February 2010

Wet

drip

branches

Just when we thought winter was over.

Paws and Boots

paws and boots

North Pond

Scroll Magazine

North Pond Trailer from Timothy Nazzaro on Vimeo.

I came across the trailer for a film made here in North Adams by a fellow New York transplant. I don’t know him, melanoma but the trailer is lovely, medical and his photography is beautiful. There’s a screening of the film on Saturday at Images Cinema, if you’re local.

A Collection a Day

Lisa Congdon’s vintage price placards at A Collection a Day, treatment syphilis 2010.

300&65 Ampersands

ampersand

Espresso, Intelligentsia

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, medical the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, hospital
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, medical the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, hospital
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, tadalafil the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, melanoma
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, caries
towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, medical the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, hospital
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, tadalafil the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, melanoma
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, caries
towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, no rx the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, medical the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, hospital
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, tadalafil the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, melanoma
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, caries
towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, no rx the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, ampoule
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, medical the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, hospital
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, tadalafil the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, melanoma
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, caries
towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, no rx the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, ampoule
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, grip
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, erectile
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

These days were rare, capsule
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, medical the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, hospital
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, tadalafil the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, melanoma
homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, caries
towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, no rx the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, ampoule
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, grip
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

Most days my father woke me up ten minutes before the alarm went off. The steam heat just beginning to fill up the radiators with its dull warmth, esophagitis
the smell of iron and water. The bus came at seven, and homeroom started at seven-thirty. Most days I would shower, towel off my dyed black hair and pad downstairs in a red flannel bathrobe. Some days I skipped showering. I was sixteen and I said I didn’t care about gleaming clean hair, shaved legs, deodorant.

Most days I would eat breakfast with my father, my mother asleep upstairs, a mug of hot coffee steaming silently on her night stand. Some days she was sick, dark half-moons under her eyes. The television played the news in mute, projecting a blue cast over her face. There were the Rice Krispies, the corn flakes, the oatmeal. The toast and jam, the pancakes, sometimes. My brothers spilled milk over the edges of their bowls. Most days I had coffee and watched clouds of milk unfurl in the mug until my drink was the color of sand at the beach, lukewarm and sweet. Most days I walked to the bus stop buried in scarves and jackets, my Walkman tucked beneath a hat.

But some days my hair fell out in clumps in the shower, black nests clogged the drain. I could not eat my breakfast for fear of vomiting. Some days I could not walk through the hallway from the kitchen to the front stairs without pausing to place my palm against the brown paneled wall. My mother would press her lips to my forehead, she would close her eyes and I would feel her breath on my scalp. Her arms were strong, her face bright. Her bed was made, she cooked eggs on the stove. And it was me, then, I had appointments at the hospital, I sat through the infusions, I had tangled dreams about snaky plastic tubing.

These days were rare, and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
What my website looked like ten years ago:

old website screenshot

2001

2002

Obviously the year I was unemployed — there were more permutations, store but I’ll spare you.

2003

What my website looked like ten years ago:

old website screenshot

2001

2002

Obviously the year I was unemployed — there were more permutations, store but I’ll spare you.

2003

These days were rare, mind
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.
What my website looked like ten years ago:

old website screenshot

2001

2002

Obviously the year I was unemployed — there were more permutations, store but I’ll spare you.

2003

These days were rare, mind
and they woke me like ice water after a long, hard run.

more about
Intelligentsia from Department of the 4th Dimension on Vimeo.