– – – – – – – – – – This is a photo shoot I did with a fashion blogger friend of mine. We’d been delaying it for a while, and I find that sometimes the more I delay something, the less excited I am about the results. I like how these turned out …
– – – – – Desolation. Dereliction. Avenues. Vast spaces. Early evening fog. Chills down the spine. Walk on, away, toward. A cold that penetrates. A silence by a river that has stopped its flow. Walking on, walking away. Quiet companions. Am I truly lost, or projecting thoughts Onto the city’s canvas? I am not …
I drew a lot of the inspiration for this particular series of photographs from my old journals. I used to jot down a few phrases or thoughts every day when I was younger (now, it’s more like never-ending monologues on screen) and a lot of them were about the people I’d met along the way …
Since I’ve started the blog with old analog photos, I thought I might as well follow up in a similar vein with these lomo shots from my Interrailing trip. Taken with a Diana F+, when I looked at them later I felt the style really fits some of the places we’d visited like the concentration …
___ Our circular definitions of what life ought to be were never going to suffice. Repetitions did not prevent us from reliving the histories we’d sworn to have outgrown. If you try to move forward, whichever door you pass through: there will be another one that is quite the same in front. I’m giving you … Continue reading
Will I tell you a story of walking on the frozen lake? Will I tell you about my father’s warning, not to do as others do? The small girl on the edge of the crowd, waiting for her brother to return from his exploration and take her back to the shore by the hand? The little girl, walking away from her brother to explore on her own? Is it metaphor I am ready to accept, or an analogy I am eager to escape? Continue reading
* This is the finish line. You are standing on it, your legs are straddling the seam that keeps your last life – the one you’d thought you had – intact; and the uncertainty of the paper house we’ve built together at bay. This is it, the part where you tell me about how your … Continue reading
I’ve been thinking about distances: inches on a map, seats on a train, hands on a clock, clasped hands, roads, the minimal proximity between two pairs of lips before a kiss is inevitable. I’ve been thinking about cities, I’ve been mapping rivers. The microscopic synapses in the geography of my brain. I’ve been building houses … Continue reading
In the beginning, there was the hand. A touch on a random patch of poorly innervated flesh. Goosebumps mapping unknown constellations on top of a white veil of skin, tightly stretched across the mountains of a spine. In the beginning, much like in the end, there were only parts: parts of him, parts of me, … Continue reading
It’s coming on Christmas, but the weather’s different here. There’s no white. The strong Košava blows the scent of winter away. It is worst by the river: sometimes I feel miniscule atoms of the Danube hit my face full-force, and try for a while to pretend it’s snow. I remember how you used to love … Continue reading
Good question, Joe. Best one. As usual, I have no fucking clue. This has always been the structure of our conversations. After the initial pleasanteries we became too fond of to discard even after decades of intimacy, he’s suddenly come out with a question that defies all answers I could possibly give, then we’d sit on the makeshift bed as some mild, saxophone melody made its way from the ’59 and into the air, slowly sifting the minutes of the evening into little eternities of silence. A contemplative, congenial one, not too uncomfortable to bear, but loaded enough to make you grow. Continue reading
Today, I am thinking of us, and I thought it might please you to know that however beautiful the ugliness here is, it is nothing compared to ours. The years, the awkward history, the pure joy that comes out of glorious imperfection. The time we’ve spent staying, in the dark patches of our lives, in the in-between bits of what we’d thought then life was supposed to be. Continue reading
You are not dead, and you will never be dead. I will sit at my table making pie while following the instructions that you gave me, it will be your pie. And I will think of you there, in your reclining chair, as Grandfather counts the pills you need to take, as you complain about the heat in the room or request more socks. I will have the advantage of not seeing you leave, the bliss of being able to explain away your absence in another way.
I’ll be okay. Continue reading
* Sunday. The courtyard is as quiet as it seemingly always is these days. There are no lights on in any of the windows, no human sounds. I wonder who we are, mice, living in the throbbing, leaking heart of a big city, where foreigners come to dance and stumble their way along our doors … Continue reading
