West Coast to East (and back again)

notes from my second (!!) move from California to New York, summer-ish 2012. left a Silicon Valley job to go to grad school out east, chasing love, running away from myself. i got this in a fortune cookie: "every man should seek to learn what he is running from, to, and why." notes found scrawled on the back of an envelope, stuffed into glovebox, to be rediscovered in 2020, as i start to think about moving back out West. everything [sic] Arizona: cool and green what is it a/b the Arizona landscape that makes the sunset so beautiful? N.Mex: coyote nights howling at the moon Vegas: oversexed drag show/talent show/circus freak Grand Canyon: layers of red, yellow, ocre, orange, gray like jell-o cake Sante Fe: trees illuminated with a thousand lights milky way fried egg and red/green chile Kansas: red moon lightning skies sleeping in the gracious shadow of a McDonald's parking lot Iowa: corn fields and crappy roads feeling tired of driving and missing home #writing

point of contact

i.
you call me for no reason today
    i was in a meeting
check my phone and see yr face

yr message says you're calling to see how i'm doing
   ask me to call you back

my heart sinks
    boils in my stomach
    my throat tightens
    my face scowls
    my body shakes + sweats

not because i'm excited to hear from you
you calling must mean you have something to say
and i don't want to find out what it is



ii.
you don't get to check in on me like you're doing me a favor
like you're such a noble dude
like you're doing a good thing
walking out and hurting me in the deepest possible way
and then call me in a few days as if that will make things better
you don't get to break into my life again whenever you like

you don't get to ask me how i'm doing
pretending like you care again
when yesterday you acted like i'd done the worst possible thing
by falling in love with you

you don't get to check up on me
when you're the reason i am this way
and you're the reason i'm here
and you're the reason i'll never the be same

you don't get to call whenever you like
and disrupt my world
just as i'm learning to live without you

you don't get to feel better by patronizing me
as if all i've needed is to hear from you
FUCK YOU

because you're not helping
and though i still love you
i kinda hope you rot

habits of the heart

i go about my day
       wandering aimlessly
             i realize how i carried you in my pocket all these years (a phone call away)
                 and now you're not

it feels the way it did in California
     sun shining, chill breeze
i'd wander around alone
       collecting thoughts and images
       gathering stories from the day
       to share with you later

a habit that hurts when i return to the apartment later
          and remember you're not there
          and it's no longer ok
          to call you with a moment's forgetting
                                  a moment's little happiness
                                  the day's small news

like, i took a bike ride today
       a small bird alighted next to me as i sat in the grass
       the lake was shining as if you were there next to me and
       i miss you

solstice

it's the longest day of the year
     a horrible day to be alone
          and missing someone

i'm starting this summer
        and the rest of this life
                 without you

there are more minutes than usual to while away
more minutes than usual to think about you
more time than i want to spend fumbling thru and waiting
more moments than a usual day to be reminded
                  i'm without you

i think of what we'd do in our other life
       pack up a picnic, sit and listen to the whispers of the lake
       ride bikes, wind like fingers thru our hair
       lay in the tall grass and feel the comfort of sun our face
fall asleep later and thank each other for a good day
wake up happy to see the sun rise again

when you're happy the extra time is a gift
         you want to stretch those moments out forever
         time is never enough
         (we used to feel this way)
when you're unhappy the longest day is a torture
        a sentence to be painfully waited out
        time is your punishment
        (this is how i feel now)

as if a dream

i imagine other worlds
            parallel existences
      somewhere out there
             there's a version of us
                   that gets to stay together
                   that finds a way to happiness
     somewhere out there
              i'm still holding your hand at night
               drifting thru sleep
                       like otters in the sea

maybe that can be my life one day
       and i'll wake up
            and this version can disappear
                       as if a dream

a poem for the last day of our shared life

I.
feeling like i've been torn apart
  a train running thru my heart
  crushing everything on the tracks
  turning me into pulp

II.
i want to write down every memory before
    i forget
before it's washed away
    before it becomes too gone
                                   too the past
                                      too lost
                                        too never again

these are the last times i will ever think
   about you

III.
so much emptiness around me
   the room divided in half -- yours and mine
    but now you're gone
  half an empty table
     half an empty dresser
             half an empty bed
         a limp and empty pillow case where your head used to lay beside mine

your coats are gone
    your shoes too
     all the little stray hairs cleaned up
           and scattered somewhere else

IV.
i always thought when we left here we'd be leaving together

packing up our stuff for a new adventure

but you leave without me to start your life
   and i remain in this half empty apartment
                 alone
      every corner a memory
         every moment a ghost

i never prepared myself to be abandoned like this
  i don't have bags packed for this trip

V.
the left and leaving feeling
       the reality of loss
           you don't feel the finality until you see the physical emptiness
suddenly surrounding you

VI.
i watch as you pick thru things and
   stuff them in boxes
   what you choose to keep
     and what you leave behind

notes you wrote me, i find them crumpled
   and discarded in the recycling
  like small helpless birds with broken wings
    i pick them up and unfurl them in my palm

my heart sinks when i find those pieces of us thrown away

a picture of me from Occupy, left on the refrigerator --
    you don't want me coming with you

pictures of us in California --
    a fortune cookie message we somehow got twice
        "Your dearest wish will come true"
    you pinned them to the pictures above our desk
you left those behind too

in one of the pictures, we walk towards each other
    thru a maze of sea stones --
    forever frozen in time, never reaching each other before our moment ends
stuck in the amber of time

scraps of napkin with tape on the back
   a poem we wrote together
   where did this emerge from?
   you kept it safe all these years, only to leave it behind now like trash

a book of pictures -- The Story of Us --
  our happiest memories, a gift i made you
  that gets left behind too

the scarf i made you for Christmas one year,
the only thing i've ever knit, you took that
i imagine you wearing it around your face years from now, not even remembering me
     or maybe you discard it in a Goodwill pile when you wear out its fibers at last

Ozymandias

so many thoughts on last night's mind-blowing, stomach-churning, fever-inducing episode of Breaking Bad. [WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!]

1.  the first is that BB is unarguably THE best show i have ever seen, or will possibly ever see. it has ruined TV for me. last week's episode began tickling at this suggestion; this week's episode firmly confirms it. all bow down to the crew of directors and writers and actors involved in making this masterpiece.

2.  how great was that opening shot? a close up on boiling water in a coffee pot -- that volatile state when water (calm, still, untainted and soothing) rapidly transforms, spurting, jumping, wailing, able to burn, sting, and scar -- and a key part to "cooking." we realize in that visual the ways in which the process of cooking is a greater and more appropriate metaphor than we had ever realized, illustrating the changes that have taken place in Walt, and foreshadowing the sudden reaction point the show's narrative will reach by the end of the episode ("Boiling is the rapid vaporization of a liquid, which occurs when a liquid is heated to its boiling point, the temperature at which the vapor pressure of the liquid is equal to the pressure exerted on the liquid by the surrounding environmental pressure." -Wikipedia)

the image also made me recall Walt's clever use of a coffee maker to escape earlier in the series, a devasatating juxtaposition with what transpires in the next few minutes (no clean escapes here; Walt is stuck, once again in handcuffs, and forced to see the damage of his decisions, unable even to bargain for Hank's life -- the first time he is rendered utterly powerless in the show's history)... BB is great at developing the significance of recurring images... as in later in the episode when Walt's pants are rediscovered in the desert -- hilarious and brilliant, and a bit of a wink to fans of the show.

3.  Hank's last words to Walt are brief, typically Agent Schrader, and one of the few moments of courage we see in this episode (the others being Walt Jr.'s defense of his mom -- see below -- and later, Walt's phone call to Skyler -- theories on that in another post...): "You're one of the smartest people I've ever met. But you're too stupid to see he made up his mind 10 minutes ago." Hank leaves us with the overarching moral of the story: Walt is someone who foolishly overestimates his own control over things, unable to see the inevitability of his destructive decisions. finally someone is able to point out the stupidity underlying Walt's illusions of glory and triumph.

4.  the flashback to Walt and Jesse's first cook is a good one, but not in the most obvious way. true, we witness Walt's "first lie to Skyler," and this is an innocent, more naive time, when Walt merely wanted to protect his family, soothe things over, mollify his pregnant wife with dreams of pizza.

*all images and screenshots taken from AMC's Story Sync*

but this is also an origin story for Heisenberg, whose noble intent was always the protection of his family, whose guiding mission and motivation was to provide for them -- from pizza, to Empire.

the image we see at the beginning of this episode of Walt is a vision from a happier time, which hurts all the more when later in the episode, Walt's one moral code -- don't hurt family -- is violently, perversely violated with the loss of Hank. and then later, when even Walt Jr. (whimpering as he defends Walt's reputation against his mom and his aunt) physically stands up to Walt in order to protect Skyler. this was a huge moment -- Walt standing back while his family cowers in fear of him, sobbing to himself, "But we're a family!"

does this look like a family to you?

the evolution of Walt has come full-circle, and the cruel contrast between the first and final seasons (or the terrifying notion that these two personas are, have always been, the same man) feels like a knife twisting in our stomachs, the two scenes acting as frames of reference for each other -- placating with pizza to a living room knife fight. look how far we've come.

this whole episode is a searing look into what Walt's passions and plans have wrought. even with his strategic care, his meticulousness, his ferocity (or perhaps because of them), he has managed to become, in the end, what he least wanted -- a disease on his family, their greatest fear, the source of the deepest, darkest pain and suffering of all.

and yet, what hurts the most for Walt is perhaps the realization that he is suddenly alone -- no, that he has always been alone. his family never wanted this -- pizza was once enough of a happy thought to unite the family -- but Walt set his sights on Empire, on greed ("what's with all the greed? it's unattractive" -Uncle Jack), and on his real priority: #1, his ego (or his id?), Heisenberg.

it's painfully clear, to Walt and to the audience, that he was always alone, that the thing he wanted the most was something he destroyed piece by piece with his own hands. the presumed marital bliss, the ease of a harmonious family life, the comfort of having a loved one on the phone -- these are things that will never be recovered. Walt is left with nothing, realizing he is unfit to take care of Holly, the only family member left who could maybe survive all of this without judgment of him, but who incessantly cries out for Skyler.

again, another recurring image: Holly being abducted by someone in the family.
contrast Walt's taking of Holly to Marie's attempted kidnapping (and Hank's talking her down), and Skyler's despair in reacting to both.

so the episode ends, with Walt being driven away, nothing left for him in the ABQ.

it was an episode befitting of its namesake, "Ozymandias," a poem written by Percy Bysshe Shelley, and which managed to bring the show full-circle. for those who missed it, one of the promos for Breaking Bad released over the summer showcased Bryan Cranston reading the poem in Heisenberg's snarling voice, while images of Albuquerque flash before the screen, ending with a shot of the infamous hat alone in a desert of swirling sand.

watching it will give you full-body chills as you realize just how perfect Breaking Bad is, right down to the shortest promo.



"Nothing beside remains..."

A.E. Stallings

speaking of mythology, back in the late winter i was doing a lot of reading instead of working and looking for jobs. and somehow, i came across the poetry of A.E. Stallings.


i highly recommend her. she has a way with words i wish i had: fluid, easy, and beautiful, without compromising heft. there is an effortless quality to her poetry that makes it a delight to read. it's lyrical, while still sounding conversational and inner-monologuey, rhythmic while still sounding natural, rhyming coincidentally without the addition of affectation or contrivance or twee.

she has a book of poems based on Greek mythology called Archaic Smile that i would simply love to get my hands on.

you can read an interview with her here, which includes sound bites of her reading some of her poetry. i especially like "The Man Who Wouldn't Plant Willow Trees."

and, you can read her poem "Persephone writes a letter to her mother," which was the first of her works i encountered.

'nuff said

i wrote this little poem today:

i have more to say

than can fit inside seven

syllables of a hai(ku).

a poem

submitted to my comment box in my 6th grade class:

the heart pumps within you. it pumps so that you can breathe, live so that you can love one another. you should always cherish the moments you have with your partner.

-ciera

good advice. lately, i have been forgetting this much too easily and much too often.

also: i need to remember that i am not too old or jaded to learn.

-s

behold, the beach!

it seems appropriate that the poetry books of my personal library are stacked together and held in place by a basket of seashells. adjacent, a pair of felt animal ears, the remnants of a 3rd grade informational performance about raccoons.

my two friends and i, as Montessori youth, had co-written and directed a 5-minute long presentation about raccoons for an autumnal pageant in the woods behind our principal's house in the country. each group of 8 year olds picked out one plot of woodland to do what they wanted.

i was the hip-hop raccoon. i rapped about our nocturnal lifestyle while wagging my tail and c-stepping.

haikus

i taught my students how to write haikus this week:

my dog is big and
my chewawa [sic] is smart cool
it can dance.
-Oscar

dogs elephant cats
i have a german shepard
i like all my dogs.
-Francisco

if Mississippi
gave Missuri [sic] a New Jersey
what did Delaware?
-Aaron

Ms. Aguayo and
Ms. Lee are friends and they both
nice and cool both teach
-Victor

sweet vanilla ice cream is good.
food: chocolate chip cookie.
hungry, eat candy.
-Johnny

do the test do
your best or guest [sic]
on the lousey [sic] test
-Diamond

asteroid hit earth
a temperture [sic] was rising
the ground was glowing.
-Francisco

army bombs people
people shop at a walmart
i go to the beach.
-Jose


i bet you didn't know i taught beatnik poets, did you?
-stephan!e

summer breeze

sitting on my bluff today, watching the sun set into a line of fluorescent smog (or whipped mountain top), my toes digging into powdered dirt and sand while my hands feel the bulge of dinner and overindulgence in too many cups of milk and hibiscus tea settling in my tummy

the air is perfect, the breeze on the edge of this cliff smells and tastes like salty sea air, if i close my eyes or unfocus them on a distant point in the mountains beyond the city, i forget that i am not on the keel of some tall ship, the gentle rocking of the earth below me like the pulse of soft sea waves at night

it's a feeling i wish i could knit into a summer sweater. i don't have much use for sweaters in the heat of summer, but sometimes a sweater is just what you need, you know? the interwoven tangled wooliness reminds me of hands, delicate fragile veiny old woman hands, remind me of my grandmother and toggle buttons and pastel pink rabbit hair yarn, and remind me of the sea, somehow. i think it goes like this: when i was little, i was fascinated and horrified by the story of the Titanic. i was terrified of the sea and of boats and of drowning, i imagined sinking - my lungs filling with water - was the worst way to die. but then i insert a small pink sweater into the scenario, and there's warmth, there's temperature control. the sweater has pockets for little hands (somewhere there are mittens waiting to be matched) and a hood with ears, and the smell of home and dry coziness. i imagine floating on icy water all night waiting to be rescued while my grandmother wraps me in layers and layers of hand-knit sweaters, and it's like she's building me an island beneath my feet to stand on.

i don't need a life preserver; i just need something soft and warm.

where is my mind?

i can't do it... i can't do anything. i can't write because i can't think, i can't think because i haven't slept, i can't sleep because i can't stop thinking, can't sleep because i can't stop writing...

there are miles to go before i sleep...

i know the end but i don't know how to get there.

this is what it must have felt like when Zeus's head split open and out came Athena. 

celebrating the '90s

my friends and i were chatting at dinner. making plans for the summer and all the fun, wild and wonderful things we need to squeeze into these last 7 weeks of school before graduation and splitting ways.

the big screen TV was on in the dining hall, per usual, but it was on VH1 today and it was showing one of those "best 100 songs of the '90s" specials and all our "childhood songs" were blasting full force, like a freight train of memories, and we were transported back to the times of middle school dances and summer camps and that nebulous time of your life called adolescence.

we were reflecting on the proto-emo music of the time, laughing as we could recall almost word for word the lyrics to Goo Goo Dolls songs ("when everything feels like the movies, you bleed just to know you're alive/ AND I DON'T WANT THE WORLD TO SEE ME, CUZ I DON'T THINK THAT THEY'D UNDERSTAAAAAND!") and how angst-y we must have been as teens to have loved that song as much as everyone else our age did.

and, in reflecting on how super dramatic and emo (before "emo" was a genre) that song was, i remarked how it would be so funny to do a dramatic reading of all our favorite '90s songs. and from this, an idea for a poetry reading of sorts, a collaborative performance for the sake of nothing but fun times and nostalgia with some good friends, was born.

the place i imagine is Bachelor Hall's courtyard, on a breezy spring evening, entry and exit music consisting of a playlist of all the read pieces, and definitely some wine.

now, i'm trying to think of material. any suggestions? i went through my '90s music on my computer (sadly lacking, i've lost a lot of those old favorites in the process of transitioning to different computers) and only thought of a few enticing reads:

K-Ci & Jo Jo's "All My Life" (probly a much better song than a poem, but a guilty pleasure nonetheless. i especially love how the first line of verse is "Baby (11x)" ha!)

Everything But The Girl's "Missing" ("like the deserts miss the rain")

Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U" (oh man, this might be "it"!)

Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love To You" (this would be so uncomfortable to read: "girl relax, let's go slow, i ain't got nowhere to go/ throw your clothes on the floor, i'm gonna take my clothes off too")

other suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

x's

-stef

the drive back to school from home was not nearly as harrowing as i expected it to be, and the pain of confinement was lessened considerably by riding until the radio waves from my favorite station slowly crackled and crisped into a steady static, at which point i threw on the driving mix i made for the ride. what a difference a soundtrack makes!

i had dinner with my friends, who i missed terribly, and then skipped over to the art museum for "Scene in Herd," a poetry event put on by the Miami University English Department every year (maybe this was the 5th one? my friend Justin Katko started it a few years ago as a spatial intervention, with the idea that the readings themselves would explore space in new ways, but also that they would break down the barrier between spectator/participant. b/c the theme of our class this week was "critical walking"/"spatial exploration"/"critical reconsideration of space" i thought this would be a good event to go to as a class. the readings didn't really fit the original theme as well as past ones have, but i think they made up for it in content). 

the readings were exceptional, except for one or two moments that seemed ungenuine, made me suspect the poet was trying too hard to be impressive, and so not really saying anything. there were a few times i felt words were just being tossed around for effect rather than affect, and i thot that reflected poorly on the poet. i think a misplaced conspicuous "fuck" can really ruin a poem for me. it's not that i'm averse to profanity, i just think they're a really cheap way for a writer to sound superficially edgy. and i don't think there's any point to its wanton usage. it's like gratuitous violence in films, there really should be a point to it i think. [ok you could argue that excessive profanity is the point. kinda like satirists and sadists like Michael Haneke torture us with violence to make us understand how sick and perverse we are. but, i don't think that's what was going on. it wasn't that kind of poem (nor that kind of poet)...]

most thrilling was after the readings were over, and i finally got a chance to talk to the guy who builds book presses. as far as Justin or i know, he's the only one who can help me build the press i need to bind my project in April! i was thrilled when he finally agreed to teach me, first by inviting me to help him finish the press he's currently constructing, and then to build another one for my use. i can't wait, i was worried for a while that i may never get the chance to bind my project.

and now, to actually finish it so i have something to bind...

-stephanie

airport waiting poem

sitting in a long haulway of vinyl seats, i'm at the corner situation of three states: Ohio, Kentucky, and Home.

treated like a terrorist by racists who look at me and my baggy clothes and think i might have a knife, they ask me to unzip, and, removing my belt, they see my backpack and thank me for my political beliefs. but they spray me anyway - "6 puffs of air, keep yr feet on the footprints!" - and still don't let me keep my bottle of water.

the sun is setting in a plume of smog, as Indiana on my right churns out more. the orange spotlight in my eyes, all i see are the 5 inches below the afterglow. my feet propped up on the window's ledge, a sign that reads "Smoking Permitted in designated areas only" now reads "Smoking e mitted," as my big toes block out letters, my hands trying to block out the sun, while my clothes stink of smoke from the roadside diner - Mr. Herb's.

i see my reflection in the glass - my face blacked out - i'm looking hippy and my hands don't look like my own. i read somewhere that 9 out of 10 people can't recognize their own hands. if they took pictures of them and had to pick em out of a hand line-up, they'd have the wrong murderer.

i'm washed in orange glow, on my way to the Grand Ol' Seat, and the sun is beginning to dip down. i've got a suitcase and my backpack politics, and i'm ready to go.

poetic deference

so, despite last week's setback, i'm going ahead with my project. in fact, i've begun the tedious process of mapping (a la my efforts in the spring of 2006) the flow of arguments therein, in what i think will be quite the impressive finished document, a physically expansive display of the scope of my thesis.

and i've come to the decision that just because the gate-keepers demand i conform to a certain form and formula, doesn't mean i can't enjoy it. or that i can't successfully subvert the institution and its mechanic rituals by satirizing them. i can adopt the form as my weapon, like Monique Wittig's Trojan Horse. a bomb masked in stealth by which to explode the ramparts from within. my subversion and radicalism all the more effective for wearing the disguise supplied by the Academy.

and, i've been reading this beautiful book called On Learning and Social Change (sadly out of print), which i accidentally discovered at Highlander. it's full of some astute observations, including a chapter on the ecology of violence in the university (notes on the tao of education).

i plan to quote from it extensively. so, to put some fantastic poetic imagery in your face, some words from Michael Rossman:

"one mode of teaching is triumphant in the University. minds are to be filled with information. image of a hand closing on a piece of data, fist plunging into watermelon. image of a cock ejaculating. SOCK IT TO ME!" (p.160)

sound of a gun blasting!
-stef

the peace of wild things

for today, a poem
that a friend recited
while we were having breakfast in a ger on the Mongolian steppes.

----
The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

-Wendell Berry

video poetry

sorry for the virtual absence, but after wrapping up one of the most trying academic years of my life, i needed to get away. i spent a lot of time in the woods in the back of my house, picked up the harmonica and tambourine, danced and jumped around, and said goodbye to many dear friends. i've crawled around in attics of lofty chapels, swung from vines, and howled at the moon from rooftops. i've passed whole evenings ensconced on windowsills drinking wine from bottles, and spent whole afternoons looking up thru sun-filtered leaves at the sky.


i haven't done any recreational reading, but i've found the act of sitting down to read a difficult one to commit to. i've been restless and noisy lately, a development my parents no doubt regret. since my fascination with the percussive arts has come to a recent boil, they've been trying to divert my energies toward the piano. but since i injured myself during finals week [oh yes, it has been a while: i ran into a concrete wall with my arm while rushing to class and probably fractured it. it swelled up to twice its natural size and then turned a dark purple. the bump has lessened, but a lump remains, and i've been a little worried about my inability - still! - to put pressure on it] piano has been kinda difficult. trills, for example, are inadvertently syncopated, since i can't seem to move the fingers fast enough [that was another thing that was injured in the collision: my knuckles!]

anyway, what i HAVE been up to is trying to find a place for all this stuf i've accumulated in the past year. and, i'm organizing my bookshelf in preparation for SENIOR PROJECT. yes, the huge 80-page thesis i must complete for my defunct degree is nigh. and eventhough i have been writing and preparing for it since basically my sophomore year, i am still worried about it. and so, i am gathering all the hard materials i've been collecting since my freshman year and organizing them into stacks in my room. virtually, i've been collecting research articles and pdf's that are filed away in folders on my mac. i'm working them into chapters soon, and it's exciting to see some form come from all this madness.

other various things: i'm going to Mongolia in less than a month! yippee and yikes at once! i have to find another sleeping bag soon, since the one i have is much too small now and not nearly as warm as i need for the below freezing Mongolian nights. i also have a paper and research to finish b4 i can leave the country, so whew! i am kinda exhausted just talking about it.

but anyway, the REAL point of this post is to share with you the project i have recently started. in the past year i've been taking media aesthetics classes, which was great, b/c i got to watch beautiful films and talk about them all the time. problem was, i never got to make any of my own. and this flies in the face of my own philosophy about being a producer rather than just a passive consumer of cultural products. and so, i have undertaken to make some movies [pardon, FILMS] this summer.

on my list of to-do's:
-video-document the Mongolia trip (i need to buy a new camcorder for this!)
-begin/finish(?) the Students for Staff documentary i started
-do something with all the dozens of video clips i have from the past year...

starting with an idea i had today for a video called Bird Flight, a response/rxn/derivation of Stan Brakhage's Moth Light.


whereas Moth evokes the life (and death) of a moth thru the cutting and pasting of pieces of its actual habitat, i will seek to evoke the life of a bird thru the documentation of its death, thru the cutting n pasting of images it encountered before the moment of its fall. and thusly, i hope to evoke something of a mirror on human life as well.

if i can just get my damned iMovie program to cooperate for a friggin second!!

so stay tuned, somethin's gonna come...
-stephan!e