Sincerely, Frank

On Tuesday he picks the flowers in his mind sprouting from a more aristocratic existence. He holds them in his hand, sitting as dilapidated as the armchair holding his shriveled form. His eyebrows dance in unison to a weary fugue, a tune he no longer remembers as much as the pretty girls he forgets to ignore. Their faces are whitewashed with empty respect as fake as their tans, but they smile and the curves of their merry go round features twirl him into belief. He remembers himself with dignity, dedicates his coffee to the preservation of this memory with each sip.

Nerdy Shit

This semester I took History of Photo for basically no other reason other than my own personal interest. Throughout the semester I put astericks next to the photos I liked the most so that I could go back and explore them more thoroughly when I had the time. Now that I have the time, I want to document them so I can remember later on when I undoubtedly lose my photo notebook.(Also, I got an A in the class yayaaa).

Man Ray used one exposure in a series of photographs telling the story of a married woman caught in bed with her lover, yet each photo can stand on its own. My teacher (who is a genius and one of those rare teachers that I will admire for the rest of my life) remarked that "The Prayer" (seen below) is symbolic of a holy moment that is usually considered noble, sincere, and uplifting, but rather delivers the exact opposite because "what kind of prayers are omitted from the anus?"-Raymond Liddell.

The Prayer




Alfred Stieglitz- not so much my favorite but I really loved the way he emphasized a peculiar property of photography, particularly in this photo in which the bumps of flesh react to the movement of the water in a way that is not romanticized or glossed over.



Ansel Adams didn't impress me as much as I expected him to, but there were a few images that stuck out to me because of the way he captured the darker sides of nature. Specifically his images that portrayed trees as foreboding, mysterious, maybe even dangerous.



Robert Frank was able to identify cultural binders because of his unbiased approach to American values as an outsider. He conveyed the dark side of the American dream in his images, the intrinsic value of Patriotism imposed by the attitudes of Americans and the way they were molded by their surroundings.

I admired his work because he painted a picture of America that didn't please Americans, targeting xenophobia and contrasting the way we would like to see ourselves with what we fear the most. His images are ambiguous until they gain importance from association with each other, and most prominent is the American flag in his photography, which obscures the identity of the people in his photos and makes a comment on the ubiquity of the American flag throughout our country.





Finally, Edward Weston, who found pure forms in repetition with a Modernist approach to the organic and erotic qualities of nature. Most extraordinary, I found, was his ability to capture the human form in a way that mirrored the sexual imagery in his natural photographs, particularly vegetables. The palpable sense of vitality and the harmonious correlation between the human body as a collection of forms and relationships and the erotic celebration of that same form in nature was what distinguished Weston from other photographers to me.


oh and also this photo of him with cats, taken by Imogene Cunningham:





vagina?

CVS Greg

I've decided I need to write about more interesting things.

Today's topic: Greg from CVS.

Greg is my favorite kind of human being. He works in the pharmacy, leaning on the counter while Elton John and Shania Twain serenade the hunched elderly women buying windex and bunion cream. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Greg. He is nearly lipless, lacking so much emotion that I instantly feel the need to cry, scream, and slap him as soon as I see his painfully blank face. I am driven to crack Greg. I have had plans to drag him out of his white cvs cloaked shell for months.

Today, Carolyn and I went to purchase cold medication from CVS. I caught a glimpse of Greg's face as soon as we entered the store. I repeatedly punched Carolyn in an attempt to convey my mixed emotions for him. She didn't get it, but she did by the time we left.

We stood in front of the cold medicine, the kind that they keep behind the counter because they make you hallucinate and hear voices. Greg walked mechanically over to the counter. Greg: "Are you dropping off?" (We were standing in the drop off part). Carolyn: "No, we're looking at the cold medicine." Greg: "Do you want to buy some?" Carolyn: "Yes." Hannah: "No." Greg: " "

Eventually, we bought some cold medicine. Greg's face passed my test with flying colors and never changed throughout our interaction. My standard for him is high. He thanked us for coming to CVS. Greg (robotically): "Have a nice night." Hannah: "You have a GREAT night." Greg: " "

More updates on this situation as it progresses.

laundry

Today, Henry is espresso.
He presents the shopping bags
dutifully, caffeinated and vacant.
He asks, “How are you?”
his thoughts careening vicariously
into quantum physics,
sometimes even youtube.
Henry is a rewards member.
This kind of a Reward is capitalized.
Loyally, he offers this Reward
to the SUV‘s, the Louis Vuitton
purses, and the wet babies going home
to eat a better dinner than Henry.
Henry is a perky exterior
with a wilted interior.
He can’t question a woman
who has better nails than taste
in books. After all,
Henry’s shirts
smell like cat piss.

dad

Soggy mustached gloom
sits like a chess piece.
Wise to avoid
eye contact, feet contact
and all the contacts
in between.
Yellow stained
fingers, dead against
the yellow strip,
he takes only his generic
transparent grocery bag.
A box of “feminine products”
signifies nothing
to anyone, except
to the daughter I am
and once was.
For five rainy
stops, I am sitting,
warmed by his checkmate.
If only you
were still around
to pick up my pieces,
the queen:
never as important
as the father figure.

stranger

the kind of night where I am spinning
in my head, there are summer lawns
winter rain, leafy brown graves
spun around me like a spring hailstorm
possessed by the eyes of a frantic owl
in my head, I'm shivering with words
pregnancy, they say, does this to you
I didn't know about the cravings
I just want it out of me
cravings can kill you without a tongue

the fumbling gropes of morning breath
have taken away my appetite for youth
my leaves pirouette to damp ground
silhouetting sweaty dreams of gray hair
I wake up ripping holes in my sheets
forgetting who I'm pretending to love this time
in my head, I'm shivering with desire
to be a recluse, they say, is selfish
I just want it out of me
being alone can kill you these days

5:35 am

I like digging little graves
miniature ash trays, smoldering brain cells
I rub my eyes into my mother's wrinkles
the faithful mirror sings a lullaby
I don't know any better
I'm doing my best
I didn't mean to
I don't remember that

stupid girl