on being westbound

i spent the past two and a half weeks driving from desert to mountain to forest to coast. i spent that time moving in order to avoid becoming stagnant and complacent. to bring back pieces to the east.

i fell asleep in the chisos basin of big bend, only to wake up to towering peaks that broke away into open space, and it was there we greeted the sunrise. there was a lot of cactus, a lot of space, a lot of broken rock that when you walked on them it sounded like wind chimes. the rio grande was a silky green that cut the land open like a healing wound and we dipped our feet in its hot springs. we climbed white sand dunes that filled our shoes. outside austin, we fell asleep to the sound of coyotes. we found other dimensions in new mexico. i swooned over magpies in telluride. i cried just in anticipation of the grand canyon. and then i cried some more. california was rolling green hills and yellow wildflowers and bright blue skies but also fog and the place where the mountains meet the sea. i left a rock in the middle of the golden gate bridge. ferns grew bigger than us in the redwoods. in oregon, we climbed to the top of a waterfall and navigated a map in its largest bookstore. 

there were a lot of colors. a lot of playing. a lot of climbing. many nights of laughing. puzzles. trails. animals. peaks. valleys. reunions.

i spent a lot of time touching things that felt really good to touch. and this realization traveled very deep into me.

the rio grande. rocks. sand. pieces of driftwood. the chandelier tree. the pacific. everything inside the house of eternal return. pieces of the flatirons. the south rim. enchanted rock. graffiti'd walls. tree bark. beetles. cactus spikes. the rail of the golden gate. rosemary found growing in a parking lot.

in a world that constantly bruises and stings and bites, i keep my hands to myself--a lot of things have come to cause me pain--but i spent two and a half weeks exploring everything through my palms and fingers. i spent all that time putting as much as possible as i could against my body. i began to instinctively reach out and run towards the things i wanted to Feel. and i remember that this is how i've always healed: by letting nature through me.

a lot of this past year i spent reevaluating my life relationships. it has not been a pleasant endeavor, but a necessary one. walking across the golden gate bridge reminded me of those relationships, of the ones that saved but also have weathered. the coast reminded me that the mountains will always pick up the slack when i don't feel the support i need. the grand canyon made me admit that lately i have not felt that It Will Be Okay; it reminded me to tell people i love them, to pause, to keep my pulse on the things that i love.

the flatirons rose like a compass welcoming me home. i wrote that the desert isn't dead nor an ending--it is everything but; it is nothing but alive and thriving. everywhere we went the land rose to meet us. the sun always rose. in every single state there were people waiting to embrace us.

i felt god in everything.

sharing this life is the only way to get through it.


i went back to the core this past summer--went back to black and white to re-learn shapes, textures, line, form--back to basics. it has been five years since i shot the world this way. and what came out of it wasn't what i intended.

a few months ago i walked into the Strand with one of my closest friends. the first book we set our eyes on and picked up was small and inconspicuous, with a crow flying out of an open window, but then she opened to a page that dug out our chests. we each walked out with a copy and read it together at lunch. "grief is the thing with feathers" it said.

i’ve drawn her unpicked, ribs splayed stretched like a xylophone with the dead birds playing tunes on her bones.

a month later my father pulled out some history and left it in the hallway. a lot of things came full circle then.

i've been playing a simple game that speaks volumes to me, and that i think very literally speaks to the layers of Recovery. it involves a silent, lonesome girl solving forgiveness while simultaneously coming face to face with the "bothersome crow people", that she, without giving away the ending, inevitably finds something familiar in.

and just a few days ago, in that bookstore again, a friend and i pulled a book off the shelf that not only involved a trip we just booked, but an army of those black birds.

i spent the summer blowing through rolls of film to remember what i've been taught--but what came out was really me remembering where i come from and where i've been. still another form of Grief / still another form of Healing.


and like the crows, i am fed.

momentum // a continuation of things/themes

when i reject taking photos, i reject parts of myself. / i have been genuinely freaking out about the passage of time. these photos, from the sum of two rolls, range over the span of two years. / summer is still, for me, a lot of forms of grieving.

Summer 2014

Summer 2015 - End of Winter 2016

Beginning of Spring - Summer 2016

it's important to just continue,

41 emerson

the red couch. a yellow bedroom looking out over the backyard. the pear tree that grew up into dad’s bedroom window. the green rug down the hall. talking across the driveways. the green bathroom that smelled like thunderstorms. the kitchen with yellow glass cabinet doors and silver flower handles. peter, paul, and mary always playing somewhere in the distance. the towering front door, black and chipping. the dining room with windows along the side of the house, following the path through the hostas. the squirrels that made a home above the chandelier, the chandelier that now hangs in our current dining room. the tiger lilies surrounding the cherry tree, the birch trees, hydrangea bushes, tomatoes and cucumbers and eggplant. the pussywillow next to the garage. the brown light that filtered in onto the old volkswagen. the dogwood that housed cicada shells. the rose bush that bloomed that red and bright only once: the day i was brought home from the hospital. collecting chestnuts across the street. soaring down the hill on our bicycles and scooters, learning about gravity and brakes. when the forest and swamp was bulldozed into a cul-de-sac. when my brother bled from his forehead on the first front steps built there. the japanese maple in the neighbor’s yard. the small, strange cemetery on the loop-around. the first time i saw maggots, inside a dead pigeon. the red bridge. the smell of the long island sound. all of the green. i have been that color since the day i was born. when we moved, they painted the door red, as it always should have been, and put green curtains in my bedroom window. i learned that my grandfather’s room became the baby’s room--that life tiptoes in death. i dream about that house and life ten years later. sometimes i dream people into it that didn’t exist then. nostalgia holds a mirror up to it, makes everything look larger than it appeared. but it continues to be palpable. like my fingers in the rotary phone dial. opening and closing the milk box that continued to be used. putting that single cassette on repeat. the potted tree in the living room that bled its own kind of blood when you broke the leaves open. cracking the leaves open still to this day to look back into that house on the top of that hill, that life of magic, the very real, palpable parts of me that bleed for it still. how it will never exist that way again.


25th // perspective

"if you are aware of a state which you call “is”--or reality, or life--this implies another state called “isn’t”. or illusion, or unreality, or nothingness, or death. there it is. you can’t know one without the other. and so, as to make life poignant, it’s always going to come to an end. that is exactly, don’t you see, what makes it lively?

liveliness is change, is motion. so you see, you are always at the place where you always are. and you think, ‘wowie, a little further on and we will get there, i hope we don’t go further down so that we lose what we already have.’ but that is built into every creature’s situation, no matter how high, no matter how low. so in this sense all places are the same place. and the only time you ever notice any difference is in the moment of transition; when you go up a bit, you gain, when you go down a bit you feel disappointed, gloomy, lost. you can go all the way down to Death. somehow there seems to be a difficulty in getting all the way up. death seems so final. nothingness seems so very, very irrevocable and permanent.

but then if it is, what about the nothingness that was before you started? on the contrary, it takes nothing to have something. ‘cause you wouldn’t know what something was without nothing. you wouldn’t be able to see anything unless there was nothing behind your eyes. the most real state is the state of Nothing. that’s what it’s going to all come to."

                                                                                                                           - alan watts


collections. i

"Collect rocks.

That's all. But not just any rocks. You are an intelligent woman so you look for the unimaginable inside the ordinary. Go to places you would not ordinarily go alone--riverbanks. Deep woods. The part of the ocean shore where peoples' gazes disappear. Wade in all waters.

When you find a group of rocks, you must stare at them a long while before you choose, let your eyes adjust, use what you know of the long wait waiting. Let your imagination change what you know. Suddenly a gray rock becomes ashen or clouded with dream. A ring around a rock is luck. To find red rock is to discover earthblood. Blue rocks make you believe in them. Patterns and flecks on rocks are bits of different countries and terrains, speckled questions. Conglomerates are the movement of land in the freedom of water, smoothed into a small thing you can hold in your hand, rub against your face. Sandstone is soothing and lucid. Shale, of course, is rational. Find pleasure in these ordinary palm worlds. Help yourself prepare for a life.

Recognize when there are no words for the pain, when there are no words for the joy, there are rocks. Fill all the clear drinking glasses in your house with rocks, no matter what your husband or lover thinks. Gather rocks in small piles on counters, the tables, the windowsills. Divide rocks by color, texture, size, shape. Collect some larger stones, place them along the floor of your living room, never mind what the guests think, build an intricate labyrinth of inanimates.

Move around your rocks like a curl of water. Begin to detect smells and sounds to different varieties of rocks. Give names to some, not geological, but of your own making. Memorize their presence, know if one is missing or out of place. Bathe them in water once each week. Carry a different one in your pocket every day. Move away from normal but don't notice it. Move towards excess but don't care. Own more rocks than clothing, than dishes, than books. Lie down next to them on the floor, put the smaller ones in your mouth occasionally. Sometimes, feel lithic, or petrified, or rupestral instead of tired, irritable, depressed. At night, alone, naked, place one green, one red, one ashen on different parts of your body.

Tell no one."

                                                                                 - The Chronology of Water, Lidia Yuknavitch

a list

stay caught up with people. take photos. share coconut milk chocolate ice cream bars in union square. look at the moon through a telescope and laugh on rooftops. switch subway cars at the last moment. pause in the sun as often as possible--having a body is really hard sometimes but at least some things still feel warm.

it's nice to be able to tell the people you love that you love them.



this summer i climbed a lighthouse

as i buckle down to finally write an update, it is world suicide prevention day. maybe a coincidence. but mostly a clashing and combining of my worlds and words.

continuing to be inspired, continuing to work and do work in many different ways. been spending a lot of time painting and being silly with a soon-to-be six year old (whose sunflower is so tall it almost reaches my bedroom window). spending a lot of time finally reading again. a lot of time transferring plants to bigger pots. a lot of time still being drawn towards the color blue.

was recently moved by rebecca solnit’s “a field guide to getting lost”. i’m unsure how to describe this movement without relaying multiple excerpts, but i will try:

the world is blue at its edges and in its depths. this blue is the light that got lost. light at the blue end of the spectrum does not travel the whole distance from the sun to us. it disperses among the molecules of the air, it scatters in water. water is colorless, shallow water appears to be the color of whatever lies underneath it, but deep water is full of this scattered light, the purer the water the deeper the blue. the sky is blue for the same reason, but the blue at the horizon, the blue of land that seems to be dissolving into the sky, is a deeper, dreamier, melancholy blue, the blue at the farthest reaches of the places where you see for miles, the blue of distance. this light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much of which is in the color blue.

for many years, i have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. the color of that distance is the color of an emotion, the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not.

even as i reread and type this piece, i am recognizing new meaning it holds for me.

there is a lot of uprooting and disheveling going on at home, and as a result of that i have been given bags upon bags upon piles upon piles of old things to go through: from jewelry, to music, to notes and journals with forgotten words. upon reading through these decade old converse shoeboxes of note exchanges with old friends, i had a very hard few days in which i became filled with rage, then shame, then sadness, with few laughs inbetween and mostly just questions. but as always, my issues are sent my way when i am finally ready to deal with them. so, i grieved. and then i burned everything. time to rip off the band-aid, stop being masochistic, and make room for what was directly in front of me.

what else? not much externally, but always what feels like too much internally. getting on a plane in a few weeks to visit the midwest and my possible future (which i am still feeling unapologetically brutal about). enjoying the time i have while i have it.  and recently swam in the ocean again for the first time in two years.

last month or so i watched a movie called “cake” in which a line tugged on my heart strings quite forcefully and nearly knocked the wind out of me:

not the first of many similar entries. yesterday i read anis mojgani’s piece on the same topic which was exceptional and moving and right on the money.

i have spent this summer Feeling: grateful to be able to be home without sickness and panic in the same way; full and in love with my life, its companions, its experiences; grieving parts of my life stolen by illness; whichever feeling falls under the sun accordingly.

Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark. That’s where the most important things come from, where you yourself came from, and where you will go.
— rebecca solnit

in terms of being Here, and reflecting on recent work, i am glad to be writing love notes as opposed to suicide notes.


a few months ago i watched terrence malick's "tree of life", and its impression resonated in me for days afterwards. the movie seemed to play on a loop in my mind. (i.e. the Creation scenes.) a single image began to come to the front of my mind, and it didn't disappear until i painted it. which then led to an onslaught of similar paintings after it. i painted for hours like that.

the images that came to mind were triggered by those specific movie scenes, which ultimately reminded me of a panic attack/hallucination i suffered years ago when my PTSD symptoms began, in which my vision went black and simultaneously zoomed out and in to my surroundings and the world around me.

these paintings came effortlessly, fueled by these images as well as a term i had come to know  shortly before: a "twin flame" is an energetic mirror to your own soul, they are familiar to you and you feel a sense of vibration or completion when near them. a connection that transcends. i adopted this term in a blanket sense. i think these paintings cut deeper than TPIWHNM does, and in different ways. although really they just became an outlet for what this movie was making me feel. and they only make sense abstractly, in these colors, these forms, these links. my metaphysical relationships i guess. my different soul mates. 

i recommend this movie to everyone at least once.

little things like inspirations

just been drawing inspiration from a lot of things recently. 

plus many, many more. and classics like Cy Twombly, Francesca Woodman, Sally Mann, Calder, Gerhard Richter, Eva Hesse...

this poem by Raymond Carver:

“I love creeks and the music they make.
And rills, in glades and meadows, before
they have a chance to become creeks.
I may even love them best of all
for their secrecy. I almost forgot
to say something about the source!
Can anything be more wonderful than a spring?
But the big streams have my heart too.
And the places streams flow into rivers.
The open mouths of rivers where they join the sea.
The places where water comes together
with other water. Those places stand out
in my mind like holy places.
But these coastal rivers!
I love them the way some men love horses
or glamorous women. I have a thing
for this cold swift water.
Just looking at it makes my blood run
and my skin tingle. I could sit
and watch these rivers for hours.
Not one of them like any other.
I’m 45 years old today.
Would anyone believe it if I said
I was once 35?
My heart empty and sere at 35!
Five more years had to pass
before it began to flow again.
I’ll take all the time I please this afternoon
before leaving my place alongside this river.
It pleases me, loving rivers.
Loving them all the way back
to their source.
Loving everything that increases me.”

- Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

and this word:

moving towards something like the words "perimeters" and "boundaries".


my handprints are in the cement under the deck my dad is redoing,

the year of growth and highways and maybe not wincing at fireworks

my main intention for this past year was to Be Less Afraid. i spent many meditations concentrating on allowing fear to be my teacher rather than my dictator until the words seemed foreign. i asked to be humbled by my experiences every day, by the things i felt and the people i met and the moments i encountered. i concentrated on the color blue and the opening of my throat so that i could be more vocal, more verbal, more honest and true, open to communication, kind to others in my words and actions.

i spent time climbing sheets of ice and cliff faces. i became more open to others and slipped my skin through the sleeves of "a survivor" and my illnesses. i physically carried that Weight across campus with other hands to help me.

and then i cut It off.

i am a lot more fond of setting "intentions" for myself rather than "resolutions". i firmly believe in growing and bettering oneself every moment of every day, but i also believe in timing. and i've realized that Time holds an important place in my work as an individual being and as an artist, and in the overlapping of the two.

yesterday i completed the "finish something" by taking the last photo to document the past year. earlier today i went to take another before i realized that i was Done. was a very odd feeling. it doesn't quite feel complete. but the important thing is: i did it. as i look back, i see a tremendous spurt, tremendous opportunity, tremendous presence. i see all the many different levels i ebbed and flowed through. some are favorites, some are neutral, some are days i'd rather black-out (quite literally as seen in february). but i still experienced each and every one of them. and that makes all the difference.
the year of skunks, of many sunrises, goosebumps on mountain tops, physically climbing my fears, red red leaves, and balloons.

so as this "fresh start" begins, here are some things i am intending:

  • following my passions. this includes ignoring the side-eyes and guilt-trips from others. i come first. i am doing me first and foremost. i am learning the word(s), "no. i'm sorry, i can't."
  • refusing to continue altering my life/schedule around those who don't include me in theirs.
  • surrounding myself with kind and genuine souls who resonate with mine. hanging up the ties from those who don't.
  • feeling--everything. in each moment, as i need to, and then moving on to the next.
  • less dwelling. more letting go.
  • trying more new things.
  • authenticity.
  • consuming less dairy.
  • going on trips. EXPLORING. enjoying the journey.
  • being awake. being aware.
  • not feeling guilty about most of the above.


2014 was the year of roots. 2015 will be the year of branches.

"you did it."

spent thanksgiving thinking about the graves others will be visiting. not taking for granted the seats filled at my tables.

i graduated from college this past weekend, from a place that i had never planned to be at, but turned out to be the most special blessing in disguise. i could not have asked for a more perfect place to end this chapter. it is both easy and hard for me to recall the grief i felt at ending up where i did--i have done so much there more than i ever did before it.

Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together?
Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences.
— emery allen


i completed my last ever critique as a photo student. my professor said some kind words and gave a huge embrace.
"you did it."
i spent a different "critique" explaining the recognition of my own mortality and all the different goodbyes i have been giving recently.
and so here starts the beginnings of "the people i would have never met".

grateful for the friends and family who have supported me all these years; the peers who have encouraged me; and the professors and mentors who continuously pushed me to be the person they always knew i could be. especially grateful for my cousin who braved the sky, roads, and lake to be with me on my special day.
and once again i revisited my infatuation with snow and ice.

feels weird to have gotten over the speed bump that was starting TPIWHNM. weird to not have another project in mind other than that. here's to having time now for more inspiration.
feeling most inspired by this song right now:

excited for the new chapters brewing in my life. big plans. big moves. little time.

i'm thankful to have a brother amazed by magic and quarters being pulled out from behind his ears,

what if i hadn't failed that class, what if i was born a different day

"the timing in which people enter your life is very important."

been thinking about all the different, bizarre, fortunate ways people have entered my life. how absolutely strange it is, that all these very specific events had to take place in order for it to happen. that is the weirdest part for me, i think.

i have taken it upon myself to begin a series that will last until the day i die. of all the people who have affected such pivotal parts of me.

these are people i admire. people i cherish. people i love. people i will run to parking lots for. these are people who have made enough of an impact on me to resonate, to Remind me—to reveal to me the absolute necessity of life, and that is: to live.

a reminder to be open. to be vulnerable. to be compassionate. to be tolerant. to be void of resentment and judgment. to soothe my bitterness. to be curious, to be passionate. to be Present.

"Sometimes I remind myself that I almost skipped the party, that I almost went to a different college, that the whim of a minute could have changed everything and everyone. Our lives, so settled, so specific, are built on happenstance."


i have somehow found such free and gentle spirits. i can't believe that out of all the different paths i could have crossed, mine and theirs intersected.

in ALL seriousness, aziz ansari says it best:

here's to walking to the wrong grey prius,

the herstory of love.

been very nervous and uncomfortable and excited about my new project. been very apprehensive; but today was told that I'm doing good, and we both smiled and agreed at the fact that this will be a lifelong project--but how that's good, that this is important for me.

feeling inspired by the colors blue and gold,  Raymond Meeks, meditation, and the sound of rain. 

started writing letters the other day to everyone included in this. it's nice to be reminded of exactly what people mean to you. i am very fondly holding these words in my hands and reading and rereading them.


have also been thinking of a book I read a few years ago now, but very much love. specifically of a certain quote reminding me of the impermanence of things/Things:

"My brother and I used to play a game. I'd point to a chair. "THIS IS NOT A CHAIR," I'd say. Bird would point to the table. "THAT IS NOT A TABLE." "THIS IS NOT A WALL," I'd say. "THAT IS NOT A CEILING." We'd go on like that. "IT IS NOT RAINING OUT." "MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!" Bird would yell. I'd point to my elbow. "THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE." Bird would lift his knee. "THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!" "THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!" "NOT A CUP!" "NOT A SPOON!" "NOT DIRTY DISHES!" We denied whole rooms, years, weathers..."
- nicole krauss

am struggling with boundaries, balance, and the right amount of detachment. lots of self-care enforced recently. these letters were an aid in remaining grounded and tethered to my feelings. I do not want to deny the point of living.   

(this also came in the mail today: )



last week i shot some pictures and said some things in a greenhouse; i wrote down that i recognized this happening in a place with life growing. I surprised my family and friends with a visit home recently; I ran my trails and mockingbirds took flight on all sides with me.




(it's weird to feel heavy when you're simultaneously made of air)

been feeling detached, dissociated and unlike myself lately. needed to pick up my camera and feel that weight in my hands again.


it's nice to be reminded of what this means to me. again and again and again.
whatever keeps my hands busy. (always trying to find a balance between resting and over-exerting myself. if i stop moving i might cry?)

clear your mind

some thorns

the temperature is finally syncing up to its location, and i made it out of july fourth weekend alive--summer nights that call for a walk to clear the mind/eyes/heart.

stumbled upon this lone, abandoned branch/stem. pricked myself twice. but this said everything for me.

spent a good portion thinking about what's in the works. a song suggested to me at the first thought of It came on shuffle during the thought.

the other day i realized this project is so scary for me because 1) it is pushing me out of a comfort zone, and 2) it is making me confront not only the people but the situation to begin with.

yesterday i spent four hours sitting on a stoop having homemade coffee and muffins, talking about art and zombies and many other things. these are the little moments i sometimes become acutely aware of Life (but the little things are not very "little").

and here are little inspirations found just from the long hours of today:

  1. "candles" by daughter
  2. "gold" by wake owl
  3. "come back down" by greg laswel
  4. "shake shake shake" by bronze radio return
  5. "you don't know how lucky you are" by keaton henson
  6. "atlas hands" by benjamin francis leftwich (more like a rediscovered gem)
  7. "pioneers" by the lighthouse and the whaler

and last but not least:

"You need a foundation to build a home, start by mixing the concrete- this is a lifelong project. You might as well get started."


to thaw

while looking back recently on the work of "billet-doux," i noticed a huge emphasis on snow, ice, and the melting of. at a very pivotal point in my life, i held tight to this metaphor with the oncoming of spring from winter, having projected it onto a tangible thing. this pinnacle became a plateau, but not before becoming an onrush of what felt like avalanches.

coming from a part of new york that has mild, equal seasons, the harshness of winter upstate shocked my system, and it has taken me a second winter to finally grow accustomed to it. and i've found safety in this; a distance has been created not just in miles, but in the longevity of winter, keeping spring at bay and pushing it farther from anniversaries. it has taken until my second winter to understand this fully, and another projection (no matter how unfortunate/fortunate) to come full-circle.

(inspiration/Things from others:)

Screen shot 2014-06-29 at 4.51.39 PM.png

(coming soon...)


humility and birthdays and strawberry kisses

 while julia and i chatted at our favorite spot.

while julia and i chatted at our favorite spot.

i was recently home for a few weeks for the first time since january. it felt good (and still weird) to be reunited with everyone. i shared some wonderful times with the people i love. i even started to tell about the new series i am pursuing; first, to one of my closest friends (who i photographed for it), and then to an old professor who has become a very dear and important person to me.

while home i celebrated my twenty-third birthday. in short, i celebrated my twenty-third year of being Alive, something i spent a lot of time reflecting on this year. in a brief form of candidness, i expressed my sincere gratitude to those who were able to spend my day with me, and for those who have spent many days with me through it all. i have learned more and more about humility each day. i look forward to the years ahead of me. i am cringing less and less at that thought.

another person photographed for this new series was a little one--a little person with delicate hands who kisses strawberries.
while these are not any final products, they are snippets of my time trying to capture moments with a little man who won't understand this series until much later in life (and also of a rambunctious four year old who gives me a run for my money). 


a start...

i finally mustered up the courage and strength to get this entire body of work up and rolling. feels weird and good and scary all at once. but very kind, and some very moving, things have been said to me as an outcome and i am eternally grateful for that. i am so blessed to be able to do what i love to do in this world and to reach out to others through it.

i feel that i’ve been very drawn and inspired by people around me lately. i’ve found a lot of comfort, and discomfort, in my encounters with those near me, which has been an interesting experience. a friend of mine recently commented, and complimented, on my venturing out of my comfort zones, which meant a lot to me, and i guess that’s been very apparent in my interactions with the world within the past few seasons.


but i feel like a list of inspirations lately is what i want to share the most right now:


documentaries - 

1. “Marina Abramovic: The Artist is Present”
2. Gregory Crewdson’s “Brief Encounters"
3. Sally Mann’s “What Remains”



books - 

  1. “What Remains,” Sally Mann
  2. and i am very much looking forward to Anis Mojgani’s book coming out in the fall, “The Pocket Knife Bible”


songs - 

  1. Miracle Mile by Cold War Kids
  2. Riptide by Vance Joy
  3. Wait So Long by Trampled By Turtles
  4. Obey Your Guns by Matrimony


other experiences - 

  1. sunrises
  2. rivers
  3. snow melting
  4. the sound of blackbirds
  5. mountain ranges
  6. things as simple as having ice cream with my friends in a stewart’s
  7. and these references from a hike i went on recently:

 i plan on utilizing this space as much as possible; i feel very deeply about sharing my experiences right now instead of hiding them.
i came up with a new series the other day i will be working on shortly, that i am very excited about but can’t share quite yet. some birchwood sheddings have been salvaged as well, but not sure what they will be. something, at least.