pinkbuttondown

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new york city/newark airport landscapes

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A small extension to my last blog:

At that wedding I met the groom’s mother. I had made my half-sister a pastel drawing of two lilies intertwined, to symbolize peace and purity and harmony in their new lives. I laid it on the gift table and she walked up to me and said, “Is this yours?” and I said yes. She told me it was beautiful, stunning, and to keep doing what I’m doing. Keep doing what I’m doing. That interaction pops into my mind every time I am in a rut and can’t think of anything worth painting or making. So even if it’s ugly, even if you hate it, even if it’s silly or simple, keep doing what you’re doing.

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ESOTERIC DUMPSTER VOL. 1 ISSUE # 2: SECOND SNOW

This week, I am going on a school trip to New York City. It will be my second time on a plane in my life and my second time seeing snow since West Virginia. It will also be the longest time I have spent away from home, and the farthest, save for the hot and hellish California trip of sophomore year.

My half-sister was getting married then, and already I have four nephews between her and my other two half-siblings. I remember being in line for the bathroom at the warmly lit and wine-fueled reception, standing with the groom while my sister was in the bathroom. I asked what was in his vape and he said "Tobacco." and offered me a hit. I had never taken anything before, mild or hard. In that moment, I grew up.

I was one of the big kids, a peer, and it felt good. The dry heat felt good. Leaning against a table, talking about the closet with a new cousin who emerged from the woodwork felt good. For a few minutes, everything felt good. My sister turned The Smiths on for me and made me dance. I was awkward, but it felt good.

I am constantly hit hard in the face by the fact that I will never be like them, my half-siblings. Never as old, never as straight. Eyes not dark enough. Haven't been hurt enough. They had it harder than I did growing up, and I am grateful that they tamed my father before I had to be alive under his roof.

They lived first so I didn't have to wonder whether I would flounder and drown in my adulthood because everyone does. I remember, when I observe their lives that success is simply happiness. They are very successful now.

Jumping forward in my Time-Traveling Dumpster to the present day, I am nervous for the trip. Anxious that my friends will see me tear up in front of Caravaggio's "Musicians" or when I see my dad in Central Park for a moment, and he asks me what he did wrong, and tells me that he loves me, even though my art teacher knows more of my life than he ever did.

A friend told me recently that getting over people is forgiveness. His mother left his family and died two years later in a car crash on a stretched Nevada highway. He seemed genuine, but he could have just been high.

I don't have much else to say, so here are some recent photos of the town, with more from New York en route to my digital camera come Thursday.

Until then!

SONGS: “Girl” by the queen of lyricism Tori Amos

and “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)” covered by creep geniuses The Doors

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flea market day

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nearly there

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i was fixin to fail a breathalyzer test when i wrote this

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pictures from the south

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ESOTERIC DUMPSTER VOL. 1, ISSUE #1: "CALM BEFORE THE STORM"

***POSTING LATE IT IS OFFICIALLY 2025 NOW but everything I said still stands. It is Monday, October 7th, and I've been consuming copious amounts of archived ROOKIE magazine posts because with the dying leaves, (and, cough cough, HURRICANE MILTON) an overwhelming nostalgia has really kicked in, as well as anticipation for my last trick-or-treat-able Halloween. This may only be on my mind because my little brother is turning 16 in a few days, but I feel like everybody makes a big deal about turning 16 and 18 without considering how damn weird it feels to be 17. Seventeen is like a placeholder for a future you can't have yet. Seventeen is antsy to be an adult and also scared shitless that it won't be a kid for much longer. Seventeen takes blurry, desperate pictures on ancient digital cameras to stretch single moments into fascinations. Seventeen takes its time. It doesn't want to be over this soon. Seventeen is a liminal space we are happy to dwell in for as long as we can before we realize the cotton candy, knit sweater POVs that "Perks" sold us, while beautifully iterated, are not true. We are not infinite in these bodies. Some of us don't have friends magically appear on the first day of freshman year, like Charlie. The Rocky Horror Picture Show might as well be lost media at this point, and good cinema like it might as well be replaced by artificially scripted, acted, and animated movies. Here I am wondering why we're so nostalgic and lost-feeling at seventeen, but the answer actually seems obvious. There is nothing organically good on the horizon for us- AI movies might be the headcanon for the younger generation of suckers who didn't ask to be born. World War Three might not make anyone bat an eyelash. We cling to the past because it was creative and real, and there's something missing from our lives now that we seek to fill with empty content. I'm rambling, I realize that. It's a beautiful night tonight, the sunset was spectacular. The air is cooling, the clouds are dark but removed. This is the "calm before the storm". So, here's few photos of me and my friends yesterday night as we swam at the beach and hung around a lifeguard chair in a subtle, unconscious attempt to make ourselves infinite while we still have the chance, before a storm both literal and figurative. SONGS: "At Seventeen", by the master of gay yearning folk music, Janis Ian, and........................ "Sleep Apnea", by the masters of youthful yearning mid-tempo indie jams, Beach Fossils.