Sanguine, Home | Photo Diary

photo diary3.JPGphoto diary1.JPG

Home: a place in your heart you carve out for yourself, or others, or maybe both. A feeling, sweet familiarity, dirty laundry strewn on your closet floor. Taut–a rubber band–tension stretches and snaps, never breaks.

photo diary12.JPG

photo diary5.JPG

The sky doesn’t look blue enough for Home to exist as an ideal.

And the windshield filter, fade to cyan, isn’t convincing enough. The air outside is dry and greyish, the space too dullish, save for the heaps of redhead leaves on the lawn, piled like p-u-d-d-i-n-g for the mice to run through.

photo diary6.JPG

I tried to make lemon pudding after reading a children’s book on lemon pudding (fluffy and light as the seas, I think), except I left the heavy cream unstirred for too long and I think it may have curdled. So two days later I scooped the globbish lemony attempt out furtively into the trash. When I made coconut milk rice a week later–mango sticky rice, to be exact, and a restaurant’s spitting mimicry–I made sure to stir continuously this time.

photo diary4.JPG

photo diary10.JPG

Vacillation between ambivalence, between remembering the past and barging towards the future. The sky is simple in its beauty above the loud hacking of machines and construction.


Bright Eyes, Cotton Candy

pink abstractions.jpg

cotton-candy-like, the kind that swells in
your heart, airy and sweet

expands in your sternum spills
over your ribcage grows dense in

your chest, lightweight
in love

I peruse my brain for other
forms of analogous matter

but is it matter? 
and if it was, could I touch

it? or taste it? because I can feel it
spilling over puddling into

radiating outwards
as it pools under

bright lights, bright eyes
tears spill over, form rivulets

Lights Under My Eyes


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

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


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

Snowfall | First Snow


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.

Metaphorically Speaking


A photographic love funk.

What happened to your camera?

You know how you’ll be infatuated with a person and wake up one day and realize you just don’t feel the same anymore? That’s been me and my camera. I just haven’t felt the same.

Patiently waiting to fall back in love.


A broken Mac battery, a confiscated iPhone, starved heart.

It’s seven in the morning here. 

Talking to you is like nibbling on a piece of quiche. Except I am starved. And my appetite is barely whet.


Weirdness a lá relief.

I wish I could go to GameStop.

Oh, I can go to GameStop and photograph the whole store and send it to you! 

Most of the time I’ll let my weirdness, like air, seep out squeaky-high through the small opening of a balloon that is me. Being back is like letting it all escape from this significantly enlarged valve. Weirdness! Is! Liberation!

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 ours
as 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.