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Friday, July 17, 2009

Blood of the young


These two dudes, Reilly Hodgson and Dimitri Karakostas put together a photography zine called "Blood of the young", downloadable here: www.bloodoftheyoung.com, for FREE.  This issue is themed 'girls', and it features one of my photos. 

The zine is actually super rad, and very much worth a look. 

Thursday, July 16, 2009

damnit dude

R.I.P. 
Dash Snow
July 27th, 1981 - July 13th, 2009



Dash Snow, May 6th, 2009


As soon as I heard Dash died, there were three people I knew closely who I knew would be among those hit the hardest among his friends. Three amazing, kind hearted, creative spirits who would be totally broken over the death of kin. 
When the city weathers a loss like this, in kind with the death of Harold Hunter, the ripple effect reminds us of just how tiny an island this really is. Dash, you will be missed and remembered for a long, long time.

Monday, July 13, 2009

goodbye sweet England - dispatch 9 - the last word from the outside

"Mr Churchill, you're drunk!"


"Madame, you are ugly. But in the morning, I will be sober."

shedding poundage - dispatch 8 - 7.12.09

I have been dropping my belongings like flies, all over Europe. I sold my small skateboard to a small man in London, I lent books to people in France and Spain, and I gave t-shirts to people in five countries. I had to make room.

Nothing is real anymore. My body is one big tingle, and the world is an echo chamber.
Everyone is speaking German in England right now, then Swedish, only then I realize it's English put through the cheese grater of my sleep deprived brain. Only if they are sitting directly next to me can I understand.
I am in a fist fight with my face because it says, by law, now my eyes get a siesta, and I say fuck that Im a capitalist, keep those shutters open baby.

I took a two hour, middle of the night nap in one country last night, and had coffee in another this morning. It hurts the body now.

I have been having delirious dreams about you and *Ina. She becomes this all powerful being of love, that loved you, but you won't let her go because you need her love more than anything, to breathe, to not wear a crease in your brow all the time. Whenever she would stand her ground you would pull her to you.
Everyone on this train is a strange, diluted version of you and her and me yesterday - as though somebody threw the three of us in a cocktail shaker with a whole ton of alcohol, and some indigenous Swedish fruits.

When we're in the subway tunnel it's fine, but then we start rolling into the sun. And I realize it's day time. And I have to go meet a girl's parents. Jesus. I look like death climbed in my back window and squatted my eyeballs. I wouldnt want me hanging around with my daughter. A loaf of bread could play hide and seek in my hairdo right now.

"I'm sorry, what's that? Joanna, I didn't know your parents spoke Norwegian. Whats that she said? Is the salad swearing at me??"

No worries, I'll sedate myself. I should have bought some sunglasses to hide behind. Rough.