Posts from the ‘NYC Street Photography’ Category
whose listening to you?
when i go to sleep, i dream of things big and small. big like headlining madison square garden and singing like chris cornell or brent smith or maybe bringing about peace in the middle east or paying off my student loans with the money in my checking account or getting to spend a couple more hours with my dad before he died or teaching my three year old how to read. small like eating rocky road ice cream or swimming in the ocean without any fear of sharks or hanging out in prospect park eating some fried chicken. but right before i wake up, i find myself treading water amidst hundreds of paper boats, the kind you make with a few folds on a piece of folder paper and can double as a hat. and then the paper boats start spinning real fast like tops or something and when i try to put them back on course, they all start slipping toward a waterfall and then they jump off when they get to the edge as if they had legs. i watch as they fly into the air and do somersaults and flips and once in a while i think they’re going to float with the wind and maybe transform into a paper plane but then they just kind of dive down toward the bottom every time with a barely noticeable splash and then they’re lost in the spray and rocks and moss and water.
give me a few years and i won’t have to amaze you with either my word for word recital of dickinson’s ‘a curious cloud surprised the sky,’ the fact that i have lunch with tori amos about once a month at my parent’s house in bar harbor, or that i know the manager of pianos. wait until this estrogen really kicks in and i’ll tower over you like a giraffe in knee high boots.
i think a lot of people think, including myself, that if they stay in the same job, things are going to change, you know they just will somehow, someway. just stick out for a few more days and those days become months and those months become years and then holy shit you’ve been in the same job for almost ten years. and then you realize nothing really changed except you’re going to come home every night and avoid the mirror but every once in a while you’ll look in the mirror and ask yourself, “what i am fucking doing?” and that’s one of those real questions that we as humans like to avoid because it actually makes you think for real, makes you step back from the moving and doing and checking fucking email for the sake of moving and doing and checking fucking email. and right there and then you can make a choice to leave and do what you want to do or you can go back to doing the same shit you were doing before, hoping and wishing that the whole scenario is going to change, or you can step out and do what you’ve been deferring for some undefined moment in time in some undefined moment in the future.
once in a while, i dream of molars encompassed by fields of gold flakes.
a search of my mind reveals a dream i kept in a green plastic box underneath my bed. i didn’t think anyone would find it there. but you know how technology is now. nothing is really safe, not even your thoughts apparently. maybe if i go into the forest when it’s raining, and download my thoughts into a rainbow, the leprechauns would safeguard it until i get back.
there is a magic show that i keep in a box at home underneath my bed inside of a secret plastic bag that’s folded between two envelopes that i remember buying the first time i went to paris and saw the beautiful lights. i really miss those days because those were the days you could fly literally with these carpets that you could get anywhere for a pittance. all you really needed was a place to fly and there was plenty of that in the countryside. my father owned a farm there with all these chickens and i remember they use to come in at dinner and ask us to sing songs and we did because that’s the kind of family we were.
imagine a world where everyday is the first day.
for me, the best time to go to coney island is in the summer when it’s raining. the rain washes away all the dust and litter and manhattanites that tend to accumulate. what’s left is the innocence that will always be coney island. even if you weren’t born here, you are transported back, even for a few seconds, to that time in your childhood when you could yell at the top of your lungs, when your daddy was your best friend, and you ran from one place to another because you could.
taxi taxi taxi
e v e r y d a y aperture 