Ponderings.
6/30/25
I need a new bra pretty badly, the one I’m wearing now is so uncomfortable. The itchy lace feels bad, and doesn’t really look that great anyway. The band squeezes my skin, and leaves red marks that itch terribly. The wires beneath my breasts dig into me, and the ends lovingly pop out and poke my ribs. It feels kind of like the love of a man who doesn’t really love you. His touch is false, forced, and sad. It’s not meant to be there, but it is. He doesn’t want to enjoy you, because there’s no joy to be had.
10/7/25
Never meet your heroes.
Sometimes people will ask me if I’ve ever met any of the graffiti artists I take photos of… (well, photos of their work). I guess in a way these are pictures of them too, but I digress.
“The people you come to love, you know nothing about them, but you see them everywhere— and when you do meet them it’s a letdown.” -Twist, on graffiti and meeting those who write it. San Francisco.
10/9/25
Your smile
An image stuck with me
Burned into my skull
A broken heart I bleed
Say that it’s so simple
But for me I know it’s not
It seems I did forget
Memories I love so much.
Your breath
Thinner than dry ice
A voice I can
Remember for my life.
-Train Breaks Down, "Pillbug"
10/30/25
Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what to do. Everything seems to fall under, and seep into the cracks. Everything I try, just goes down with everything else. I wish it was warmer, and more secure out here. I wish things were different and I didn’t have to deal with the things that I do. If only it could be something else.
December
When I take pictures, and film, I drive there. I drive for hours.
I find myself in the same places every time, although I prefer getting to the tighter places on foot. I always go these same places, over and over and over again. There’s this obsession, that needs to be met with a compulsion in order to be whole; to click just right. I need to find something, to check, to see, to wonder. An anticipation grows inside, while looking for the traces of other people. Did my trace make them leave their trace? How close is it to mine? I wonder what they thought when seeing mine. I’ll never know unless I check, the same places I’ve been before, and keep on going.
A game begins. This beautiful tango of come and see, come and go, emergence and entropy. I play this wonderful back-and-forth with people unknown.
I really don’t know why I do this, or why it matters so much. There’s really something to it; being unseen, while being seen at the same time. There’s something about not acknowledging something, or putting all your attention and all your everything into focusing on something so small and meaningless. Touching it, with your half-gloved hands, caressing its tiny edges and bubbles as if it’s alive, real, and feeling you back. Yet, so easily avoiding all the other humans around you. It’s easy not to see when you can’t hear.
I see no one when I’m out there. I see fucking no one.
All I see are sets of parts; sets of eyes, legs, feet, hands, sets sets sets everywhere. There are no people, unless they follow me to my car. To that death trap, that sometimes can keep me the safest I’ve ever been.
There’s nothing out there. There’s really nothing.