When You Own the World, You're Always Home

Fault Line

I been lying in the bright light
See my shadow from below
Never wanted from another man
Never wanted for my own

Drowning in the rising tide
At my father's door

Through a window to the last mile
My living picture on a wall
From the banks of the far side
I see the lights come ashore

Racing from the rising tide
To my father's door
- Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Here Is the House

In consolidating all the visual randomness that I have on the web, I've decided to officially, and more regularly, curate some of my mobile photos here on my "proper" photo blog and nix my random Tumblr that houses everything I've snapped in passing for the last two years (along with lots of other nonsense that doesn't belong anywhere). I don't know if that makes any sense to you, but it does to me, at least until I come up with a better solution. I am trying to purge the inspirational clutter of my life and start over in some ways.

I also spent all day going through this blog of mine, deciding whether or not I should just get rid of it too -- and start completely over with something new (by the way, does anyone still use Blogger anymore?), but I could not bring myself to do it. There just isn't a reason for it. I even went all the way back to my first entry here and read all of the entries proceeding it in chronological order. And yes, it was a lot of personal and painful and petty and pretty (and not so pretty, really) things to take in at once. In the end though, I'm proud of the work and the honesty I've shared here. So, here is my designated parking space for photos of all sorts. And then my Tumblr will become just a place for other nonphotography matters. Not that anyone is really caring too much.

And so, to play catch-up and to preserve (before the Tumblr abandonment) some images that I've liked from the past five months, the next few posts are all from my telephone, starting with these photos of Dan in my living room, in my kitchen, and on my porch from his visits to Chicago in the winter and spring.

Everyone Leaves

I’d pack my suitcase with myself
But I’m already gone
Cleanse myself with vitamin health
But I’m already gone

I saw it risin’ through the horizon
And I saw it fall
A Jesus fevers flowin’ all over
Believers and lovers

In a black hole I found a broken skull
Now I’m already gone
You can write my whole life down in a little book
When I’m already gone

I started shaking and my heart breaking
And my belly crawled
A Jesus fevers flowin’ all over
Believers and lovers

When I am a ghost, I’ll see no reason to run
When I’m already gone
If it wasn’t taped, you could escape this song
But I’m already gone
- Kurt Vile

Erin on Saturday

Erin came over today to drink coffee and take photos of my shaved head. We drank beer instead and I took her photo.

That's All I Wanted

from what feels like the ancient archives, Marc in November 2010

Carry Me Down

Life Is Very Long When You're Lonely

Winter Is a Slow Slumber

(archived photo)

When Love Comes to Town

The holidays present the rare but welcomed opportunity to see my big sister Shannon. As the years have gone by, I've seen less and less of her. After flourishing as an undergraduate writer, she ventured to California to complete her Master's degree in creative writing. Sadly, I never took advantage of her temporary presence out West. She recently moved back to Ohio, but I have, of course, since been displaced in Chicago. It seems that our geography hasn't matched up since I was in high school. I suppose I could take this opportunity to become extremely sentimental. My sister has been my best friend my entire life; no doubt this will never change, despite the miles between us or the milestones paving our separate and succinct paths. This blog entry is sounding a little mushy and trite. I cannot muster the perfect string of words to adequately describe my love, admiration, and gratitude for my sister (she is much more equipped). And, I cannot believe that it has taken me so long to take her picture. But then again, the past few years have plagued me with a selfish sort of tunnel vision, and maybe I am still suffering from this crippling blindness. (Refer to the portraits of my parents that are only just now surfacing, after I've been fairly diligent about photographing what's near and dear to me for the past four years.) Christmas at home this year was one of the most humbling holidays I've shared with my family. Despite the rapid whirl (and, at times, what feels like the stagnant slump) of my young adult life, they have my heart.

Trouble Loves Me

Blue Sunday

I am often convinced that I can only produce a well-constructed series of words on occasion. I was reading my friend Ellee's online journal this morning, and in my response to her holiday-inspired sentiments on love and life, I was able to accurately pin-point my own feelings for the first time in months. I responded to her musings with, in essence, the following confession:

Lately, I have found myself confused, sensitive, needy, defensive, compulsive, and impatient. Lately, I have found myself fond, hopeful, relaxed, reflective, comforted, and protected. Some days I struggle to find inspiration in my fixed routine, working over 40 hours a week, explaining the health benefits of quinoa and Kombucha and almond milk to young and fit and attractive investment bankers who regard me with the utmost indifference because I am behind a counter in a brown hat and an apron, and they have company money to dispense on overpriced lunches and dinners. And they have security and companionship in it. Nevermind that I have a college education, a refreshing sense of humor, perfect posture, a fantastic memory, zero cavities, and just as many hopes and dreams and aspirations. I want to remain focused on the positive with my hands submerged in soapy water, dry and cracking from the scrubbing, the bleaching, the blending and tossing and chopping and grilling, and the perpetual exchange of American Express cards. I wonder where the time has gone. I’ve lived here for 6 months now and I still have no idea what I ultimately want to be doing. I am not unhappy, just uncertain.

In the end, it has taken little self-reflection to reveal my biggest flaw: a persistent tendency to look for problems.

It's Sunday, my day of the week to recuperate and relinquish the bad energy that has accumulated during the course of the week. This blog entry serves many purposes, and it's been awhile since I've really utilized the strength of my own voice. I am 23 years old. I support myself in one of the largest cities in the United States. I have a loving family in Ohio, wonderful friends far and wide, and a job that sustains my belly, my bank account, and my loving heart (and refer once more to my loving family and wonderful friends). I am still wandering around this big city, my eyes bright and shiny and full of wonder. It's the holiday season, so as is customary of this time, I am trying ever so earnestly to count my blessings. I am trying to be patient. I am trying to let my life happen without feeling like time is slipping away from me. I am trying to enjoy sleeping in when I can, photographing a beautiful face when I can, taking a bubble bath when I can, eating leftover chocolate cake when I can, and falling in love when I am.

I'm a Roman Candle, My Head Is Full of Flames

Thanksgiving Rain

Glamorous Glue

Like Cockatoos

"There are a thousand things" he said
"I'll never say those things to you again"
And turning on his heel
He left a trace of bubbles
Bleeding in his stead
- The Cure

Selling the Drama

She's a Jar

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.

In My Place