I am walking in dreaming heartache
simple embraces could crumble I.
How do we bring our sorrow out
with dreams you push so deep.
Where do we find catharsis.
In all my wonderings I never had
so clear the shadow of desire
I push my palms against cold stone
fingers white and taut burning numb.

Words in everyway pound my chest
The spatial linear index of margins
the highlighted nothingness in photos.
And how I know in every letter
I am lying of what I only thought
was real and warm and filling.

Firsts in Fotography

First Photo (age 11)


First Print (age 17)


First Night Photo (age 18)

I'd like to share a short passage from the book my nose is currently dug into. I think words can be the most beautiful expression.
The book is "Fugitive Pieces" by Anne Michaels

How many centuries before the spirit forgets the body?
How long will we feel our phantom skin buckling over rockface, our pulse in magnetic lines of force? How many years pass before the difference between murder and death erodes?
Grief requires time. If a chip of stone radiates its self, its breath, so long, how stubborn might be the soul. If sound waves carry on to infinity, where are their screams now? I imagine them somewhere in the galaxy, moving forever towards the psalms.

Alone on the roof those nights, it's not surprising that, of all the characters in Athos's tales of geologists and explorers, cartographers and navigators. I felt compassion for the stars themselves. Aching towards us for millennia though we are blind to their signals until it's too late, starlight only the white breath of an old cry. Sending their white messages millions of years, only to be crumpled up by the waves.

Fashion Contribution

This girl dresses like the totally modern early 90's babe that will soon be everyones style they want to achieve, Missy here is way ahead of us all, i hope she doesn't mind me putting these photos of her on here.

Our Only Inconsistant Constant

The Greeks had it right. Why do we let passion rule us? Oh to be disconnected and let the pain run off like rain. Instead the water pools in the hallows between my bones and gives me heavy boots.

Food for Thought

Does the earth know us like we know the earth? It remembers the routine of our feet on the cement? Do the sun and the earth talk amongst themselves about all of us? The sun watches us, but the earth feels us. I think we must have a closer relationship with earth. The earth holds our bones and flesh when we die eternally. does the sun receive our souls? And in that case know us eternally? But the earth knew me as imperfect and yet supports me everyday.

Homer

Recently I've picked up the habit of busing, I absolutely love the bus I feel the love in the marrow of my bone. Maybe not that deep, but it certainly is premium. I take the bus to and from school, and to and from work. The reason for all this busing started with my lack of car, broken tail light, resulting in a ticket and expired registration.... and on and on. It is strangely liberating to be dedicated to the bus, I am free to read and view the people who enjoy mass transportation. I always see someone I know or meet new people. For example tonight I met Homer, he is from North Mexico City, he has lived in Utah 4 years and lived in London for a few months. People have beautiful ambitions. I've read two Douglas Coupland books, and have just started "The History of Love".

Today I am happy I have my car fixed and insured, but a part of me in sad, I will still try to take the bus as much as I do now.