Scripting on the sails.

Last year I saw a lot of people doing some #PhotoChallenge, 30, 60 or 365 days of whatever daily photos. I pretty much do this all the time with my Tumblr account, and have been for almost 2 years now.

It’s all the fingerprints in the places. 2017 pushed a lot of buttons, and fine tuned tons of emotions. You just really have to take responsibility for the good and bad. And it’s written all over the place. Again like I’ve said – make your place and find your time. You and only you, are the pilot of moving forward.

“Don’t worry when I argue with you. Worry when I stop.” – Anonymous


2017 over and out.


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Last post of the year so it’s time to say farewell to 2017. There was good and bad on all kinds of levels, so I think I may have broken even. I don’t have a lot, but what I do have – I care dearly for. You won’t earn a medal for that but hey who’s passing out medals anyhow.

No time in 2018 for careless nonsense, although I’m sure I’ll write about it.

Plant yourself or change it. You are the only one responsible for that. You want to grow, then it’s time to go. Don’t settle for garbage, you are better than that. Sometimes to make your life you have to be afraid, so don’t worry or regret it – you never know how things could have been.

Take the reigns now.

Your art looks very different from this angle.

.38 Special HP // Minolta SRT

I lack any sympathy for an artist whose creative center revolves around manipulation and malice. Be worrisome of the empathy and compassion you share, because when you hear someone speak and they believe no ones listening – you are apt to see what their head is made of.

I’ve seen enough people fall and never get back up. I’ve seen enough damage never get repaired because of the marks that toxic actions leave behind. Be mindful of how you speak and how you behave, especially when it involves what you think “would be love”.

Throw me into the ocean please.

We get sucked into the shit storm, it crashes headstrong across your face until you choke on it. I stumble and reel and try to make sense as I feel the six degrees of every mother fucking disaster I’ve sat through echo over and over and fucking over again. It really makes me want to hurl things off bridges. I imagine how good it must feel to plummet twelve feet under water and understand that the only thing you can really hear is your fucking heart, and the total silence that it becomes.

And I get sad when you and I are apart for too long. The fear of us both being in the dip at the same time. I’m not a super hero. I can’t snap and make the world change like I wish I could for you. It’s not fair, and life really does not care. And who gives a rats ass about “well life’s trying to tell you something by making you suffer”. I don’t buy that shit. I’ve sat through piles of soap opera catastrophes, suffer is something I know well. I’ve lost every dear person to me that I have ever cared about in some fucking horror storyesque misadventure that I only wish was a fucking fairy tale.

You sit still while the clock ticks, and plunge your hand directly into an open face fan blade just to god damn feel something else than what you are feeling at this very moment. Because at least it’s something.

My chest is tired. I feel the air waves shake. I wish that you understood that, really I do.

Tell me what you see.


Notes somewhere around (1280-1285)
I look and wonder where your head will be in ten years. Whether you will say “I’m glad I jumped”, or “I wish that I had”. I spend day after day wrecking myself with how things could be, but we know that nothing ever works that way. It’s as if we are both built like asymmetrical cogs that have teeth that sometimes make contact, and other times spin free. And it’s the momentum of that wheel that carries on the spin until we hope they connect again.

I’ve spun a lot in the last few weeks. I have had some warm nights, and days. And I always understand what connection can feel like. I also know well what its absence creates. And you tend to contemplate what the ‘dips’ are telling you. Their bombardment over and over again. Your head devours what the chemical feeds, while it soon becomes the physical that needs.

I am very tired today. In my brain and on my feet. Maybe someone will punch me on the way home. Or tell me they would “like to grow old with me”. Either would make me feel a hell of a lot better.


“You know, I can feel the fear that you carry around and I wish there was… something I could do to help you let go of it because if you could, I don’t think you’d feel so alone anymore.” – Samantha, Her

It’s very loud to me, on this side.


NYC Subway // Scott Glover // 2012

I woke today, chest weighted and head racing. I dreamed that Kristen and I had moved to Brooklyn NY. I don’t get it. I don’t ask for it. I don’t even visualize things like that consciously much anymore. So I suppose the residual, fingerprints that stay behind tend to find their way to surface in suspicious ways. Or maybe the empath part of me is screaming things to my face.

I could smell the wood and feel the unevenness of the floor. The brushing past door frames of the apartment and seeing the scuff marks along the bottoms with their layers of gray. Scattered shadows dancing across the ceiling while moving a lampshade. The weathering across the stoop, and it’s oddly comforting hearth welcome (we don’t even have those in Texas). The sound of cardboard boxes sliding across a gritted floor.

I wiped the damp snowing off of my face.

It’s penetrating to wake up like this. It’s like wires pulling me across thousands of miles. A stapling of notes to the back of my head. They echo, they ring, and they resonate. It will fuck with me, and linger. As things like this constantly challenge my comfort zone, rattling any kind of idling that I have. It makes me add up everything that I have seen in life and ask myself “is this all you ever want to see?”. And my answer is always and absolutely, definitely, “no”.

She‘s been gone for sometime now. I tiptoe around the haziness of what was, and what it leaves behind. I somehow forgot the way she smells. Or maybe I distanced it away, hoping that it’s absence would make finding it again that much more exorbitant.

I do know that I fully worry about this winter ahead. And what it brings. My thanksgiving, Xmas, and new years will be finding their way into the stitches of course. It’s all part of it, a never-ceasing storm when you feel everything too much.

And at the end of the day, please just fucking put me on that plane.

Working through the seasons. Pressed up against the ceiling. Pushing down on me. – The XX, Lips