As the Dark

“They call them ghost lights,” I was told, “to honor the space’s history.”

No matter that their purpose now stands to warn of an approaching edge,

A ledge of space no more deadly in the dark than the light, but warned nonetheless.

A barrier between what is told and not, what is part of a world.

In the darkness, it is all the same, I know it is.

The light shines brighter even so.

To be afraid of the dark is to fear nature, 

That ever-present, ever-aching absence of that which is understood.

Alas, it is not relevant to the basker that the natural state of shelter is shadow.

It is no matter that the light scorches and burns and singes.

To be hesitant to take a step beyond the ghost light

Is to fear that which cradles the world.

“Turn it on when you leave,” they had said. “Make sure you are the last.”

I’ve no doubt the tradition is kept in a city much older than mine,

A chain link between temporary goalposts,

A feigned blink sought to ward off the dusk.

To pretend to walk honestly along a meaningless tightrope

Is to use an imaginary ocean to float. 

Slipping down into too-plush seats I slide,

Turn my eyes to the ornamental trim traced by thousands come before.

Is this night my own? For the same sight will play

So long as the light remains on.

I am not a disruption in the flow of this stream,

I remain in accordance with those before me.

Even in the echoes of it now, I feel it in my chest. 

The incessant tapping and pulling of those aches of which I did not expect entry. 

Their company is welcome, I know, as no story is complete without. 

My forebearers have thought the same, I rest where they did,

Turning my eyes to an arched proscenium. 

I wait. I come again.

Marble Hornets: A Study in Amateur Perfection

 Also Known As: Local boy rambles about Marble Hornets. (No one is asking him to do so.)

National Portrait Gallery - Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell

 The following is an assignment for a class I am taking as I study abroad in London for the summer, a small horror-adjacent short story inspired by my excitement over the portraits of Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell in the National Portrait Gallery.

Friends, Falsettos, and Fans: A Look at Community Following the AIDS Epidemic

A less-than-brief essay recounting the community found in artistic expression by the gay community in the wake and aftermath of the AIDS epidemic. Features the work of Adrain Chesser (I have something to tell you), James Lapine and William Finn (Falsettos), and John Boskovich (collected works).

Art Nouveau, Art Deco, and How Industrialization Was At the Forefront of Stylized Modern Architecture

 A paper for an art history course on architectural styles.

New Beginnings of an Old Tale... Day One: Ollie

 The first real attempt at a story I've had planned out for the better part of five years now. Who knows if it'll become anything, but I'm hopeful.

We begin with Oliver, a forest ranger in Sydcedar, a forest just barely clinging to the Pacific Northwest United States.

A half hour in the afternoon of October 10, 2023

I’m making a patched jacket right now. I bought the jacket base last week, and fabric dye this Monday. It’s a project I’ve been meaning to get to for the better part of a decade, and I’ve finally been encouraged to. I want to have a piece of art to wear, partially, and also want a project to keep my hands busy. (I’ve been helping a friend with his jacket, and I’m always happy to stitch down patches and reinforce seams for him, but it’s not my project. I don’t truly benefit in the end, other than in my excitement at his fulfillment). 

My bathtub is slightly stained from the fabric dye. I’m not an idiot, I didn’t do the dye bath in my tub, but I did wash out the jacket multiple times, and the bottom lining of the white bathtub is stained a light grey, if you look at it close enough. The jacket isn’t quite the color I want, not yet. It’s too indigo, not faded black like I originally intended. It’s certainly growing on me, though, and now I understand that it’s my process, and my hands made it, no matter how it looks by the end. 

I spent a collective two, maybe three hours crouched by my bathtub, stirring hot black water and squeezing dye residue out of the denim. My hands and back ached by the end, and the jacket is still damp after daily washings since Sunday (it’s Tuesday now, and I finally threw it in the washer today). I watched a film while I sat there, early Monday morning, and my fingernails were stained by the dye bath, as I’d given up on formalities after the first few hours of dyeing the night before. 

I never wear gloves when I do dyeing, not with hair nor clothes. I find the staining amusing, it tells others that I made something. I changed something. It’s gone by a few days regardless, and it’s not going to kill me to have blue-tinged fingernails a couple times a year, so I let it happen. 

Every night since Saturday, I’ve sat on my floor until at least midnight with a friend. We’ve been watching movies and painting patches for our respective projects. The patches aren’t similar, as his music taste is much different compared to mine, but we sit regardless. His hands are steadier than mine when it comes to lettering, but mine are more adept at stitching, so we trade pieces every once in a while, and I get to add to his gallery as he does mine. It’s simple, but I enjoy it. I add little handmade touches to my stitching, some x’s on the border of a patch above the knee of his pants. He endorses my jokes, as he tends to do, just this time on fabric. 

I look forward to decorating my jacket with the patches we’ve made, and scouring the area for small artist markets where I can obtain more. I look forward to the imperfections that are bound to come with it, as they prove my project’s nature. I’ve worn a piece of my art before, a shirt I screen-printed at home with the logo of a video game I enjoy, and I always appreciate how hand-crafted it looks, even while people tell me it seems like a legitimate piece of merchandise. The imperfections are prevalent to only me, part of why I value them so greatly. My hands made each piece, even as I cannot remember crafting them. 

I look forward to the completion of this project, even as its end means that the quirks of its creation will someday be forgotten by me.

In response to: 

“Sometimes the mistakes are what makes a work great. Humanity breathes in mistakes.”
- Rick Rubin