i have given this all the thought i can 

At night, when I feel weakest

when I find myself padding alone through my home

avoiding the light and voices of the TV, the radio

only to stand, barefoot, on my lawn

staring at the shifting clouding, questioning

all of my most recent decisions

You, long gone, a distance too far to reach with just my arms

wrapped soundly in a shroud of cotton and sleep

I still feel your voice echoing in my chest.

My heart beats like the approaching flood waters

a desire that fills my body

leaving me feeling heavy, drowning in my own thoughts.

Under a streetlight, there is a cat

the colour of softened butter, patrolling the alleyway.

It’s fur feels like the back of your head

and I recoil, reaching back into my pocket

only to find my keys, a stick of gum, some old kleenex.

I look back, the cat is gone

and I am left alone

picking the shining hairs from my sweater.

I want to reach out and run my fingertips

through the edge of your hairline

where your ears meet the side

of your slumbering face.

Lately, I’ve been having dreams

where I find myself standing in my bathroom

facing the mirror with a pumice stone 

in my right hand.

I am peeling away my skin 

like layers of old paper

trying in vain to remove the imprints of your fingertips.

Today,
I shall face my fears,
my undying shame
and my complete inability
to make frosting.

I’m heading out to the UK for a couple of weeks. The one downside that I find with night flights is that I can’t spend 54% of the flight with my face mashed against the window going, “Oooh! Look at the pretty clouds! I’m going to take 4000 photos of them! Fuck taking photos when I get there, I want shit tons of pictures of puffy goddamn water droplets.” SEE, THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE VACATION PICTURES.

THINGS I HAVE YET TO MISS ABOUT 2011: Nothing. Eat a dick, last year.

Things I have learned recently:

> Tazo Spiced Chai makes my mouth feel weird, but not in the good way, more in the “why does my nose hurt now?” kind of way.

> You are never too old to wake up covered in a fine film of whiskey and cheap lipstick.

> The last word from the Hallelujah Chorus has the same notes as the last line from Grease’s Summer Lovin’, but you definitely shouldn’t tack on, “Tell me moooore, tell me moooooore!” to the end of Hallelujah unless you want to incur the wrath of angry churchgoers.

> Andy falls asleep way faster than I do lately.

Now that Thanksgiving is over for everyone, let me just say a very merry OH GOD NO to everyone.

WATCH YOUR BACK, TORONTO.

(Thanks to Mr. Andy for helping me out on this)

I got my first camera when I was 6 years old, my second when I was 14, my third when I was 17, my fourth at 19, and my current one at 22. For the majority of those years, I have had little access to any sort of professional lighting rigs, meaning that while I do know how to use giant fucking lights with softboxes the size of my torso, I’ve spent most of my time learning how to use any goddamn light source I can find. This is particularly funny when people compliment me on my lighting and I have to refrain from explaining to them that I used a desk lamp, a sheet of watercolour paper as a reflector, and eleven candles to get that look. Sometimes, I just want to say that I had [EXPENSIVE LIGHTING RIG] and a big white infinity backdrop at my disposal, but I don’t. Instead, I’ve learned how to turn my kitchen into a studio, my bedroom into a boudoir, and chocolate syrup into blood. Sometimes I don’t feel like this counts for much, and I know that if I ever got the chance to do some professional studio work that they don’t care that I can makeshift a rig with two bare bulbs and some gampi, but I take solace in the fact that I’ve made the best with what I got. That and beer. God, I love beer.

PARTIAL LIST OF THINGS I’VE USED TO LIGHT SETS: An emergency lamp, an iPhone, 4 flashlights, a desk lamp with a 150 watt bulb in it, fluorescent tubes, a fridge light, stadium lights in an empty field, and the sheer light produced by my undying anger.

FOOD, PART 2.

If the last year has taught me anything, it’s love what you do. If you don’t love it, you will spend every day considering driving a pencil straight through your neck. It takes away all your passion, and it’s detrimental for everyone. What I’m trying to say is work hard, love it, fuck a lot, and moisturize properly. Can’t go wrong.*

*NOTE: This can totally go wrong. Especially the moisturizing.

Sometimes I take photos of food (I didn’t make this, but I did take the picture). I, instead, made baked beans and salad for dinner. It was made au le fucking oven you jackass.

THINGS I DON’T MISS ABOUT SUMMER: Sweating so much that I think I lost about 15 lb. of water weight each day, the smell of the streets the night before garbage pick-up, sandal blisters, the constant threat of sunburns, the stickiness, the temperature of my room at night, seeing the underside of way too much unfortunate ass in hideously tiny shorts, and working in an office that was about -20 for 8 hours a day, only to step outside into the 40°C heat and immediately burst into flames.

WHAT I DO MISS: The nice heat, the sun, the constant need to drink beer outside, and the picture above. Oh, and the excuse to wear really low-cut tops without feeling too ho’ed up. I mean, a little ho’ed up, but I feel like the rules were extended a bit (yes, this is hypocritical in light of me railing against seeing butt underside in the previous point, but hear me out: it’s way easier to pull off nice cleavage than it is tiny shorts that look so far rammed up your ass that I’m pretty sure you can taste them. While the ratio of nice > oh no ass in Toronto is pretty solid, there’s still days where I want to grab people and scream, “YOU’RE 15. PLEASE PUT SOMETHING A LITTLE LONGER ON. I FEEL LIKE STANDING NEXT TO YOU IN LINE IS GOING TO PUT ME ON SOME HORRIBLE WATCH LIST.”)

Stuart and Andy met about 80 billion years ago in internet time (ok, about 10. What do you want? I’m bad at math) and I took some photos of them this weekend while at the Eaton’s Centre. Here’s the thing: both these guys are, how you say, awkward. They’re both exceptionally wonderful, but goddamn, stick them in front of a camera and they seize up like I just pointed a paintball gun at them. I guess I can’t judge, seeing as my tactic when someone points a camera at me is to start screaming and punching in hopes that they’ll never try to take a photo of me again (not that it works), but whatever. I can judge them on their lack of innate modelling ability and they can judge me for being so ham-fisted with 90% of my life that I might as well have sandwiches for hands.

A photographer taking a photo of another photographer is always a little weird, especially when one photographer is more experienced than the other. It’s kind of like driving someone’s car while they sit in the passenger seat and you just got your G2 and they are Mario fucking Andretti. I mean, they’re going to let you do your own thing and most of the time they won’t be too critical about your skills (unless they’re a giant ass or you are really, really shitty at driving/photography/writing), but you know that they are watching your every move and that you have to have your A-game on, or else you might as well just chop up your drivers or photo license or whatever, along with your license to write terrible and overly long similes. 

Dave is one of those people where I look up to him for several reasons: one, he’s very talented as a photographer, and much more talented than me in areas that tend to be my weak spots; two, because he’s achieved a lot for a guy who is several years younger than me (goddamn youth and your damn talent); and three, he has that fucking beard. 

Dave can set up a shoot beautifully, but I can at least catch a few nice outtakes. 

Jesus H. crap, it’s hot in Toronto. Nuts to this everyone, for it is summer and I am just going to melt into the floor.

MOMENTS LATER THAT DRINK EVAPORATED

Summer means shirtless people, which means me taking photos of them while they’re not looking.

Basically, if you hang around me too long, you will end up being covered in copious amounts of fake blood. Why? Why not?