Mina Rumi Tillett O’Shaughnessy was due October 29th, 2018 but she was born just past 2 in the afternoon on October 10th, very nearly 3 weeks early. This is the story of her early arrival.Read More
Lonely in trees, ignoring the sky because you’re angry, because you’re hurt
Asking for home, crying for family, searching for left behind souls in the dirt
I haven’t felt the unease of discontent or is-this-where-I-belong inquisitions I had grown so accustomed to in previous chapters in enough time that I finally took notice. Suddenly the asphalt under my feet became air and I was floating. And then fear tore me from the clouds and returned me to the bitter earth.Read More
Introducing the 6 metal plates that are a permanent fixture of my face now.Read More
I am so small I can barely be seen. How can this great love be inside me? Look at your eyes. They are small, but they see enormous things.Read More
Twenty years ago today I awoke to a world without my dad. He’d shot himself in the head in the next room while I slept. There’s something dreamlike about heading to bed one insignificant evening—with a father,— and waking the next morning without one; having someone and then so suddenly losing them.Read More
“I'm a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl.” —BjörkRead More
The days are long but the weeks are short and the months turn to dust in the palms of my helpless hands.
This little chick is 7 weeks old today. And I am finally getting accustomed to this chaos.
My grandmother is too great a force to be eulogized.
Instead, I only want to share a fraction of what I’ve learned from her.
“That first pregnancy is a long sea journey to a country where you don’t know the language, where land is in sight for such a long time that after a while it’s just the horizon – and then one day birds wheel over that dark shape and it’s suddenly close, and all you can do is hope like hell that you’ve had the right shots.” —Emily PerkinsRead More
If someone had asked me 10 years ago if I would plan to take self-portraits should I ever get pregnant the answer would have likely been a resounding yes. To document such drastic changes in this vessel I inhabit and be able to add that to my body of work, which was then and still occupied by so many beautiful and various female bodies I've photographed over the years? Well, of course. Ten years later when prompted with that question by several someones, my answer wasn't so certain, maybe even doubtful.Read More
When I became lost in the separation of child and mother,
Of myself and the other
When I became lost you became found
You climbed on to the backs of birds and
sailed between land and space for miles
Your back covered in feathers as black as the sky on a moonless night
each freckle an understudy for the veiled stars
I met Melissa, this red-lipped, beautifully inked, raven-haired woman less than 6 months ago. One day, nearly two months ago she confessed her love to me for Banksy’s balloon girl. She said she was dying to recreate it in a photograph for someone special to her, but wanted a snowy-filled backdrop. She wanted that vibrant red heart balloon to pop off a clean white setting.
I loved the idea.Read More
My husband and I recently participated in an Atlas Obscura event to get a peek inside the Wonder View Tower in Genoa, Colorado. I'd actually never heard of this place before a friend sent me a link for the AO tour event only days prior to the meet-up. Needless to say, I was hooked and immediately bought tickets.Read More
Do you see it?
The way the land piques beneath us, like your skin, my fingers hovering millimeters above it, anticipating my touch. Touch. The streets are scars and the rivers arteries feeding the body.
"Looking down these dreary passages, the dull repose and quiet that prevails, is awful. Occasionally, there is a drowsy sound from some lone weaver’s shuttle, or shoemaker’s last, but it is stifled by the thick walls and heavy dungeon-door, and only serves to make the general stillness more profound. Over the head and face of every prisoner who comes into this melancholy house, a black hood is drawn; and in this dark shroud, an emblem of the curtain dropped between him and the living world."Read More
“Human lives are not pieces of string that can be separated out from a knot of others and laid out straight. Familes are webs. Impossible to touch one part of it without setting the rest vibrating. Impossible to understand one part without having a sense of the whole.” ―Diane SetterfieldRead More
Are all the heroes dead? Or just ours? Will the melodies ever sound the same, as somber and fixed in time as they are now? Will they stay? Because your voice, when you're playing Nutshell and humming Layne's voice on my parlor guitar, and I'm reminiscing over dreams I stopped having years ago; your voice and your fingers and everything else that I love. They stay in that way; reincarnated. I miss the dreams and am in love with the cause; a quandary, because I see things in dreams. Now I just feel like life stops when I sleep. Like death. In backness and nihility.Read More
Although I've done more than my share of trespassing, it was a bit nerve-wracking doing it so close to home.Read More