Nicaragua 8

A man rode his motorcycle down a dirt road into town. It was almost noon. This man was very shy. He never spoke to people he did not know, unless they spoke to him first. Even then, he would not look them in the eyes, and only mumble out a response to the ground. There were, in fact, only a select few with whom he felt comfortable: his wife, his daughter, his three good friends, and his barber. He went weekly to his barber for a shave. His barber was a shy man like himself. It was that time of the week, and he smiled as he imagined the cool lather spread across his cheeks and chin. He kept a moustache because his wife had told him that it made him look more respectable. The thin wheels of his motorcycle danced delicately between rocks and potholes. He privately thought that a motorcycle made him look dashing, and much bolder than he really was. The wind whipped through his hair and whispered softly in his ears. It spoke to him soothingly, like a lover in his bed. He entered the limits of the town where his barber stood expectantly, waiting for the man. As he slowed to a stop by the barber’s shop, the wind got quieter, and gradually faded altogether in a late aubade. The man walked into his friend’s shop and sat down in a comfy chair in front of a long mirror. He always sat in the same chair. Both men smiled in subdued adoration of the other, but said little to convey real emotion. They both greeted the other man warmly and made pleasant talk of their families, and the condition of the roads. The barber laid an apron over his friend.

The puffy white lather embodied perfection in the man’s mind. It was clean and wholesome, and reminded the man of his wife’s gentle touch. They loved each other dearly, but rarely found ways to express it. His barber cut a swath through the lather, shearing off the past week’s stubble. Surely the man loved his wife, but a strange thing had started to happen in recent days. Women would pass him in the street of the town, and he thought of what they would look like naked, or thought of them lying next to him, softly asleep in the late morning. He tried to dispel these thoughts harshly and with resolute goodness. He loved his wife. The barber’s razor slid through the lather again, slicing off the hair on the man’s chin. It stung momentarily. The barber’s blade spoke of friendly affection. Out of the corner of his eye, the man saw a woman walk into the barber’s shop. She was young, and her body was supple and shapely. Her face was beautiful, and she cast a look in the man’s direction. He immediately imagined her body held close to his, her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly. He thought of her leaning in to kiss him. His mind exploded in a fit of fire, as he scolded himself harshly for such thoughts. He looked in the mirror at the barber, his friend, whose eyes seemed to say that he was imagining the same thing. Was it perhaps true that the man was not a terrible person, and that such thoughts were normal? The barber’s razor licked off the last of the lather, leaving the man’s face clean and soft. The woman asked the barber whether or not he cut women’s hair as well. He said that he was sorry, but no, he did not. The woman looked disappointed for a minute, then flashed a gorgeous smile and thanked the barber just the same. Then she turned her gaze the other man. She was medusa; he was frozen by her gaze, locked tight by the power of her almond eyes. She left in flourish of sin and beauty, leaving the two men like statutes. The man gave his friend some money for the shave, and walked back out into the sun. The man gave his farewell, and departed off into his coy life of dreadful mediocrity and empty desire.

Nicaragua 9

He wanted to be a pilot. He had been to the city once with his parents, and they visited a museum where they saw a cockpit. There were plastic pilots in the seats. He saw planes fly overhead every so often, and always thought of the pilots, speaking calmly into their headsets. They would reassure their passengers that it would be a great flight, and to enjoy themselves. The pilots were always calm, because icewater ran through their veins instead of blood. They knew what every dial and button did. Pilots were always handsome, too. They dressed in the darkest of blues, and their flight attendants always fell in love with them. He had read a story where a pilot married his flight attendant, and they bought their own plane. It was his favorite book.

His friends wanted to work in the fields, picking coffee or farming other crops. But he didn’t. His teacher in school told him that his parents didn’t have enough money to send him to college or secondary school, and that he would never be a pilot. He didn’t listen to his teacher. His father had asked him once why he didn’t want to take over the family convenience store when he grew up. But the boy told his father that his place was not in a store selling coca-cola. He wanted to be up in the sky, soaring through the clouds like a bird. He would be the best pilot in the world, and his passengers would always say he was their favorite pilot. He would fly them through storms safely, and his crew would adore him for his bravery. Yes, he would certainly be a pilot.

Protest in the Loop

I'm sure that we're all aware of the conflict in Gaza right now, and the polar views that have developed around it. I was at a local protest recently on this very subject. It was actually quite surprising: for a town with rare protests and political activism visible to the public, there were a great many protesters. People all across the world feel very strongly about this issue.

Moab:Black and White

I took these pictures into black and white, and I really think they came out well. They are all from around the Moab area, Arches and Canyonlands national parks as well. Let me know what you think

Moab:Color

These are a few photos I've been taking while on vacation in Moab, Utah. Landscape photography is something I'm not quite used to doing, but it was fun to mess around with these.

Man on the Street

A friend and I were driving into the parking lot behind Meshuggah's cafe in the loop the other night. We were startled as we drove by a man lying next to a dumpster, who looked like perhaps he had been hit by a car. I parked, and we walked over to him. I asked was he alright, to which he responded with a loud snore. I immediately went to my car and grabbed my camera and tripod, and snapped away. Perhaps they may strike you as a tad creepy and/or odd, but what was curious about this man was that he did not appear to be homeless. He was dressed pretty tredily, and was sleeping quite soundly. I would have had more difficulty photographing someone dressed in rags with a bottle next to him, but this man's situation was not that of a homeless man. He was gone when we came back about and hour and a half later. These pictures remind me somewhat of the Providence photo project I did earlier.


This one is my favorite, becuase your attention is drawn at first to the dumpster, and then your eyes fall to the man beside it. This is more of a straight photography feel.


Hey look, it's the Wicked Witch!


(focus slightly edited in photoshop)

Providence 1

Debris crackles underfoot, diffused light falls lazily upon a kicked in television screen. Like a large patio, air flows freely through the grand rooms and out the shattered windows. Spray paint sticks to the walls menacingly, evoking curiosity, like an aged tattoo. Vague footprints lie about carelessly, difficult to discern. It is frightening at first, but that fades to sadness. Stale nostalgia lies like a sheet of cellophane over all surfaces.





The silence is thick. It rises to tumult when nothing moves, when the only whisper is from quiet inhales and exhales.



At night, the memories can lie comfortably: no one can see them. But in the fading sunlight, they are exposed. They scurry and hide amongst a shoe here, a record player over by the stairs. Here is one wallowing in the tip of a needle on the kitchen counter. Sometimes they sneak over across the room to meet each other, and they can be seen, a milky sheen in the yellow light.



Broken and burnt and alone and sad and cracked and desolate and rusted and peeled and bent. Forgotten.