vermillion skies.

Photo

Mon, 05 Dec 2011 22:07:02 -0800

There's a smell of old lovers on my hands.

Wed, 30 Nov 2011 23:38:40 -0800

"Schrödinger’s Gender: I exist in a superposition of gender; it is only by interaction with an..."

Wed, 30 Nov 2011 22:33:00 -0800

“Schrödinger’s Gender: I exist in a superposition of gender; it is only by interaction with an outside observer that I settle into some semblance of male or female.”

- (via superherojuice)

A music box was playing in the early morning. I heard the notes ride in on the wind. Galloping in on...

Wed, 30 Nov 2011 09:44:32 -0800

A music box was playing in the early morning. I heard the notes ride in on the wind. Galloping in on graceful stallions, weaving through posts and mailboxes and the crack under the door, struggling to be heard. There was a restlessness in their speed.

The earth was red. The sun rose, and it was dark once again.

I just want to photograph you. It isn’t because you’re beautiful. It’s only...

Sun, 27 Nov 2011 19:11:42 -0800

I just want to photograph you.

It isn’t because you’re beautiful. It’s only because you’re you.

I’ve framed it in my mind…

…You’re taking a smoke break while we’re taking a walk. It’s dark where we are, save for the occasional street lamp. We’d have to be on an incline, so that the next street lamp is just far enough down the hill that it falls eye level to you. Your head is turned over your left shoulder. I step in front of you and put the viewfinder to my right eye, lining you up so that the street lamp is directly behind you, illuminating your silhouette. Small rays of light are displaced amongst your hair, the left side of your face, your lips. You’re smirking. The smoke is curling up to the left of you. You’re about to chastise me for taking pictures of you, and then I take it.

The truth isn’t in your eyes. It’s in your mouth.

Photo

Wed, 16 Nov 2011 23:49:25 -0800

Photo

Wed, 16 Nov 2011 23:38:30 -0800

30 October 2011

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 11:33:56 -0800

30 October 2011

8 October 2011

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 11:32:25 -0800

8 October 2011

29 October 2011

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 11:30:00 -0800

29 October 2011

I took shots for the first time last night. The night was, in all possible construals of the word,...

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 11:22:12 -0800

I took shots for the first time last night. The night was, in all possible construals of the word, bizarre. It was mortifying in the most wonderful way, the way in which a thing can be so mortifying that it wraps back around itself and can only be seen as outside of yourself, still in existence, but not in relation. You can appreciate the beauty of the morbidness of the moment, but when you re-articulate it with its origin, the cheeks start to flush again, the heart races, the hands grasp at things which are not there.

Nate and I toasted the first one to the moment during our interrupted date last night, the one in which we spontaneously and, quite literally, bumped into my boyfriend’s parents, necessitating an introduction between my boyfriend’s parents and my date. My boyfriend’s parents and my date. My boyfriend’s parents and my date.

Of all the possible combinations of stars that might have to align to make that happen, of all the insane happenstance that has ever occurred to anyone, of all the ways I might have imagined that night going, this was nowhere even close to anything anyone could have ever projected. And the consequences—even less so. Because there were hardly any, save my own shame and embarrassment. It helped that both parties knew I was in an open relationship, but not by much, especially knowing that this was only the second time Nate and I had ever really spent time together.

The second one went to “people like us.” Nate supplied us with this one. I loved it so because we are so incredibly different, and yet, somehow we are similar. And it’s not just because we agree on certain things, but our literal differences make us similar. I laughed when he toasted because it was ironic, and then not ironic, all at once. I laughed because it summed up everything that weekend had become. His fascination with the paradox was, in itself, paradoxical, and I couldn’t help but love it. He was genuine and contrived, all at the same time—the most perfect marriage of two dissimilar ideas, and it was all for aesthetic. The beauty of the paradox.

And then we fucked. The alcohol burned in my empty stomach, and it was midnight for an hour.