my grandmother

she is beautiful. she is strong. she is safety. she glows. she is home.

she is always inside my heart

typical day

faceless

looking down

con's day of birth 27 years ago

It was chance meeting, but one of my favorite meetings. Conor had a full beard that day and he towered over me. The sun was shinning big and bright, and it was good to meet him. Conor is one of my favorites, and I am thankful for him. The world is a happier place with you in it... you are a rock. 

[The joy of being a photographer's friend]

Con.or

a man who sacrifices his body for my art

and in return will always be in my heart

water series

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untitled narrative


Not to mention Conor let me make his body into a human photograph. 

The Process

1. one shaved chest
2. one layer of tough skin for cuts
3. one layer chrome spray paint
4. one heavy layer of liquid light 
5. wait until it dries (may take forever) 
6. project and expose image onto conor
7. put his body through developer, stop, and fixer. 
8. present to class
9. he is a gem

[ please note the process was self tested on yours truly...and we both have great skin ] 

a boy with the eyes

this boy named sam

There is this boy named Sam,

I see him everywhere.

One day he will ask for my number.

my anarchist friend

"I am an anarchist," he declared. He kept talking about his investment in non-fiction. He was going through a phase, and he felt things were better related to through real life experiences. "We have so much to share that has actually been felt and experienced." He was so loud when he spoke, and he kept talking as if he were the only one at the table, a table of listeners silently disagreeing. I think we only disagreed because he spoke with to much venom to not question his conviction. He kept insisting it made no sense to invest in a world that does not exist, and suddenly a wave of beautiful fictional metaphors filled my head, and I had to say it out loud, "I disagree." I wondered why I get riled up when someone seems to sincere for their own good, feelings becoming facts, there own fiction becoming non-fiction. Perhaps, I had already nodded my head to many times that day, nodding in my pursuit of feigned interest. We have to hear, listen, and then respond, but our little improve selves are out there dishing out spoonfuls of I Know Everything flavored ice cream. False, we do not not know everything,  we pretend we do, and the strength in our voice convinces our minds that is how we really feel about things. I do have one question, what would non-fiction do without fiction? Non-fiction would be fiction because there would be no need for non, and I feel satisfied being able to at least disprove his claim verbally, nonsensically. One thing is for certain though, I am excited to claim him, "Hey this is Mat, my anarchist friend." I like that idea for now.

girl with a rat

She was so proud of her rat,

just as she should be.

I have a friend who had a rat named Lucy,

she grew up to do great things.

Perhaps more of us should have have plastic rats,

(not for the fainthearted)

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