. I don't smoke as much, and I don't drink as much. But I don't eat as much either, and I'm mildly concerned.

7:45-8:00 PM. I get off the bus and walk down the hill to my current place of residence. I putter around. I miss people.

1:00 AM. I remove my contact lens and turn off the lights, baby.

26 September 2008

20 September 2008

Headlines

There seems to be an epidemic of broken-heartedness going around.

11 September 2008

09-08-2008 [Boston to NYC]

It is less than an hour before midnight. We are cruising down I-95 at a tame 70 mph. The combination of a clear, not-quite summer sky and a tenacious Saab convertible from the 1980’s adds up to some amazin’ stargazin’.

There is something distinctively American about a nighttime drive; a terror only experienced by entrusting one’s life to a machine that has proven to be fallible, generation after generation.

07 September 2008

Boston you are one lame place to miss.

I am packing up my room in Somerville. It is a slow process, fettered mostly by my own lack of gusto.

In the last four years alone I've filled and emptied countless pocket-sized spaces in three different cities on three separate continents. So far I've lost 60% of my material possessions and my sense of self.

This is the first time I've been able to look a city in the eye and say Goodbye. For Real.

So, goodbye Boston. I'll miss you, probably more than I am expecting to. But if I don't start leaving places I'm afraid that I won't ever find out where I can return home to.

27 August 2008

(It Just Isn't.)


It is no longer acceptable, to be sad amongst those who are not.

31 July 2008

What Remains

This city is done for.

Tom and Zac returned from their road trip with peeling tans and spoke of Austin, TX.

In Austin, TX the air is pregnant with droplets of water too microscopic to be seen but significant enough to coat the skin glossy. Smoke unfurls downward, collecting moisture like a sponge. It smells of marijuana and lake water.

Or so I imagine – I’ve never been.

We sat on Zac’s front porch tossing lighters back and forth. When Zac’s stories gain momentum, his words fall in a succinct rhythm that is impossible to disrupt. His conversations exude a mood akin to what is expected from an efficient, engaging classroom.

When Tom is speaking, it is important to watch him. Otherwise his statements will give the impression of being chronically incomplete. He frequently trails off into incoherent mumbles, but his hands – his hands become more articulate than his words. They carry the point across.

I was thinking of New York and how complicated it is to sleep now. I have to leave the light on. Always, even though it is harder to fall asleep under the harsh glow of the bare bulb. Always, because it is terrifying to be prematurely roused from sleep to the realization that it is dark, and that I am alone.

For several weeks I would regularly awake to find the digital clock blinking: 4:55 a.m. I had set no alarm, nor did I have a regular, respectable bedtime. I eventually unplugged that clock because it felt inauspicious, seeing those same numbers so often in a vulnerable state of mind.

Kevin and I walked to Union Square the other day. The summer breeze carried clay-colored dust from a construction site. The air felt dry and scratchy at the back of my throat. At the bus stop there was a crack in the sidewalk that mimicked the Texas-Mexico border.

These little awe-filled moments are murderous.

When we find ourselves disappearing; diffusing into particles of water and dust; we will discover that there is nothing rueful in absence. What merits contrition are those unquantifiable sources of pain: the mess of memories and other intangible relics.

(If I were to destroy this city backwards, dissolving the indescribable before crushing the concrete, would I be forgiven for leaving?)

After they left Austin, Tom and Zac drove along the border, whipping past rivers blending into fences blending into wire. The air was stiff with dried sweat and a kind of waxy residue left behind by desperation.

Or so I imagine.

24 July 2008

Please keep in mind.

"Only whores fuck in silence."

-Serge Gainsbourg

17 July 2008

Good-bye Gravity.

She was rusty and beautiful. Like her namesake, she was a paragon of the 70's. Her tires were due for some plumping. I'm sorry I never got around to taking you in for a summer tune up, girl. It's hard to think of you now, probably gutted for parts.

Whoever took you, better have desperately needed the sixty dollars maximum that they will be profiting from your dismemberment. If not, I hope a panther eats their young alive.





"Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the night's old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjuror's secret by which - though it is not often that Death is told so clearly to fuck off - the living genetic chains prove even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face down twenty generations . . . so the same assertion-through-structure allows this war morning's banana fragrance to meander, repossess, prevail."

-Thomas Pynchon

11 July 2008

Need vs. Want

Sometimes it is necessary.

Y04

And sometimes it's not.



There were years during which I did not cry. Then it was realized: no one is really capable of bottling up their emotions. Our minds are not vessels, but paths. We can not imprison, only direct.

If you do not open your mouth or unclench your fingers and toes in time, anxiety will seep from your pores, staining clothes and straining relationships.

I cry moderately. At least once a month. All I have left to conquer is the auto-response to the initial outside inquiry. "Are you crying?"

No.

17 June 2008

Be quiet to-day.

"I don't like it
when it is too quiet the neighbors are speaking in undertones and
I want to die."


Sweetheart. Do not die. After all
they are not talking about you. So be quiet to-day.

Be quiet to-day.

14 January 2008

Dora Maar and Pablo Picasso Undergo Couple's Therapy

Hers:

When he allows himself an introduction
do not reciprocate the extension.
His knuckles; overgrown cartilage;
are but casualties of future wars.

Instead scrape sawdust
like shavings of your own skin settling
in delicate piles at his feet.

Cut though stain and varnish
epitaphs sealed in the grain.
Hear the syllables of your name falling
from his iron bed.

Dora
let yourself seep into the woodwork
saturate your hands with the tabletop.


His:

When she folds into spaces much smaller
than your world-weariness can swallow
Re-route your intentions
in a swift counter-clockwise motion.

Acquaint yourself with each synapse
involved in the union of a hair's breadth of Fingertip
and a sliver of Sharpened Steel.

Suckle from angles
that claw through breasts and buttocks.
Watch the corners of her mouth sharpen
to pierce your premature kiss.

Pablo
clench your jaw to sever your tongue.
Learn to smile with your eyes closed.