On Being Replaced

Bamboo Worldwide

Where Was I

"Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen."
- Mark Twain

There's the kitchen. I spent the last year falling in and out of love with the water stained table, the warped linoleum tiles, the cobwebs in the corners, the rows of empty wine bottles, the rumbly washing machine, and the angsty faucet, screaming like a newborn. For most of twenty-two, I entertained guests with fried egg sandwiches and cups of coffee. Plates of re-heated spaghetti and pieces of cold pizza and stir fry over brown rice and homemade mashed potatoes and pools of melting ice cream and wheat toast with butter and tortilla chips and salsa and hot tea with milk and sugar and beer from the back of the fridge. Thanksgiving dinner, pumpkin guts, candy canes, birthday cake, wrapping paper, sappy cards, soggy Kleenex, junk from the bottom of my purse, junk from the bottom of my heart. Breakfast in silence. I look down into my cereal bowl, tears splashing into my Raisin Bran. Dinner with laughter and happily cramping bellies after drowsy days of snow. Drunk and nauseous, whining incoherently for my bed, for a glass of water, for a hug. Grocery lists and sticky notes and Oprah Magazine and Victoria's Secret catalogues and utility bills that I want to shred apart with my teeth. In February, I hated the plastic coating disallowing me a clear view of the outside world. In June, I sat and watched the early morning sun pour in through the glass, leaking all over the floor. I wrote a letter that I never sent. I took out the trash in contempt. I overloaded the dishwasher. I put my face down on the table, my cheek cool against the smooth wood, and listened for the ocean waves to sweep us up and away. I held your hand and told you it would be alright; and it was -- and it is, but it isn't the same.

The Medici

For Sunday brunch, I had a tomato, spinach, and feta cheese omelette with fried potatoes and cinnamon toast with white raisins. If you're in Hyde Park, I highly recommend dining at this lovely two-story restaurant/bakery. I love discovering beautiful places in my neighborhood.

Waiting for the Night

I'm waiting for the night to fall
I know that it will save us all
When everything's dark
Keeps us from the stark
Reality

I'm waiting for the night to fall
When everything is bearable
And there in the still
All that you feel
Is tranquillity

There is a sound in the calm
Someone is coming to harm
I press my hands to my ears
It's easier here just to forget fear

And when I squinted
The world seemed rose-tinted
And angels appeared to descend
To my surprise
With half-closed eyes
Things looked even better
Than when they were open
- Depeche Mode

(archived photo)

With the inspiration of this song and a growing collection of dim little frames that are both old and new, I created a new section of photographs on my website that I hope to populate indefinitely. For now, forgive its sparseness, and listen to some Depeche Mode circa 1990-1997 to get you good and moody.

Stay (Faraway, So Close!)

Deviating from my norm, I realize it has been some time since I have really "written" anything to coincide with my photographs. Let me fill you in: I moved to Chicago one week after graduation, exactly one month ago today. I live alone in Hyde Park, splitting my time between interning, working, and adventuring (most of the time up north to see Carrie). So far, I haven't really had too much time to sit down and think think think. For me, this is a refreshing departure from how I spent my last summer in Chicago... and, really, how I spend most of my time in general. I have kept myself on my toes, I have made photographs, I have been persistent, and, for the first time, I have truly recognized the potential of my life. That isn't to say that living here is not humbling. In fact it is, almost daily, for me. That isn't to say I haven't had moments of sadness. In fact, I have, but I allow myself those moments, so that I may (to quote a friend), "Wash my face and carry on with my day." I have had worries -- boy, have I had challenges! Interning downtown for the first time was scary -- I did it. Finding a fun and flexible part-time job seemed impossible -- after over twenty applications and numerous interviews, I did it. I've navigated the depths of the ghetto -- alone, and at night. I've consistently slept in a pipin' hot apartment. I've pinched pennies. I've lived minimally. But, I'm here. I'm proud of myself. Do you know how amazing it is to admit that?

The above photographs are reminscent of the photos that I took during the first day of my internship (via 28mm rather than 50mm). My good friend Jill was visiting Chicago for the first time this weekend, so I served as a sort of makeshift tour guide of the city, of course making sure we stopped in Millennium Park to polish off her authentic tourist experience. We dipped our feet by the Crown Fountain, observed the throng of children soaking themselves from head to toe... and, just then, I remembered how good it felt to be free. On any hot summer day, a beautiful photograph is waiting to be made in this city. The realization alone is liberating enough.

Cold Water

Am I Only

Life in Technicolor

“Color is my day long obsession, joy, and torment." - Claude Monet

Darker with the Day

Amateurs, dilettantes, hacks, cowboys, clones
The streets groan with little Caesars, Napoleons and cunts
With their building blocks and their tiny plastic phones
Counting on their fingers
With crumbs down their fronts

I passed by your garden
Saw you with your flowers
The camellias, magnolias, and azaleas so sweet
And I stood there invisible in the panicking crowds
You looked so beautiful in the rising heat

I smell smoke, see little fires bursting on the lawns
People carry on regardless, listening to their hands
Great cracks appear in the pavement
The earth yawns
Bored and disgusted to do us down

Babe
It seems so long
Since you've been gone
And I just got to say
That it grows darker with the day
- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Leaves That Are Green

I was 21 years when I wrote this song
I'm 22 now, but I won't be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with love of a girl
I held her close, but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand
- Paul Simon