Monday, March 29, 2010


otra foto para el proyecto:

Benjamin Alenjadro Cruz .jpg

Friday, March 26, 2010

Work(s) in Progress

Jessica Pearl 1.jpg

Phil Trissell 1.jpg

Erin Buonocore 1.jpg

Diana Stegall.jpg

I suppose, this could be called social commentary, but that would be a bit pretentious on my part. This project merely reflects my interest in "analyzing" (realistically meaning, looking at) people's hands and how they vary depending on their occupations. These are definitely works in progress, but I hate to try to aim for perfection. There are more to come.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

"¿diré que ahora comienza el dolor y la pena?"


He sits down and begins to write about circumstances or events that may or may not happen. He begins by writing:
"He stares out at the river with her running through his thought process(es), further complicating, such arbitrary complexity. He thinks about how far he has come and whether it is worth it to gamble such delicate things on a stranger.
He stares at the water, hoping to see something more than his reflection. There is nothing there, but himself. Well, he thinks 'at the very least if I were to get hurt I can find solace in the fact that the tides will perpetually change between high and low, waves will continue crashing and the days will forever turn into nights.'
All of that meaning, that if something bad were to happen, time will push him to move on."
After writing that passage he realizes what a load of shit he has fed himself. Also, that writing is not one of his particular strengths. He put the pen down, but still thought of her.

"el boxeador" o "derrotado"

I remember a time spent in the ring. The taste of blood in between my teeth. A flash, an unexpected surprise and with eyelids closed I opened my eyes, again. (Did I see you?) I was a boxer, once, but I put the gloves up because a human defeated is a cycle repeated. I remember a time spent in the ring. The texture of bruised knuckles wrestling with the cloth inside my gloves. A punch and an extended arm. Sweat falls from my brow. (Did I hate myself enough?) I was a boxer, once. I was. I put those gloves up because a human defeated is a cycle repeated. I gave it my all, but it hurts to continually fight and fall. Someday, I'd like to return to the ring with gloves on.

Monday, March 15, 2010

"el descanso y los sueños"

February 16th:

Can I live my life as if everyday were a holiday? I suppose not. Don't ruin the moment, though.
I find myself building buildings of unrealistic dreams to lose myself in. Now, I'm lost. Oh, so lost.
But, realistically, I am not.
'Drive away and leave me as I leave you'
'I don't know how to say goodbye'
'Don't try'
[Cue the cheesy, but romantic music]
So, up to now I've been an existential crisis contained within a human shell. A bit sad, but quite beautiful in a somber manner.
What I seem to forget, I'll never remember. So, if I've forgotten you, will I neglect to remember you?
There is nothing more to say, but the same repetitions that I've repeated before.
I love you, I loathe you, I love you? Of the past, that much I know.