365 – Dreampepper

365: The month of June

365: 2012/06/06 - sing to the memory of light

365: 2012/06/08 - wrecked and broken bridges

365: 2012/06/20 - his father's knife (I know the answer, but not the question)

Near the end of the private wake for friends and family of Joe “Vito” Albanese, 52, (aka Dexter Mantooth or Meshugana Joe) murdered along with best friend and bandmate, Drew Keriakedes, 45, (aka Schmootzi the Clod) at the Cafe Racer killings in Seattle. Both men performed with Circus Contraption and founded the band God’s Favorite Beefcake. This video is my only 365 shot that I am not specifically in. I believe, however, that I am reflected in everyone there. I am that moment as they were that moment. It is still a self-portrait. The best kind there is.

365: 2012/06/11 - innocent when you dream

365: The month of May

365: 2012/05/21 - the end of twin peaks tuesdays

365: 2012/05/01 - should have seen the other

365: 2012/05/22 - a week away from thirty

365: The month of April

365: 2012/04/02 - the rainbow connection

365: The month of March

365: 2012/02/24 - in memory of Trayvon Martin

365: 2012/02/23 - this sign is on every surface

365: 2012/03/26 - the little room where I work

365: The month of February

365: 2012/02/05 - jacked straight across

365: 2012/02/02 - a nicer part of winter

365: 2012/02/08 - a perpetual case of cat wrist

365: 2012/02/12 - a perfectly good question

365: 2012/02/15 - the night it all began

365: 2012/02/23 - waiting in the cold room

365: 2012/02/26 - about to try frog for the first time

365: 2012/02/28 - “the gastronomy of the eye.”

365: 2012/02/29 - Fido, the loyal bunny of grievous doom

365: the month of January

365:2012, 01 – a completed month of self portraits.

365: 2012/01/09 – remembering

My father taught me how to tune a six string by ear when I was a very small child. Today I discovered that I can still do it. He might be gone, but the knowledge is not.

Remember kids, a telephone dial tone is an “a”.

assembling the artillery

356:2010/01/31 – aeroship hers

My eyes burn when they blink from staring too long at a screen. Today has been a day of creating and back aches and forgetting to stretch or to eat or to move. It is good, as now I can sit back and see what I have accomplished, which is not insignificant, and feel less like I am wasting my life, using my hours and minutes up, moment by moment, until the day I suddenly wake, years too late, and realize, all through my life, that nothing’s been done.

Today’s accomplishments are all small things, though cumulative, as I’m in the midst of readying essential files for a laser cutter and readying them for thread, hacking out approximations of finished forms, sourcing where I should go for prints, and other various sundries. My computer, through all of this, acting as teacher, toolbox, and friend. I’ve also managed to finish a rough draft for my new website, nothing spectacular, but functional, and hopefully not too impossible to build.

where are you to say goodnight?

365: 91 – 02.04.09

wake up, love

wake up, love
undress yourself from my skin
put on the sun and let our dreaming rest
come watch the world rise

wake up, love
and be unbalance on the edge with me
of our sagging, remembering bed
come slip on your shoes

wake up, love
and help me sort this tangle of belongings
our thoughts half in day, half still in night
come kiss me full of sustenance

wake up, love
and meet me at the opened door
before the scent of you leaves my hands and hair
come walk with me into this life

by Tobin James Mueller

work just handed me business cards to schmooze with, telling me to “slip them in my bra”

365: 77 – 18.03.09

Looking up from my book to step onto a crowded bus, I slipped through everyone to the very back to find an unexpected puddle of empty seats around a very young, equally unexpected boy. No more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, eyes fixed out the window, obviously aware of everyone staring, he would not have been exceptional except that he was dressed as if he was only five minutes out of the Arab Emirates, all flowing, air thin white robes and leather string sandals, except for a light blue, very out of style denim jacket, a bare, acid wash nod to the weather as torn out of place and time as his traditional Saudi white and black ghutra and ougal. In the morning commuter gloom of black and gray and raincoats, his shining white looked completely bizarre, like a theater costume at a funeral, setting him completely apart.

So I sat next to him. We’re all strangers somewhere.