Monday, November 14, 2011

Photo Studio:

read my past entries, on a series im doing for my photo series. Thinking about people in moments, in patterns- not in faces. This is my brain map. This is how i think of people.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

a post that never posted: From October 22

what's in my bag:
anthropology magazine
dunkin coffee mug
laptop cord
cough drops
construction paper

whtat's in my head:
dancing from last night
ankle socks
cutting my bangs
getting more scarves
replacing my toothbrush
neurologist appointment
paying a parking ticket i dont deserve
dancing tonight
where will i live
what will i do
how long will i do it for
how long will i have this cough for
how much longer do i need to work
why do i need to work

Pappou Memories:

i can see you for coffee
good and bad cups
decaf, and greek cups
i can see you for a lover of all things
for all sides of the story
a lover in general
i see you and the way your lips hold their formation
how they form their accent on words i take for granted, and we make fun of you for
i see you for your clip on sunglasses
and the felted hat that's silky and red on the inside
i think of you and your left hand, and how you have remained faithful for all these years
i think of you and the table you feed me at
the wooden table, the knit place-mats, and the crocheted seat covers that slide around
i think of you in dim lighting
and fisherman floods
for flashing hazards, and 63
think of you and your right cheek and how it feels when i kiss it
i can see your hair, white feathers that never know what they want, especially on your hat days
i see your belt popping over the back of your slacks, and the fanny pack filled with euros
i see your fast pace, and willingness to progress it even farther at 83
i see your lamp, and your handwriting that glows underneath it with important phone numbers
your red clock, and jesus painting all enclose the bunk beds room, and i can see them staying in the same spot for a while now
i hear you in the crickets at night, and i smell you on a shirt i own
i see you in many shades of brown, in gold, and in blue
i see you in shades of light, and shades of color
i see you in words, and in instances when they dont need to be expressed that way
i can think of you in warm summer nights in Greece, and i can think of you on cold days in Northern New Jersey when you refuse help shoveling.
i see the blue carpet, and the mirror that reflects it all
i see your steps, and how frequently you took them
olives and feta, i can think of you in tastes
tomatoes and oil, i can remember you in consistency
i see you for pink hula hoops, and ruby red grapefruit juice, grilled cheese done wrong, and entiments boxes that i will always get offered.
i see you in memories that have a long life to lead, and in one's i can only hold in my hand as evidence that you smiled, or stood that way
i see you in every which way that's good.
every half hour chime, every bathroom mishap, and all family gatherings where you oversee it all.
i see both of us together, because that's how my memory always regains its composure

For Mom:

i can see your hair
lots of hair, and lots of changes i'll never approve of
roots of grey
some of out of tuned brown
but all images of hair
i see your finger nails, and the skin that gets ripped off when you don't know what else to do
i see you in patterened aprons
and jeans that rise just a little too high over your belly button
i think of your front tooth
yours and mine similar in the way it rotates subtly
i see the birth mark on your head, just as mine mimicked as well
i see you for the freckles on your back, and the cyst you had removed when i was 5
back when i didn't know what a cyst even was.
i think of you in grids, and color codes
calendars that are one day early
and clocks that are 3 minutes fast
i think of you in labeled shoe boxes, and eye lashes that have the chance to be something bigger
i think of the blue bed spread, and how it canopies over your legs after a long day
i think of you on the couch,tv flickering on your closed lids
i can see your purse, the tin foil from the gum that makes too much noise in church
and the commerce bank pens that always fill out blank checks
i see you in pace, and steady movement
in tree branches, and car seats
i see the tags that hang from your keychain ensemble
and the noise they make when you enter the house
i see you L.L.Bean tote bag you've had since i remember our relationship as mother and daughter
i see you in hand movements, movements that communicate to the ones that cant do their ears justice
i see you in eyebrow shifts, in expressions that try to communicate what her heart wants but words cant
i see you in greens and browns, blacks, and navy's
patterns of clothing fill in spaces of memory i wasn't around for
patterns of dance costumes, florals that hang in my closet, red sequins up in the attic
i see you in skinny hard copies
legs a prominent subject
i think of you as many parts, never as a whole
i think of you in terms of what i will look like soon
but maybe never
i see the radio on, the blue squares indicating the car is going to be cold in a few minutes
i see paint chips on the wall, and green coffee mugs that line up with intention
i see the green place mats that are ready to make it to the wash because Ben spilled ketchup again
i think of you in color and texture
green and ever changing hair and charts
i'll never write on that calender, mom
but i'll hold contentment that there's a place for just about everything
even the L.L.Bean bag that's always a part of the family.

Memories of Dad:

i think of you in hard copies
in major in minor
in memories that are holding on by threads
of ones that are stuck on with the oil pastels you hung all over the house
my memories consist of your five o clock shadow
and the rhythm of your feet moving as i stood on top of them
i think of you in large hand movements
slow and steady, fortissimo, and never out of tune
i see you with the plaid button downs, and the quilt that never left the bed
memories of nbc waving to me in the morning, and eagerness for the day
i remember our reflections, not yours singular, but ours together
the cologne on both our wrists, and the tile on your floor
i see the almost brown carpet
and the soup cans that lined the shelves
i remember every single quarter i ever stole from your car console
and the look of disappointment that you knew i snuck out
i remember your hands, and i think of them as a close friend of ours
i think of you in black and white keys
in brass reflections, and harmonica shapes
i can see you in memories and hard copies
smells and sounds
i try turning the volume up
but as i get older, it seems that i cant reach for the knob quite as well
i can see you in the waves
in the ocean at pompham, and in the rain in kutztown
i see you in ever snow flake, because thats where you speak to me now
i see you on a roll of film, and on every piece of fruit i dont wash
i think of you in moments in time, and patterns from the past
i think of you in your glasses and the imprints that were left on your nose by the end of the day
i sometimes have the privilege of remembering your face but i mainly get glimpses of
the navy emblems on your green jacket, the tag inside that had more of a chance of surviving than my memories do now, the socks that pulled right above your ankle, and how just how very big your hands felt as they engulfed my whole body.
i am your child, in memories, and hard copies
in photos and in memory banks
i'll keep this volume turned up as loud as i can
because if i dont, i'm not sure what else i'l have to hold onto.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


its not about the small stuff
its not about your car breaking down
its not about your chapped lips
your stubbed toe
or your mom seldomly coming around

its not about what you're wearing
and not about what he's got on
its never about your mistakes
your mess-ups
or your 'what-i-did-wrong's'

its not about the speed limit that you never follow
and its not about the tag that always peeks out
its not about your apathy for today, your future, or the situations around you

its not about those comparisons you fease up because its 
not important nor never will be
its not about them, or she, the collecive or the singular
and its never about all of it

it's about your DNA persuading your lungs to be the real you
it's about your feet warning your pulse when there's a new turn
it's about the moments of brief certainty when your synapses and heart shake hands once again
its about never knowing how many grains of sand or galaxies of stars there are to count
because it's not about that
we're a brief moment in time
and that's what we're about.