“Pretty sure you were the love of my life.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can never stop thinking about you.”
I will persevere,
when your skin cracks open beneath my fingers,
when your bones become too brittle to hold you up,
when light and dark are indecipherable,
when ribbons of your blood weep to the floor threatening to drown us both,
I will laugh at the audacity,
I will inflate my lungs in defiance and
I will hold on,
I will persevere.
“Clearly our wounds need our attention. But when we concentrate exclusively upon our hurt, we learn to see the brokenness, losses, or injuries we have been given as the most important things in our lives. We cultivate an attention to these wounds in such a way that, over time, they come to occupy the most important place in our heart. Our wound lives in the center of our thoughts. In this way, we actually come to love our suffering.” —Wayne Muller
Her smile will level you
Quite like her big green eyes
Nestled unassumingly behind
Her fluttering lids
But her hands will embrace
Your throbbing throat and squeeze
Until your lips turn blue
And your memories of her
Dissolve into the blinding stench
Of dreams unrealized
At 2013’s end, like a raging forest fire I burned everything in my life down and started over in 2014 as something new. I spent this year fostering new growth, and becoming reacquainted with myself. And it’s been one beautifully eye-opening experience.
“The Church says: the body is a sin.
Science says: the body is a machine.
Advertising says: The body is a business.
The Body says: I am a fiesta.”
A friend once told me “Denver has no soul.” Until then, I hadn’t been able to articulate exactly why I didn’t take to the city and ever since and in every comparably sized city I visit, I find myself searching for its soul, its unmistakeable aura and personality like the feeling you get when meeting a stranger for the first time, that primal sense based only on feeling and emotion and in almost every one, it is unquestioningly undeniable.
Could I say it’s been 16 years and I hardly think of you anymore? Could I say I’ve forgotten so many of the sad details of your life that helped to paint my own in such vividly dark colors? Could I say I’ve forgiven you for robbing me of a life without a father, the opportunity to open my heart to you and spill 16 years of pain, now doubled, the sudden way you changed and redefined my life, or the way you didn’t say goodbye?
The land moves easily here
And my fingers sway in alliance
As they travel north and linger
On the rim of the hollow of your eye
So what now? As I was shooting this intimate set last weekend and scrunching my face up in disapproval at each glance of every image, I thought to myself “Maybe this is it for my self-portrait work. Maybe it was a good run but I’m getting old and less thrilled at my appearance and maybe it’s time to retire as my own model.” And now especially, with a lack of a good spot for photos, the incentive to give this side of my work a break is quite high.