the bricks spread
like fire
toward the field
where the sun will beat
each shadow
into
hiding
like fire
toward the field
where the sun will beat
each shadow
into
hiding
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
to her skin
I finger the white papers nervously waiting for some kind of response. I am going to be a writer, I have just declared, because it it’s true and somehow-important. But momma just sits there as my shadow ripples rapidly across her knees, into her lap and over her shoulders, repeatedly washing over her like a frantic, angry spirit.
Momma rocks more than any other mom I know. Some mom’s cook a lot, clean every day, or drive too much. My momma rocks. She rocks quickly with one foot always pressed flat into the ground and the other pointed sharply towards the TV. I swear she can see me, despite her lab-rat gaze and I am nearly certain she hears my trembling voice. Sometimes, if I wait long enough, (the human background to her methodical movements)- she will turn towards me with a snarled upper-lip to touch my hair or answer a question. Can I go to Roxy’s house I will ask and like a guinea pig, or some other round-eyed creature, she mumbles yes or no without breaking her transfixed stair towards the television. I am hoping for something, anything this time to encourage my latest discovery.
I am a writer, I think, silently this time.
The papers have begun to feel damp in my moist grasp. I hold them to my chest, where their glowing whiteness contrasts with my sun-beat skin. Startled by a spark of pain, I look down to see a bright red stripe spreading across my palm where I have accidently sliced my skin. The papers, a simple little book made of construction paper and pen, slip through my fingers, arms and elbows, as a surge of heat burns through my stomach towards my throat. The sheets of paper pause mid-air before gliding towards the floor into a dazzling parade of anemic checkers. I wonder if momma knows how much I need her to pick them up with me, how much I long for her to look at them and touch them to her skin, to her memory.
I slowly turn toward the television, where a country-music-singing cowboy sings of heartache and whiskey. My momma's chair sways back and forth in a subtle display of excitement, rustling my papers amidst the light waft of oak and disappointment.
Momma rocks more than any other mom I know. Some mom’s cook a lot, clean every day, or drive too much. My momma rocks. She rocks quickly with one foot always pressed flat into the ground and the other pointed sharply towards the TV. I swear she can see me, despite her lab-rat gaze and I am nearly certain she hears my trembling voice. Sometimes, if I wait long enough, (the human background to her methodical movements)- she will turn towards me with a snarled upper-lip to touch my hair or answer a question. Can I go to Roxy’s house I will ask and like a guinea pig, or some other round-eyed creature, she mumbles yes or no without breaking her transfixed stair towards the television. I am hoping for something, anything this time to encourage my latest discovery.
I am a writer, I think, silently this time.
The papers have begun to feel damp in my moist grasp. I hold them to my chest, where their glowing whiteness contrasts with my sun-beat skin. Startled by a spark of pain, I look down to see a bright red stripe spreading across my palm where I have accidently sliced my skin. The papers, a simple little book made of construction paper and pen, slip through my fingers, arms and elbows, as a surge of heat burns through my stomach towards my throat. The sheets of paper pause mid-air before gliding towards the floor into a dazzling parade of anemic checkers. I wonder if momma knows how much I need her to pick them up with me, how much I long for her to look at them and touch them to her skin, to her memory.
I slowly turn toward the television, where a country-music-singing cowboy sings of heartache and whiskey. My momma's chair sways back and forth in a subtle display of excitement, rustling my papers amidst the light waft of oak and disappointment.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
My Groom and his Men
This is taken with a tilt shift lense, which makes them all seem tiny and far away. Taken in Pioneer Square!
Bridal Portrait
This is THE BED. You know, the first night bed? Loved the room, the colors and the feel of the entire Monaco hotel... loved these pictures ( :
Just Married
We walked around downtown scoping out prime spots for photos. This was us just leaving the monaco... a few minutes after the "first look". I felt so feint- this is why I'm holding my side.
Me and the Girls
Kevin just finished editing this brilliant photo. The lighting is so beautiful. Hooray! I am married ( :
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