twenty-six weeks gone.



I got to Connecticut on Sunday after two flights and one predictably terrible airplane meal. My parents picked me up in Boston; we drove to the North End and ate Italian food for either a late lunch or an early dinner, take your pick. We got marzipan, tiramisu and cannolis for the ride home. I fell asleep before nine.

Yesterday I dropped off five rolls of film to be developed and today I found one forgotten roll from California, photographs taken in August on the drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco. I looked through them at six in the morning, jet lagged and wide awake and woken up from a dream about airplanes, about defending fortresses, about eventual defeat and capture.

I used to write my dreams down and now I just let them float away. There’s too much stuff, too much narrative. I lie awake and stare at the ceiling as the light outside gets brighter and clearer and I wonder what all of it means. And I wonder if everyones dreams have so many plot twists, so many characters, such confusing themes. I wonder if anyones dreams have happy endings.



photographs taken with a Minolta X-700

on a beach somewhere between Los Angeles and San Francisco


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