Three. Six. Five.

The idea is simple. One photo every day for three hundred and sixty five days.


day ninety eight: bicycle.

Reliving my once life from the window on my lap.

I look down into better days. That is how I remember them at least.

And I’ve been blessed with that flaw of memory.

day ninety seven: a crawl.

A vivid movement. Caught on a wisp of windfall. Dehydrate the centerfold. Image

day ninety six: a work in progress


This is a thing I tried to make.

I feel an overwhelming urge to apologize for it. For it’s raw look. Maybe only I really see it. But I doubt the validity of that idea. I was, at first, proud to have ventured into the realm of digital media art, but alas, I have failed.

I hate unfinished work, but it is all I’ve ever made.

day ninety five: you know that crazed-clown feeling.


day ninety four: I just love this old man.


day ninety three: so I’m a little behind.



I’m not sure which one is stronger.

Trying to write.

Why must writers block be so contagious?

day ninety two: today was supposed to be day 119.


So I’m a little behind. I apologize.

Some more social commentary.

The Big Machine.

Today was exhausting. School requires so much…doing, and speaking, and learning, and going, and reacting, and advancing. I just want to be.

day ninety one: love 146

They robotically arranged themselves to stand in a line they never intended to be in. They were just lost for one moment. They were confused for a few seconds. They were just vulnerable for a minute or two. These girls would give anything to take it back, to get back home, to be safe. Everything has been stripped from them: they’ve lost their clothes, their safety, their name. This never ending, incomprehensible hell has worn their spirits.
Except for the one, 146.
She was unlike the many lifeless figures who stood staring blankly past the mirror into the eyes of the men who would call their numbers as if they were mere objects. Each one of them was a slave being trafficked through this slum. They were just children, little girls.


But the girl.

The one girl. She still had some fight left in her. Maybe she was new, or maybe she had never given in. She was the girl that survived the suffering to get away.

This is her story.


day ninety: this project is testing my ability to spell numbers



I thought that these were pretty.

That they had nice lighting.

That they required little to no editing.

That their colors were not offensive.

That they had no deeper message.

That they were skin deep.

day eighty nine: thinking upstairs.


I’m creating something. In the meantime, look at this nice building.

day eighty eight: restart.


I know someone is watching, so  maybe I’ll start taking this seriously.


day eighty seven: I might as well stop pretending that I’m doing this right.


day eighty six: I am as disappointed as you are.


day eighty five: I sketched a heart and


it is far from finished.


day eighty four: Bill and Iva


Smile, Iva.


day eighty three: just a place.


This room is filled with silence, because it is in the most quiet of places from which I draw my thoughts.

Things move me. Somethings move me to tears and others move me to laughter and still other more provocative things can force me into a deep and disturbed place of unending thought.

I’m sure something moves you.

Because I think everyone has heartstrings that get tied by something bigger than ourselves to the things that we love. They get tied to our friends and things we are passionate about like music and art. When we see movement of that which we love, we feel it too, because we tied our heartstrings to it so that we would not lose it within our selfishness or vanity.

I unknowingly had tied mine to a house, and watching it become a vacant space over a few months time, moved me to tears and I could not get over the fact. I could not comprehend why I was so upset because it was just a place. It was just a place.

day eighty two: the dream that lingers


The feeling adrenaline rushing into my veins was as real as anything, and I knew  I was falling through the concrete floor that seemed so distant underneath my feet in a room full of incredible silence. This feeling of falling has never quite left me. Long after I awoke I suffered from waves of intimacy and floating which was mistaken for a lack of real gravity. Something bigger than myself pulled me back into a cloud of fog and dust, and I almost fought it but something inside of me wanted to be there. The pieces of myself I always carried with me were missing and instead the threads that held my head and my heart together were fraying. I could feel my skin loosening as I tried to walk and I watched the strings fall and water flood in from the ceiling.

Hopeful that it would all pass, but no longer distraught or torn apart as a result of the strange dream-like state that had recently become the reality I’ve come to know, I would explore the crevices of every part of my new mind as it took flight to somewhere very unfamiliar. It felt enough like home, that being said, maybe it was more of a haunted home or a house of mirrors. Nothing was really clear anymore, but I let go of the troublesome thoughts that kept me on the ground some time ago. After the short silence had split the room and left me alone, I kept hearing scattered sounds and obscured noises that warped the walls around me until the spots of sounds flowed into streams of gossamer fabrics that seemed to encircle my being of which I was only slightly aware.

The needles had become a part of me and when I tried to take them out, they only grew stronger and wrapped themselves around me reaching deeper into my skin. I stopped trying to stop the insanity that consumed pieces of the prettiest parts of me. Vines grew up from tea pots that I’d collected in the garden there. There was a beautiful garden that needed tending and to be fed, because he was hungry and wanted power. He got so big i couldn’t carry his whole being. I led him astray and handed him over to the giants I faced and as they stood tall before me he fell apart into an ashtray.

The paper pealed back its skin and revealed an ugly story of misery that I quite enjoyed to read in the quiet, but secretly I had never judged the book by its cover. I had just wanted to see what was inside. And the tingling sensation that radiated from where I stood some days gave isolated birds their freedom from the cages that had led them to cry.

day eighty one: they are all basically the same.


I couldn’t decide. Natural light. No editing.

day eighty: getting there.


So I went to visit Vassar College. There I am. Awkwardly taking a photo in the addmissions building. But hey. I had to stay true to my three six five, right? Eh…


day seventy nine: done vs. undone


One week. Eighteen doctors appointments. Several uncomfortable and lengthy tests.

After all of this I finally have a diagnosis and a treatment plan… so I can hopefully get my life back and start fresh.

So that is why I’ve been gone for a while.

Also, I had a family reunion. It was really just a union because I had never met half of the people.

For months I have been trying to communicate my frustration with society, and sometimes it works and sometimes it does not work. I’m not claiming that this piece is the success story of all of my hard work. Actually, I’m doing quite the opposite; I’m disowning it. The image that was supposed to reflect this idea was so much stronger in my head.

Here is one from way back when.


Here is some social commentary that got a lot of attention. This one is much louder, but it has a different message. If you don’t get it, you don’t get it.

day seventy eight: endured.


This is a picture I took.

I’d like to say I was making some deep philosophical connection when I took it. One about being whethered, about being stuck, left to endure everything and having bits of yourself torn and taken in the process. 

This could be some symbolic metaphor for life…

I was just intrigued by the way it looked.

Disappointing, I know.

day seventy seven: explorer.


My mother said the plants are beautiful today.

day seventy six: television.


I’m trying to bring some life to this bland party I call a three six five.

This project is not for the faint of heart. It eats you apart. There can be some real lows, extreme struggles, vicious self-doubt, and some tear-your-hair-out moments.

Sadly enough I don’t have the skill to do this, but I’m not stopping.

day seventy five: muse.