Purplish Abyss

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What I am trying not to face: a lurking purplish abyss.

It sits in my chest. It rises at the prospect of change. Of goodbye’s, packed bags, new cities, separation, winters, fluorescent lights. Of time passing by too slowly. I see myself trudging through snow, finding pockets of peace, but also succumbing to the abyss. I don’t want to, clearly, and most of the time, I don’t, but it’s growing louder.

This, now I know, is the cost of attachment, of love, of care, of connection, of all the soft squishy-icky-gooey things of cotton-candy existence. Indifference renders you apathetic. But things akin to the four-lettered-word, they’ll leave you with every variation of human emotion.

(That, I guess, is the price we pay.)

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Sensory Clash: Washington, D.C

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The streets of D.C are wider, quieter, flatter, cleaner. D.C isn’t as frantic as New York. Or as gritty as Philly. Or as schizophrenic as Austin. There’s something immaculate about D.C., instead, something steely and modern and calm.

From up here, I watch the slow scenes of the city unfold. Cars whizz by, colorful legos beneath our legs. Human beans cross the crosswalks, Beatles-style, almost in slo-mo. Lotion pink berries bloom in angry succession.

It’s my third time in Washington D.C. I welcome the sensory familiarities.

There’s a distinct vibe to the D.C metro, clash of smells and sights and sounds. Smell of metros, musk. Row of escalators, steep. Metro-card, bendy and flappy. Gripped tightly in my palm, lest I accidentally drop it–it’s our way out, this card.

We’re encircled by large beige arches. I’m constantly reminded: we are in a giant tunnel.

The subway’s clean. Stops are quick. There’s a sign above a girl’s head that indicates where we are, and the announcer’s clean voice projects from the speakers, and she’s telling us we’re at this stop, that stop. It’s not our stop, and then it is, and we hop off the subway, back into the station, where we scan our Metro cards on the way out.

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We exit Union Station. It’s a high-end train station, fancy airport-style. It’s got spiral staircases leading up to shops and restaurants and balcony areas on the second floor. Statues and pillars greet us from the entrance. Out and back, in and through, and we’ve hopped onto the train again, and we’re hailing home.

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.

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

 

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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Snowfall | First Snow

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Snow came hailing (hailing hail, hail isn’t the one thing that hails) down all of Saturday, blanketed the city in a coat of white. On the walk back home, post snowball-fight and snowfall-shoot and snow-name-carving, we marveled at the small flakes, crystallized asymmetry, dainty and ephemeral.Pinprick patterns of cold dust, size of freckles. Imagine if we could store these in jars indefinitely, keep each one intact. Snow way this comes from the sky, Instagram caption.