diary 54 (april 17)
diary 53 (february 17)
diary 52 (january 17)
diary 51 (november 16)
diary 50 (october 16)
diary 49 (september 16)
diary 48 (august 16)
still on a road trip, the flowers at high elevation around snowy mt rainier were blooming, we ate breakfast the next morning at a bar restaurant looking out onto the foggy mountains that looked like someone’s basement. our brake light and blinker was out so we skipped the cities and took a little more time with things which was nice. made it to the olympic peninsula and drove along lakes and rivers the whole way. drove to the ocean one day and parked on it, climbed into the back canopy/our bed in the car and watched tv. got scared to stay where we were parked in a ditch by a river late at night and ended up waking up in the rain alongside the beach at la push. made it to brendon’s farm and had friends fly in to visit, went for long drives and swam in the river in the sun. got back to the city and to our home, and it felt good to be back.
diary 47 (july 16)
spend time in la but not much. visit my sister and the ocean. everyone on the street looks like they’re in a heat daze. go south to my favorite part of the trip, hundreds of feet below sea level and over 100 degrees year round where people live in another world along a lake that is receding full of rot. one night we drove toward a hillside covered in wind turbines, hundreds of blinking red lights in the distance like a skyline or something. make it to mexico on a train and to vegas for the fourth of july again. in colorado we stay along a creek and bathe nude, drink a bottle of prosecco in the afternoon. visit the friend who’s been in my life the longest, and the home i lived in til i was 7 that i have hazy little kid memories of. drive along the river though villages in valleys and big ski town resorts. after that most of our destinations are abandoned towns and national parks with lots of nothing in between. endless empty land and passing through tiny highway towns, i wanted to drive in it and space out all day, so much nothing is what i wanted the most. drive to calgary through big neon yellow fields of rapeseed, the city seems like it shouldn’t be there. spent a week on a lake in montana, visited our favorite small town there twice where deer roam around, the community center is abandoned and the yards are full of garbage projects.
saul williams
diary 46 (june 16)
tie up things in new york, shove thousands of dollars into a plastic bag and ride to chinatown with it, buy a sparkling water off the j train on the walk back home. go into upstate for the weekend, drive to the top of a mountain in a cloud where it’s below freezing, eat clams and canoe. i wake up at dawn and one of the cats jumps up and cuddles in front of me and brendon behind me as i climb into bed and fall back asleep in the weak light and it smells like pine from the walls of the cabin. fly to the west coast and stay in a king sized bed in a nice hotel and i feel calm knowing that i’ll be on the road for the next two months and nothing else. in portland i think about how i’ll feel maybe living there next year, the sidewalks are empty but i imagine living in a house with a backyard. stay at the farm for a bit, drive around the town and there are deer in the graveyard at dusk, to the top of logging roads into nowhere, and take a trip to the ocean and dunes. drive down to california and nevada in our big car, climb into our bed in the back after sunset in a different place each night. sleep in a desert with nothing in sight but salty mono lake on one side and mountains on the other. a nude cove on tahoe where the water looks unreal and jump off big rocks into it. drive through towns on the coast where the pastel houses have porches full of plants and it feels like all you can hear is wind chimes.
diary 45 (may 16)
the seasonal section at dollar stores have little seed packets and bags of old soil and plastic pots piled at the entrance. everything wears me out.
diary 44 (april 16)
The empty planters on the sidewalk are puddled with rainwater, have wild things growing in them and floating petals. I paint on the floor during the day and actually try to be social at night for a little while. I visit family and my little brother and sister can talk now, the forsythia is blooming and the town is the same one i’ve visited since i was a kid. Go through boxes of my mother’s old things, posters for punk shows, letters written to the hotel in nyc she lived in as a teenager, photos of my parents on road trips and their first apartment in colorado with a view of the mountains. My taxi driver from the airport plays the flute and harmonica as he drives and tells me to go to school.
diary 43 (march 16)
The days are empty, I try to be good and whole but often it feels like i’m treading above some sort of endless and meaningless breakdown- it comes out a lot lately and i feel no good about it. Brendon takes me to the atlantic ocean this year for my birthday rather than the pacific. The trees on our street bloom with the white flowers that fall apart quickly and we buy a big sleeper truck to road trip in over the summer. I watch birds fly slowly and the buds on the trees of the cathedral on mott street early in the morning, warm and dark-cloudy, and think of how that’s how quiet i always want it to be.
girls
selected images never used for the front, media by women
models: tiffany clark, dion mac, gia seo
creative team: christine tran, alli coates, charlie curran
diary 42 (february 16)
Brendon leaves for a long time, I'm occupied at my day job, wholly disconnected, I take a taxi home late every night and sit in my living room with the overhead lights on not sure what to do, can’t make it to the bed. It gets so cold everything goes numb, the streetlight changes from warm orange to cool blue though the bedroom curtains like moonlight. On Valentine's I find a 100 dollar bill on the ground and a white parakeet in a pasta tub in the basement. I leave the city for a weekend and stay in a log cabin, hike through the snow and can’t get over the little mountain towns.
diary 41 (january 16)
Dry rose petals rustle over the floor as I throw blankets over the bed. I stay dormant, don’t have a curiosity for things outside my comfort zone and don’t mind, there’s not much to push it to that with someone always by your side. I think about what it would be like leaving the city often but can’t seem to get past the front door. There is no heaviness in me but I can’t remember what it feels like to feel lost and light either.
central park revisited
reworked selects from an editorial shot in central park, 2012
styling by jaclyn bethany
models are simona at trump, sasha at trump, eliska at major, svetlana at major, maris at re:quest
diary 40 (december 15)
Started the month out on a small roadtrip, went to Maine and drank big cups of wine in a restaurant that was like someone's living room decorated for Christmas, went to Acadia on the day it closed on accident. Skated on the slick ice on the road we were supposed to drive over late at night in front of the car headlights. Went to Canada and there was fog across the valleys in the rural parts. In the city the rain never turned to snow and the quiet subway cars have tires on them. I continue on not doing much of anything and it feels like winter never begins. Think I'm in a dream half conscious in the front seat of a cab going over the bridge to Brooklyn, the lights on either side of the water swim. I dream that I keep missing my subway stop because the flashing stations are out of order. Watch from my fire escape fire trucks sent out of the station over and over on the night of the 24th, at dawn on the 25th there’s an ambulance parked with its lights flashing outside of a home. On the 31st I pay 13 dollars for a pack of cigarettes and get a kiss a few minutes late.
diary 39 (november 15)
Watch teen couples sit close on the benches in the cold of Fermi park, roses are still blooming there and the lamps click on late. Men are still playing chess on the edge of Maria Hernandez park and loitering at the Newsstand. I boil water in a glass kettle for coffee as soon as i wake up and open the curtains for the plants- feels quiet. I live in a city of over 10 million but don’t feel it. My toothpaste turns to blue-grey from red wine at night.
diary 38 (october 15)
Time has been passing quickly and I wonder where my spark went.
