sandpaper courtesan

squirrely-assed carrots. I think these were carrots.... they were surrounded by other carrots. 

on this one I added an overly reflective nickel for scale. I mean, good lord. root vegetables, man. you gotta have a sense of humor in the colder months, I guess. 

fremont. these blinds have been fucked up since I lived a block away from this house in 2003. it looks like someone was slammed up against the window. so over the years I've found myself imagining various scenarios. it was in the throes of passion, obviously. or it was due to a sweat-stained Muscat fury. or an army of inquisitive cats lives in the attic and relentlessly paws at the blind's edges, and occasionally it pisses off the huge dog who also lives there and he hurls himself at the glass to stop their batting. 

but I always default to the woman in, like, a stained vintage slip and blood-red lipstick, getting roughed up all David Lynch-like, with a grimy ceiling fan spinning lazily a few feet away. and there is predictably awful faded wallpaper, and possibly a bare swaying bulb with hip filament. 

the other day (rather, afternoon) I sat here alone and read most of "A Single Man" (it's kinda boring, I'm afraid, but I like the descriptions of the overgrown bohemian bungalowy-neighborhood. when I bought this, the lady at the UW bookstore was like "nnnngggh! you must see the movie!" and I will do that eventually.) and the waitress was awesome and sensitive-lad music played. I fucking love this place. the Uncanterbury is dead to me, but there's still fucking Hattie's. 

I put this through a more disturbing filter. 

Melrose Ave. the other day I counted 13 visible cranes from this vantage point. 

it's December 21st and 58 fucking degrees. 

I recently saw the old Twilight Zone where the world stops having night and the ambient temperature goes up to 110F and the few people remaining in this NYC apartment building are wilting in their modest nightgowns and rationing tins of juice and squinting at the endless sun. it's a very evocative episode. 

more unwanted mattresses. ever think about how weirdly personal these are? these are the surfaces people slept and dreamed and fucked and tossed and wept and slothed out upon! and now this. orphans! they were new once, shrink-wrapped and bouncy, optimistically tested out in the showroom, promising a good rest and a lasting relationship. now they're just moist forests of cells and disappointment and tragedy. 

discarded mattresses are the lepers of the furniture world. 

an alley in Fremont. 

the space on Pine and the cross street I can't remember the name of. it was a hippie-dippy import store for years, the place I bought little vials of fennel oil and incense from. and then it was an anarchist coffee shop with an agreeable throng of clove-smoking teenagers and their dogs perpetually blocking the sidewalk out front. 

and now it's vacant, and it's a fucking awesome storefront. it's a corner lot at the base of one of the few remaining and sensuously-moldering buildings on that godforsaken street and those are western-facing windows, for fuck's sake. 

I cringe at the horribly corporate potential. I hope I'm proven wrong.  

today, outside the Broadway post office. I like this photo a lot.  

a few tattoos in, I realized I can't surreptitiously commit many crimes. the fucking choices we have to live with. 

this is the same corner/building where the rad yellow sofa got ruined in weeks prior. lots of couches die here! the two very nice ceramic canisters atop the cushions were still containing a gluey white floury/cocainey substance. not pictured: the soggy black T-shirt next to it on the sidewalk. 

3.5 days until the 9 month reprieve from fucking Xmas music! 

also, happy solstice!