Next Load

Many graffiti bombers have a spiral-bound notebook full of designs they've sketched during homeroom or on lunch breaks or late at night when the moon's shining through the fire escape. It's sort of a portfolio, but it's also an incubator where initial drafts of a design are hatched, discarded, and honed to perfection. Black ink, colored pencil, sharpie, lead, ball-point, whatever. Sure, some pieces are relatively simple "throw-up's" (the impulsive, opportunistic kind of tagging that doesn't require much premeditation) but most of the ones I photograph likely exist on paper somewhere. They're like sonnets or short stories. They're somebody's children.

My good gal and my baby girl return tomorrow, thank Gawd. Man, it's been surreal without them being around. Basically, while they were away, I worked my li'l "Confederacy of Dunces" jobbie-job and hacked a 1.5 mile trail through dense, wooded undergrowth. In the process, I was met with maximum resistance from wood ticks, rolling rocks, and various plants that make you itch upon contact. The last few days I spent working on the trail, I started to get tired and think, "Why did I take this task on? Just what, exactly, is this a metaphor for?"

I sketched out a map of the trail a few nights ago, when I was up late, listening to the CSX grumble along. While I was doing so, I ate a Twix candy bar and fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, sunlight was quaking just above the tree line and Stella was in some kind of a trance, chasing rabbits in her sleep, and snoring soft cries because they were eluding her. Or maybe because she was the one being chased by some nefarious dream-entities. Either way, Stella's morning whimper was the most plaintive and sad thing ever to exist on the railroad earth.