I like realizing that I’m a beginner at everything. I understand that what I want takes time to develop. I like knowing that I'm responsible for creating change. This is the beginning of growth.

When I was home, I met a friend for a beer, but he only had time for one. It hurt, yet I realize that it’s unreasonable to expect people to make time for me since I’ve been away for so long. Sitting and listening to his updates felt like a mandatory chore. I shared my stories and plans and I felt redundant. We struggled to avoid the cliche, to turn the conversation to the conceptual, to explore the trivialities of life in a jovial jest like we used to. Instead, we read from the script, and I hated myself for it. 

Did all my friends grow up too fast, taking on the real responsibilities of life or did I never mature, galavanting across continents in a wunderlustful blitz? I think I’m in the right, but everyone else thinks they are too.

I can’t look to what I have to do in nine months. I can’t keep looking at other people’s display of success. I think I know what makes me happy. I’m doing what I love and I’m being honest with myself, even if I’m not being honest with other people. For some reason I have to convince others that I’m doing something worthwhile. It’s worthwhile to me.  

Married to the Machine

Mika stood in his driveway smoking a cigarette. His hands were worn with stories of white knuckled nights and wringing fortune from circumstance.

A little black Mustang with gold racing stripes rested at the bottom of his garage. A tiny ramp divided the street from his workshop that looked more like a living room than anything else. There was the car, a motorcycle, and a desk with neatly arranged racing paraphernalia.

"The car is my real lady. I've had three wives and this car has outlasted them all."

It was hard not to believe him. Mika had the look of the Beat Generation. He was of the group that said "fuck all" and moved out to San Francisco to join the movement with the rest of the merry pranksters.

Frankly, Mika dressed like a convict. With generic black tennis shoes, a grey sweat suit, and a cigarette perpetually glowing between his finger tips, he smiled and told me a story.

"I got my fastest ticket last week," he said. "One-hundred fifty-eight point eight. The pigs couldn't catch me. I only slowed down because I felt bad for the suckers."

I chuckled, and he went on.

"But that was only my fastest ticket. Back in Memphis, there was this guy named Ron who was honestly the biggest asshole in town. He had a smokin' hot girlfriend and an unfortunate looking wife who he had to leave at home. He had a little bit of money, and trust me, he let you know about it. Now, I really don't care for all his things, but I did care about the Jaguar he drove around."

Mika started speaking quickly. 

"Man, one day this asshole gets so drunk at a bar, that me and a buddy boosted his car and went one-hundred and ninety in it. We took it right out from under his nose! I swear, you wouldn't believe how insignificant the rest of the world feels when you're going that speed. I took that car to show my girlfriend and she damn near killed me when she realized who it belonged to. Best thing, I took it back without him ever noticing.

"You know, I learnt three things that night. Firstly, Jaguars are really something special. Also, stealing a car is not as hard as it looks. And finally, I learnt something real important. Women can never appreciate the nice things we do for them."


I just submitted a set of pictures to Find Rangers Camera Club to be featured in an upcoming show. I don't know how these things usually work, but this is a nice release for pictures that would have never made it into another collection or blog post. 

Just release.

The Void

I didn't have the chance to write. We were too busy talking about being the gods of our own lives, treating the city like a foreign world, speaking too loudly, drinking too much with our heads above the clouds.

This man is a monster. Hold on, shut up, and fight for everything.

New Friends

When people appear in your life, take them seriously. Look at them and say something as blunt as, “Lets be friends” or “I like your energy” or “I think we’d get along.” I met Eric a few weeks back, and it started just like this.

Aaron invited me to a party and I was on my way out. It was his friend’s party, someone that i had never met before. On the way over, I bought flowers from a woman selling them on the bus. She told me that they were five dollars. I said I only had two. She picked out the smallest bouquet. I handed her the money, she traded me the flowers, and I hopped down the back door. They were sickly things. One yellowish, one pinkish, and the other browning.

The apartment was full of beautiful people in all black clothes, nose rings and deep red lipstick. The friend seemed to only acquaint herself with gorgeous women and friendly guys who passed joints back and forth while standing around an old kitchen. One of the doors was falling off the hinges. The smoke filled my lungs. I felt comfortable among new friends.

Eric was sitting in an odd chair that looked like a trampoline. The chair was low to the ground and made everyone who sat in it seem small. Eric was smaller than most already, and wore large round glasses that further dwarfed his stature. 

I walked over to him, crouched down and asked if he modeled. I said that I’d like to take his picture sometime. His eyes flickered from left to right and a little smile creaked across his face as if to say “about fucking time.” He actually said no, but that he would like to. He said he just moved to San Francisco and that all of his photographer friends were back east.

We exchanged numbers, set a date and produced this set. Just for the love of it. I hope you enjoy.