sonnet which, unfortunately, will not fit on a post-it note


Wash every dish and empty out the rack.
Fold or hang each garment with the care
that it prefers. Tell yourself the air
is sweet to your skin. Exercise the knack
which you attempted to abandon. Crack
an egg and eat what it becomes. Wear
a pendant. Clean the bathtub. Wash your hair.
Drink water. Leave your bed. Do not go back.

Remember all the soggy, blurred-out days.
Remember what you know: this is such stuff
as life is made on, which could pass you by
again, which has devised so many ways
to leave you. Make that memory be enough.
It won’t be. It may never be. Try.

(Reblogged from foxship)

been reminding myself lately of small joys: the tired sun, burst currants, sunset french, sweet wines, and the slick and heavy glide of a tango in july.


Some of my “The Memory Collector” images. Really need to start working on more of this series.

1. A walk down memory lane. 2010.

2. Quality time. 2011.

3. Where am I in all of this. 2012.

4. Keeping them close. 2010.

(Reblogged from caryndrexl)


The hardest abandoned building shoot of my life.  On May 31, 2007, I brought someone on a first date to Hudson River State Hospital in Poughkeepsie, NY.  (Yes, asylums are a not-unusual first date location for me.)  Walking towards the sprawling Kirkbride-plan asylum, I smelled something like a BBQ - and assumed some other travelers had brought a grill and were cooking on the roof of Admin or something.  But when we got into the basement, the smell was stronger.  That seemed odd, but I didn’t put two and two together.  Then we climbed up into the Male Ward tower.  I looked out the window.  My jaw dropped.

About a half-hour before we parked and started walking in, there had been a terrible lightning storm which we waited out in the car.  Apparently, during this storm, lightning had struck the century-and-a-half-old asylum’s roof and it caught fire.  When I looked out that window, I saw the roof of my favorite ward in the entire building completely ablaze.  My date wanted to leave the burning building.  I wanted to stay.

I stayed inside the asylum for three and a half hours, photographing the fire as it crept closer and closer to the ward I was in.  All of a sudden, the tower began to rapidly fill with a dense, acrid black smoke.  I packed what gear I could, accidentally leaving behind a blanket my late grandmother gave me, among other things.  I held my breath for over a minute as I blindly climbed down five flights of stairs, got back into the basement, and made my way towards the exit.  And that was my goodbye to the Male Wards.

The only analogy which seems fitting here are the three times I’ve sat by the bedside of a dying loved one as the life slipped out of them.  This was truly a tragic occurrence, because it wouldn’t have happened if the lightning rods hadn’t been taken off the building.  It was over a year before I went back; when I did, I found burnt-up scraps of my grandmother’s blanket.

To see this larger, or to buy a print, head on over to my new SmugMug gallery.

(Reblogged from destroyed-and-abandoned)


Aubrey Meets Maturin (2) by jessehbechtold on DeviantArt

I’m so glad someone finally illustrated the amazing beginning of the Aubreyad.

(Reblogged from fuckyeahnaturalphilosophy)



Here’s the thing sometimes, man.


I know my bones are strong and filled with deep red, pumping newborn blood out into my body to make me strong, to fill up a sea inside my veins, but sometimes, looking at the latticed structure of yellow-ish white, it feels like I’m held up with lace, twisting and not tearing, and in some way made by my great grandmother. I feel gross and crude and delicate at the same time, skeleton awkwardly coated in connective tissue, or draped in gauze. I remember the moment I learned to read, I remember realizing that nothing is forever and that time matters, and it was set to the tune of a Beach Boys song. I remember seeing a family member step uncertainly out of the house to tell me my aunt died, I remember thinking that it looked like the house died in that same moment, like that unsteady exit was a last breath. When I first left home, a drifting piece of wreckage, I sat for almost months in my room, barely ever leaving the jail cell confines of my bed, strumming the single chord on the guitar that made it feel like my insides were moving in concert with each other, the only sound that brought my head back together for a second, in stillness. I look at peoples’ faces when I make them laugh and feel the only type of affirmation that still feels good. I love my family, I love them fiercely and protectively and in ways that try to let them love each other more easily. When I sing, it feels like I never need to eat or drink anything ever again, because it fills up my entire body and sits in my throat like pure satisfaction. In my work, I coax pain out of peoples’ bodies, I root them back in themselves, they breathe in on a wince and exhale straight to easy sleep before they even realize they feel better, safer, sound. The English language feels like green growing things that I can weave together into perfect, pale, dying, drying art that you leave hanging above the kitchen sink. I feel all of these things at once, these are things that make up my foundation, these are the things that are really, truly who I am.


But I spend like 40% of every day thinking about my weight.

Oh fuck, the truth of it

(Reblogged from professorfangirl)

i am falling in
love with myself
for the first


All the World is Green: A Tom Waits Tribute Comic

Sooooo… this is what I have been working on! All of the words are lyrics from Tom Waits’ amazing song, All the World Is Green. The characters are how I interpret the song. I hope you guys like it. This comic is not printed yet but I will let you know when I finalize the paper version.

(Reblogged from everydayamermaid)


This floor was a little sketch to walk on.

Abandoned dance hall, New Orleans - Dustin Gilbert

and when the last of the lights echoed down
(the cicadas singing still, but swaying where they clung)
(the booze tight and drying on the piano keys)
(the whites of every eye lidded and tucked away)
the dead lifted forth from where they lay
and danced
and danced
and danced.

(Reblogged from abandonedography)


EventideThe city is fragrant—linden, honeysuckle, the strange ash of Syringa reticulata, the Japanese lilac—and the sun sets the underside of the BU Bridge on fire. The skyline’s an oxidation I haven’t seen before. How every crack, light-seamed, is familiar, and not so. That patch of virgin’s bower, riverside, that feather just fallen to the copper water, that daybreaker rose just bloomed, closed, later than last year. These buildings going down with the sun. These are the fires I can tell you about. There are others.


(Reblogged from professorfangirl)


I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but politely sitting through four hours of five generally very kind 60+ year-old women questioning and analyzing why I am the age that I am and still unwed is… Proving difficult to shake off this evening.

why aren’t you wed? because we live in a world where a mason jar can’t contain a hurricane; because no mortal can bank on the eternal attention of a god, and no good god would let them; because the cold and frightful stars are always just beyond our reach; and most of all, because it ain’t no one’s goddamn business but your own.

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)

Witch of the Swamp


Been dreaming of wetlands.

Of bogs and marshes thick with sharp grasses and hidden water snakes weaving round rotten logs and algae, leaving trails of mud in their soundless wake.

Of stifling heat and humidity drawing the sweat from my back and temples in lazy rivulets.

Of the deafening roar of millions of insects stagnant in the midday sun- symphonic in miles and miles of vast, humid water and earth.

Of unfamiliar plants and the unsettling stillness of sitting in a boat, waiting for a splash of a tail or the flick of a yellow reptilian eye to spy me through the thick walls of green.

Imagery of bog creatures such as alligators, carnivorous plants and crane birds consume my subconscious.

These are places I have never been-the bogs and wetlands of Florida, Louisiana or the Carolinas. These places are not within my memory, but perhaps they are within my spirit, coming to me within vivid dreams as messages from the Otherworlds.

Studies of dream symbolism tell me that the swamp signifies a trap which we cannot escape- either in our physical world or in our mental world. It may also symbolize stagnation in our lives and of feeling trapped within routine and our own lives, which deeply resides within me as I have lately been experiencing a period of feeling lost and unguided. Summer nights spent lost within the heat of the wetlands.

(Reblogged from forestferncreations)


R.I.P. Rik Mayall

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)
(Reblogged from rinatvaliev)


I don’t want to be an artist anymore; I just want a sandwich and a sense of purpose.

sounds like you got a double order of all-nighter with a side of life crisis. give us a wave, babe; i’m in the booth across the way.

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)