Project 365 | A Look Back

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Four years ago, I started the photography Project 365. The idea was simple, if difficult to commit to: take one photo every single day for 365 days. Sharing the project online would hold me accountable, I figured, and it worked. I photographed, stored, post processed and posted all 365.

That was 2013. Fast forward four years, bluish glow illuminating from my screen. I’m on a flight next to, presumably, a Statistics teacher, who is raving on about his students. Low whir of plane engine–here goes, nostalgia lane, and I scroll through the album.

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Photos depicted the expected. Essays, tests, new friends, old friends. People I quit talking to. People I started talking to. The dance, the trips, the endless summer drives. Relief, happiness, irritation, impatience, excitement, all rolled into one visual lump.

It felt strange looking back. Had me and xyz really been that close? Realization that things–images– aren’t always what they seem. My diary entries were angstier. Then a light wash of guilt that, over time, I’d lost touch with certain friends. But, well, people come and go, and they’re supposed to.

Still. It felt odd seeing our goofy faces, old friends, heaps of inside jokes. Regardless, this Project 365 brings me a sort of happiness in it of itself. Cue: flickers of nostalgia, fade to black.

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Tail-End of 2017

happy new years.jpgThe year’s winding down to an end. 2018 peeks from behind the heavy mahogany curtain: is it her turn to shine yet?

For others, it seems like every year was a salad’s mix of highlights and shit-shows. But for me, 2017 might have been one of the best. Instead of slaving away to social expectations, I did my own thing, carved out time for myself, landed a paid writing internship, visited six cities–including a beachy vacation with family, roadtrip with le beau—started seeing le beau, hit the one year blog mark, did well in my last batch of classes (all A’s so far, yay) etc. Life hath been good; I art grateful.

My favorite New Year’s WP posts that I’ve stumbled upon so far have been imbued in wisdom: what I learned this past year, what I grew to appreciate. Yet the year went by so quickly that I haven’t had the time to contemplate lessons learned or gratitude boxes checked. If anything, it seemed to be a fairly calm year, one in which the 2017 flower grew as expected, bloomed with surprising quickness, fluttered with patches of vibrancy. That, as opposed to running headlong into concrete blocks, dealing with abnormally dreary weather, or facing a lack of floral nutrients. In other words, the year somehow sidestepped the usual tricky roadblocks. For that, I am appreciative– 2014 and 2015 were growth-spurt years, awkward and painful and hasty, whereas 2016 was pinkishly aimless.

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2017 was a good year, a mellow year. As of now, 2018’s just rounded about vague goals, semi-forming and morphing–I’m not really one for resolutions. I’ll soon flesh said goals out, jot them down on paper, work towards them. The only “creative” goal I have so far is to make more art, several pieces a week. I’m considering starting up my daily drawing project again (which didn’t get terribly far in the start of the year). I’m looking for some way to consistently commit myself to fine arts, even though I’m not required to. Otherwise, in looking ahead, I’ve been told that this pocket of Youth will be a time of exploration, loneliness, uncertainty, excitement. Ah. We’ll see what it has in store.

In looking back at the year, I’d be remiss not to note how grateful I am for you, reader. Thank you for taking the time to click, like, read or comment on any posts, for being a part of 2017. If you’re reading this (as Drake scribbled on his album cover), thank you, and happy New Years. 🙂

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Things That Aren’t | Photo Diary

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a street in ny you’ll pretend to recognize
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used auto parts

I’ll oft take lots of mediocre photos that never see the light of its day. They aren’t “aesthetically pleasing” or, at least, worthy-of-the-gram–they’re usually a little weird or off-centered or discolored or blurry. Or, more frequently, mundane. There’s nothing breath-taking about them, no famous mountains or monuments grandly displayed in the background, just streets and lights and angles and figures, sometimes empty space.

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i couldn’t stop listening to taylor swift and having weird existentialist thoughts

Even so, these images bring me a sort of quiet pleasure in their dullness/mundaneness, in their unassumingness, and there’s nothing about them that asks to be ‘liked’.

Don’t get me wrong, I love typically beautiful Instagram-mable images as much as the next person, but sometimes I don’t want to produce merely beautiful photos. At the same time, daily mediocre-ish photos, depicting the quotidian, scream to breathe instead of being buried in Camera Roll.

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lego-like, sublime
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it was always you

That being said, I might just carve out a corner of this blog–which I already word-vomit and art-chuck onto–for photo diary entries.

So here’s my first batch of photo diary photos, which I’ll call Things That Aren’t, just because the phrase was marqueeing through my head this evening, 7:03 PM.

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a quintessential christmas, lone flickering bulbs in the night
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lost cat: i’m sorry if i startled you

Lights Under My Eyes

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two twenty. AM. 2:21. AM. Two 21. AM.
why am I so restless?
coffee. wheat thins. crumbs. caffeine. caf

–feine. feign. feigning
kindness. questions I have for
insomnia:

are you neurological? genetic? psychological?
physical? are you the thoughts churning through my head rapid-pace
without regard for gravity, space, time?

are you
the 100 grams of caffeine laced in my vanilla-creme 2-sugar-packed
coffee branching through my veins?

are you concern?
are you anticipation?
are you planning? are you planning something? are you so busy planning something

you
can’t
sleep?

the irony of sleeplessness lies in the
heaviness of my lids, of my eyes–I just
thought they’d have been lighter, with everything lit up under my eyes

lit up under my eyes lit up under my
eyes crumbs all over my keyboard
cover lit up under my eyes

Let It Snow

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My fingers are pink and numb, my nose tulipy red: I’ve just come back from prancing around in the snow, making snow angels, kicking up powdery light snowdust. Our boots sunk three inches deep. Light mound of snow layered the field, coated every surface, nook and crevice like frosting (Ah, Frosty!)

The snow was too fine for snowmen or snowballs, so we resorted to dragging our boots through the snow, windmilling bodies into snow angels, tossing handfuls of snow. “Snow, please,” I’d say, since I’d forgotten to wear mittens. Then a sprinkle-shower of snow would scatter over our heads.

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