This is Charlie.

What you can tell from this photo: He’s a svelte tabby cat with a slight case of “crossed eyes”.
What you can’t tell from this photo: He’s got terrible balance and a princess complex.

Monolith went all wonky. Photographers on stage, band in the crowd. So surreal. So, so happy & grateful to be where I was at that moment.  If I could make a living of this for the rest of forever, I’d be an always happy girl.

Photo by Todd Roeth.

Maybe I trespass (trespassed?).
You can’t prove it.

Phillip Holland (my cousin) -> Ian O’Doughtry -> Barton Dahl -> GIGBOT

After a seemingly ordinary domino effect of meeting people, I found myself participating in a phone interview with Gigbot.com. While they sounded pleased with what I had to say about my abilities and aspirations, I was still skeptical when they parted with “we’ll contact you one way or the other before Friday”. One day later, however, I was invited to a “working interview”: helping Gigbot photographer, Todd Roeth, with the famed “photobooth” at the Depeche Mode concert.

I couldn’t have asked for a better interview.

I start tomorrow.
This is going to be interesting

“… my grandfather died…he was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give to the world…and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again…He was part of us and when he died all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man…”

– Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 541

It’s probably important that I make clear the fact that my political standing is relatively ambivalent. But. The 2008 Democratic National Convention was held in Denver and I’d of been a fool to have turned down such a journalistic opportunity.

And what a week what a week what a week.

The sultry heat has slowed my gait to a sort of indolent saunter. This new summer air is so stagnant and wet; it weighs heavy on my eyelids and slows my breath. I’m remembering how wonderful it feels to finish a book again—to create something with my own hands. I’ve met some brilliant, beautiful, invigorating new people over the past few weeks and I couldn’t be more pleased. I need so badly to surround myself with supportive likenesses and inspirations.

There have been lightning storms on the horizon recently. How beautiful be perched on a roof below a patient, twinkling sky and watch as livid skies fight amongst themselves in the distance.

Everything was exactly how it should have been and needed to be. The days—the moments—the people—everything assumed this strange sort of harmony that has contented even an unreasonably expectant person such as myself. Even the sunsets were brilliant and though I missed the sunrises I’m sure they were an extravagant sight as well. I managed to sleep when I needed to and be awake for what matters.

If this isn’t nice, what is?

The spring sky spat up what little moisture it could. It rained intermittently. The sky was gray and the wind came in short, warm bursts.

We were inside a dog’s mouth.

We were sitting together in the living room, Neighbor on the couch, me on the floor. It was midday. The walls appeared without color, and the television was off. We stared blankly at our reflections in the glass and were pacified. Forced into a strange state of complacency by the apartment’s song: a chilling chorus of wailing, hollering children and the fearful equine mumbles of the neighbor’s dying Ford.

It was spring and our worlds had come crashing down on us.
On each other.

We were jobless, sure, but we’d get by.