nothing dims these stars

I wrote an entry similar to this one a long time ago.

I hate, now more than ever, when artists use the metaphor of a car crash for some great, big emotional or mental break through. All I can say, having been in two major ones and one minor one, is that these artists who write such songs, have clearly never been in one. If they had, they'd know it was traumatic, stressful and incredibly painful - not something you write about when seeking clarity and a general emotional jump start.

I should be grateful that I'm okay and the other driver is as well, and I am, somewhere inside of me. I'm glad no one was hurt, I'm glad I didn't break any more bones, I'm glad his car didn't go over that seven foot wall into the parking lot of Rite Aid. All of these things could have easily happened. But instead of gratitude, I'm really wanting to give God the finger and start cursing at him for yet another low blow this summer. Getting sick, dropping my summer classes and being forced to go back to AU for another fucking semester wasn't enough, no, let's have Traci have an accident and now be out of a car. Where am I supposed to get money for a car? How am I going to pay for more school? I'm so fucking angry at everything.

But life just keeps going, you know? You never get the time to stop and just take a day to stop shaking and curl up in bed and just gather what pieces you have left. Work, rehearsal, piano, work, rehearsal, piano... it never stops. And fuck my life, it's not getting any better any time soon.

i just died in your arms tonight

I love photography.

Le duh, you say, we know this. And I take a lot of pictures, especially this summer, at least 1000 shots a week. Despite those startling numbers, I can without a doubt point to three photographs that I cherish above all else... and they're probably not what you think - i.e., none of them are Matt Nathanson.

First is a photograph I took while in California with Jordan, my best friend through high school. It's black and white, and what Pez calls the perfect example of an Ansel Adams' picture with it's foreground, subject and background. The lighting, the composition and the model are absolutely perfect, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to create something quite that beautiful again.

Second is a picture that I didn't even take - Jordan took it of me. Again, black and white, and I'm standing in her garden, under her trellis, wearing my prom dress from the year I went with Bobby. My hair is short and flipped out, and my eyes are quite serious. I think ti's my favorite picture of myself, ever.

Third is a photo I took at Brew Mountain Coffee, at the Cool Hand Luke show years ago. I was just figuring out my SLR, wasting film right and left. This particular show, I shot probably two or three rolls and got maybe one or two photos I could bear to look at. One of them was a posed photo of three skateboarders, holding their boards, pointing up at a sign that said "No Skateboarding Allowed." Even though I created the picture, I love looking at the irony and feeling like I captured a Moment.

A long time ago, I hunted through my box of negatives to find the negatives for these three photos. I can't even say how amazed I was to actually turn them up - searching through negatives is tedious and difficult and not nearly as easy as browsing through photos on a computer. I pulled the negatives out and set them aside in a sleeve so I could go to Target and get them made into 8x10s. I carried them in my planner for the better part of a year, hoping I'd remember to get them made.

Tonight, I realized I never got them made and pulled out my planned to check if they were still there. A sinking feeling grew in my stomach as I flipped through the pages and looked in the pocket where I stashed the sleeve - nothing. I searched my new planner, knowing it was futile. I looked over my desk, checked in drawers, looked places I knew it would never be.

On a whim, I looked in my box from MAC that currently holds sharpies and other odds and ends. I knew it wouldn't be there, but I looked inside a Target photo envelope for kicks - and between pictures from the Virginia Newsies Rally (believe it or not), there they were. I couldn't believe my eyes, and the knot in my stomach slowly dissipated as I breathed out, checking to make sure it was really them.

It was, it is. They are. I have them.

That feeling of utter hopelessness, of futility, of helplessness, is one I am unfortunately all to acquainted with. Sometimes it's over something as innocent as a negative - other times, it's heavy, like a memory. And it's the worst when it's both and you feel so stupid crying over lost pictures when people are dying in the world, and you will be able to take more pictures tomorrow - but it still hurts. Pain is real no matter where it comes from. I know this more than anyone else.

But tonight, I will be able to sleep, knowing I'm lucky enough to hold onto these insignificant items.

And Monday, I will make the damn photos, because I know a second chance when I'm given one.