It occurs to me that one possible reason why I find fairies of the Fair Folk Beautiful and Terrible Kings and Queens Blah Blah boring and vaguely distasteful is that when you strip down all the glamour, they’re basically bored irresponsible rich kids randomly fucking with average people for their amusement just because they can. Like I get that Spring Storms Made Flesh and Lords of the Secret World but if Kellyaghnn from PE invited you to a Victorian-themed party complete with 1000$-a-piece tiny hats at her sixteen-room mansion with all her immaculately spray-tanned friends who giggle about What Fools These Working Classes Be, and then when you ate a single raisin promptly told you that now you have to stay in her house and work as her servant for free for the rest of your life to pay it off, possibly while dressed as a farm animal, you wouldn’t respond by sighing dreamily about how she’s Beyond Good and Evil.
a few people (usually at gas stations, noting my hail destroyed car) have asked, “why do you storm chase” and the only good answer I have is “why don’t you?”
it’s true I’m not a classical storm chaser. I tend to entirely different areas of the storm than most do (the part that still has some light if possible) and really, I’m a photographer chasing a photo more than a storm chaser but I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to scream across the prairie after some monster so big and alive you can hardly take it all in (even at 15mm). the complexity, drama, violence and power make almost anything possible. I’ve seen things that took my breath away, and cowered in my car praying my glass would hold and that nothing terribly nasty was living in that shroud of rain that pinned me to where I was.
I’ve wasted entire days on hope.
I hope that storm can organize itself despite all the science saying it can’t. I hope I can get to this spot on the map before it does. I hope the light holds. or the road hasn’t heaved too bad this winter.
every year i commit myself to only chase the big bad boys that have structure, and form, and the rare magic of a fully formed super cell and every year I find myself rolling across the gravel roads after some pulse storm that maybe, just maybe has something pretty in it.
so entering year three of really learning and chasing more seriously my answer would be, why aren’t you out there, living and dying with the gust fronts and hail cores and living creatures sucking up the prairie moist. really. why?
She was beautiful.
There was no denying it.
But she wasn’t that kind of beautiful that made everyone turn,
Or took everyones breath away when she entered the room.
Her beauty was hidden,
But once you’ve seen it she becomes nothing but beautiful.
Shes the kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night,
The kind that makes you love every part of her.
Some people may not see it,
And you know she can’t,
But she’s beautiful.
Theres no denying it.
Description: It wasn’t long after you started your new job that your boss caught your attention. Young, platinum blonde, a fan of basketball and hip hop, he was quite the outlier for someone with his title. It was hard to deny your attraction and when he suggested a casual sexual agreement it was clear the feeling was mutual. What wasn’t apparent at the start was the dark reality he lived in and how he would pull you into that abyss.
Reflections on wet pavements. The city itself is a natural watercolourist! It’s been a long rainy day at the library, and although I feel frustrated with myself and my work right now, it was worth rolling up just for this. 2016, Photo Diary, April 11.
my process is simple these days. get in the car. see where people are and drive the other way. take pictures. delete 80% of them. work on the other 20%. share 3 or 4. forget the rest. get up the next day and do it all over again.
Date the grieving god, watch as they sit under a statue of their friends, mourning the tragedies that unfolded. Watch as their domain slowly relies on them. After all, there is no Spring without the storm. Date the grieving god, who, when they finally return, they become a statue of their own. The angels come to care for them, but all they get is a cold, unyielding stare. The god’s eyes are likened to an overcast sky, hiding the bright times that are long gone. Let them read you the story of the chaos god and the corrupted martyr, and they will weep, remembering times gone by. Their wings of silver weigh heavy on their arms.
Tap, tap, tap… the raindrops fell onto the evestrough above.
Their sound was the only thing you could hear, while in the background stood a
gray landscape, framed by my widow. It reminds of that one afternoon…
As the gusts of wind blew, the rain fell in waves, the
tapping started off gently, sharply rising in frequency before fading back. The
view from my window was a painting, whose artist had suddenly felt the touch of
inspiration on the face of calmness – the grass of my garden was a deep, cool
green, as if distilled from the pine needles of the evergreen forests, which
gives one the feeling of freshness, of clear though and of icy air entering
your body, for the gray sky the artist dipped his brush into his melancholy and
the heaviest of colors appeared on the canvas. Where they should meet there was
no horizon, but a blurry line, a blend of green and gray watercolor. The same
picture is burned into my eyelids, as it hurts every time I see it. It was on
such a picturesque day that I ended it all…
The mysterious thin threads of rain, wrist-high, was all I could
see of it. The lines contrasted on the grass. All of the coolness of nature was
infused in this work of art, which no man can produce. It is only for the gods
of the olden times to have the wisdom to create such things for the simple man
to look at and ponder “How is this possible?”. I too pondered how you were
possible… and you weren’t. I had been too foolish to see that your rain was to
stop. You came in the spring, a sudden storm that took me by surprise… I was
away from my home, my shelter, when you struck with the force of a hailstorm,
enormous gray clouds, water and ice in tandem hitting against my face, knocking
on my evestrough, braking the windows of my house and blowing all away with the
force of your wind… and then it all stopped. You were merely a spring storm,
you came and you went.
This rain, however, is endless, eternal. It is the rain of
sadness, which has come over my soul. A delicate autumn rain. Just like that
afternoon, when the storm had faded and you were just gone…