The green feet

My days are better when I'm sporting my green shoes. I kind of feel like I've jacked Kermit's feet.

FALLING SLOWLY by The Swell Season

I dont know you
but I want you
all the more for that
words falls through me
and always fool me
and I cant react
and games that never amount
to more than theyre meant
will play themselves out

take this sinking boat and point it home
weve still got time
raise your hopefull voice you have a choice
youve made it now

falling slowly, eyes that know me
and I cant go back
moods that take me and erase me
and Im painted black
you have suffered enough
and warred with yourself
its time that you won

take this sinking boat and point it home
weve still got time
raise your hopefull voice you had a choice
youve made it now

take this sinking boat and point it home
weve still got time
raise your hopefull voice you had a choice
youve made it now
falling slowly sing your melody
Ill sing along


Sounds like photography to me.

Bertha rode home in my pocket book.

I went antiquing today. In a musty old booth, I met Bertha. Now Bertha is no average woman. She fits in the palm of my pudgy hand. She's framed by pink and fingerprints. She will for ever rest on scratched tin, rusting a little on the back, looking ever cross. There is a fair amount of negative space above her head and her sides. I think the negative space only reflects the negative pose, the negative pout she gives. Yet, there is something in her eyes and a little something in the corner of her mouth that makes me think that there is something more to Bertha than the negative. There is something sharp about Bertha. I imagine that her tongue was even sharper than the corner of tin she lives on, is frozen to.
I'll never know who Bertha really was. I'll never know what she was really like. Was her heart as cool as the metal I'll carry around forever? Was she sharp? Did she only look hard? Why did she tuck her hand under just that way? Why that dress that day? What was the cause, the reason for the picture? I'll never know how she wound up at that antique store. I'll never know who forgot her. I'll never new who felt free enough of her eyes to give her away.
Seems like there is a lot I don't know. What I do know is that she reminds me of my portfolio from this summer. She reminds me of everything forgotten, and then found again. Maybe it's not that she's forgotten but in the end after everything, remembered. Maybe that's what gets me. Maybe that's why I spent my entire summer shooting things people just forgot about. Everything forgotten has the opportunity, the privilege to be found again.............to be remembered.

2nd grade..................

Second Grade math is great birth control. You also learn to spell the word pretty in second grade. Apparently you spell it b-e-t-t-y. I didn't know. Second grade was such a long time ago.

Did I see you last night when I closed my eyes?

A metaphor with an i

It's snowing. It's snowing and it's windy.
That's windy with an i---- if it were a windy with an e I'd be having a square hamburger right now. Always fresh, never frozen.

The snow some how finds a way to drift up my pant leg , down my sock and it seems to be the only thing I have up my sleeve. No magic there, just snow. Snow powered by wind.
It's the wind.
There is nothing good about wind. I don't own a sail boat. Nor am I'm trying to power my home with wind. My last kite is buried deep in the woods beyond my house. So the wind, the wind, is just a parasite today.
The wind just blows stuff over and it just pushes the snow around and in the way. It's not the snow that I'm afraid of it's the wind. If it were a mobster I'd call it Tony or Sal.

I hope the wind doesn't take me out.

Cataract

I remember the day I stopped seeing the world in focus. It was at that moment that things became utterly and completely clear.