Windows

eye watercolor painting realism realistic black and white beauty

“I like you; your eyes are full of language.”

[Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]”

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when we were younger

disposable film 35mm photography
“you know what i thought of the other day?
our childhoods are for our parents
they remember our first steps
they remember what we liked and what we didn’t like
they remember what we ate, what we didn’t eat
our childhoods
they’re their memories to have,
not oursas you grow older
your life becomes yours
but when we were younger
it was once theirs.”

 

– april 23rd, 2015 | 4:08 pm

Something my best friend said to me a few years ago.

Displacement

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we drive home
bound with the windows
down carrying bags of tea that smell like

Christmas, flecked with
ginger, decked in lights
pass by billboards for

fidget spinners &
a bridge that reminds me of beyond two
souls & a school with the sign that reads “meet the Teachers night”

lo que sera, sera means what will be
will be, fate that’s putty in the
hands of what we can’t see

June Bugs in the Winter

skysunseti.

Saturday morning. I woke up at 5 and we arrived by 6, the wind so cold it bit into us like knives. I wore my frayed red scarf as we boarded the bus, skies were purpley blue. I watched the sunrise through the sketch of back roads, blues and oranges and rocky gravel.

ii.
Countless love triangles zig-zagged their way unrequited among the best friends. Among him, you, her, me. Your best friend. My best friend. My best friend’s friend’s then-best-friend, then his best friend, or your best friend. I was to you as he was to me; she was to him as I was to you as he was to me. Now he’s little to them and we are nothing to each other.

iii.

Cycling through obsessions like a broken washing machine. I am: drawn to the same aesthetic like a film-drunk moth. Film, film, film and light gossamer. And beautiful people in beautiful places.

Insomnia

Sometimes sleep is like an elusive creature that slinks around corners in between cracks over globs of hardwood floor then around and back. It’s like happiness: you can’t pursue it too aggressively. It’s like your own shadow: chasing it is futile. It’s like this weird thing made up of: zigs and zags and slow shit and bright lights, coming and going in waves.