according to my observations (the layers of sweaters and switching from wearing turbans to wearing my beret and other various wool hats,) today is truly the first day of autumn in portland, or so it feels. when i uncovered my eyes from the comforter this morning, i saw a great gray cloud outside the open window. some rain fell, the wind shook the tarp over our dolphin, and now the sun and a hint of blue sky are peeking from their comforter of cloud. today i am fighting to stay motivated and focused on certain businesses that need my attention, but i figured i deserved a small break to update my tumblr, and since i wont be able to see my few rolls of negatives i dropped off at the lab until tomorrow, i figured i’d share with you some of my favourite tumblr  blogs these days… but first, i want to say thank you to PDN for the neat little mention in this article, coincidentally about tumblr blogs.

some of my favourite tumblr blogs these days:

p.s. i can’t stop listening to bob dylan today
p.p.s. i stopped, but now i cant stop listening to billie holiday.



Sit still, please.

Allow yourself the time to feel.  You can’t always bounce from place to place to place.  Stick your arm out the window—turn your chin toward the sky.  Allow your skin to absorb all that surrounds you.  It feels nice.  It should feel nice.  It should be guilt free.  Now—bring a friend next time.  There’s always someone in need of a reminder to step out and sit still a moment. 

Going Home?

By A.

I haven’t been updating consistently over the past few years because I haven’t felt motivated, haven’t been inspired, haven’t been loved.

But now I see.

Just like last week.  

I sat on a stoop with this little girl in Clinton Hill while we waited for the bus.  I knew her only slightly, and she seemed bored with the silence.  I watched a man walk by with orange skin and an ambiguously small red bag slung over his shoulder.  I asked her if she knew where he had come from.  She asked me how in the world was she to know.  I told her to guess.  She responded, as any bright little girl with an ounce of deductive capabilities would; he has a bag, and he’s walking up the street with nothing but houses in the forefront.  He must have come from a store and is now going home.  
He came from a store.  He’s going home.  
He came from a specialty shop in the northern most boroughs.  He lost his wallet and prized cheese while playing an impromptu game of soccer with some foreigners at Central Park, ultimately catering his sour odor and dirt smeared clothing.  No one likes a beggar in this city.  He walked home because he can because it’s an accomplishable task.  Too much time has past.  He’s burnt and stumbling.  He’s eager to be home, but first, he had to stop at the deli.  It was the day he always stopped.  They know his face.  They carry his order.  They collect on trust.  He’s an IOU for his little red bag, and he’s good for it. Yes.  
He is just a man who came from a store and is now going home.  

Here we sit on this little stone.  It’s you, and it’s me.  It’s the sun shining down our shirts.  It’s the rain tickling our breasts.  It’s the moment we decide surrender is not a fathomable option.  Here we are.  We take our breath and open our eyes to the beaming possibility that once warmed us.  Here we go.  One step at a time–it’s the only way to cross the bridge.


Sherlock Jr.  (I do suggest you watch!) 

burying this evenings energy into the brilliant comedic works of “Buster” Keaton.