Open Road

First Stop Motion

Brain Vomit

Green air/land, pure rain, & teal sea... where horses roam in the hills eating peppermints & cows are "happy"...To a shitty brown dump of questionable 'beach' through a 'looking glass' lined in trash...something that looks like bullet holes in the A train door between cars. The steward on flight 94 OAK-JFK was so fuckin ecstatic to do his job I thought he may spontaneously shit... what was he so happy about I wonder? Frank... a super nice guy; the kind that's so happy you just want to wring his neck..I'm terrible...poor Frank, he bought me a drink b/c I handed the guy in front of me his Diet Coke...

I may miss the cleaner air/overall intrigue of liberal Oakland, & my love ES, but it sure does feel good to be back in the stench of copious amounts of knock-off perfume, bum-ripe cig aroma - a good ol' dirty Easy Coast...RAW, just like I like it.

This place may have sucked some of my soul, but I have enough left for Montreal... like a baby clone, ready to grow into a productively harvest-able heaven. A place where beggars are polite & honest & bums are freshly showered...where the trail of stench doesn't follow & giving back to the "community" doesn't = crack dealers. Can't wait for the time where my cynical jade turns to a sun yellow, & my heart beats red instead of black....

...its all a matter of time.

Open Road

Late Night JC Nostalgia

Recently I moved from Jersey City, to the woods an hour north. Being so fond of urban vivacity, it's been an extremely difficult transition for me. Even though I know it's temporary, and only a stepping-stone to a greater and new place, I can't help being discomposed. Even though it is beautiful and peaceful here, perhaps somewhere I would vacation, I can't help but feel guiltily unhinged. Industrial landscape, decay, unkempt humanity, and around the clock ghetto nonsense were, without reason, my serenity. The sound of section 8 Olivia panhandling outside my window in the morning has now become a song of birds. Strange 3am door-to-door knockoff perfume salesmen are nowhere to be found; it's so quiet here, the sound of an icicle dropping from the trees into a bed of snow becomes powerful. Late at night, when all I have is my breath and what now seems like an obnoxiously loud sound of my keyboard, I am left with a feeling of nostalgia for JC. I decided to fill this void by revisiting a bank of personal night shots of my old neighborhood, that I never seemed to have time for. Perhaps working on a few images here and there may keep me sane; a reflection of my time there that will feasibly ease me into this new reticent life.

Window Shopping

In a Wells