enfin's reality, photography

it’s as black as any night

i present to you a medley of summer film, shot in numerous places (most notably south korea) and in addition, a brief STOC.

trembling ever so lightly, i raised my nikon to my right eye, focused the lens, and shot this photo.  korea was full of murals, shrines, and monuments.  this one particularly struck me because it was in the dmz, and families who are separated by north and south leave one another notes and wishes on this fence.  as i made my way around the dmz i couldn’t help but feel a sense of sorrow floating about the trees, spewing from the birds, and releasing in the scent.  stalemate.  that’s what the treaty is defined as between north korea and south korea.  that’s what i felt.  in addition to a very odd, yet satisfying amount of peace as well.  a sanctuary of sorrow and peace.  being idle equates to nothing.

scarborough beach circa august 2010.  meandered to the beach with jaime reagan and company.  the swells were constant and overwhelming.  the sun was directly overhead, and the white sand was absorbing all the heat from the center of our galaxy.  i can’t say that i went to the beach for leisure too often this past summer, but of the few trips i did make, this was certainly the most satisfying.  immediately following the beach, we drove to the maine squeeze where jaime and i indulged in some green drinks.

alpha cave and beta bitches- plus caliboy.  these folks made my july the best july i’ve ever had.  when i first encountered them, i was unsure whether i’d get along with the group.  but sure enough, we made friends fast, and i still cannot imagine spending the entire july with any other group of people but these.  mr. t remains calm and collected, posing next to jaime who is in the midst of laughing at max’s absurd gesture he made seconds before this shot was snapped.  caliboy remains the same as mr t, and max, eli, and myself share a laugh about supertramp and the nose.

as i headed to the seoul fish market i traveled down a tunnel full of produce stalls managed by the wives of farmers.  this shot is perhaps one of the best i’ve snapped this summer.  while the exposure isn’t as great as i wish, the idea of the scene is still visible, and i think in some ways its executed quite well.  this woman, who has her hand resting on her hip found me and my traveling companions ridiculous and troublesome.  she was selling sesame leaves, dried maggots, and garlic.  the vendors sat on the ground while guys on mo-peds whizzed by.

snap-shot/portrait of my dear madre.  we were eating at saporro, i was house-sitting, and korea was just around the corner.  she was angry because her water had ice and no lemon, even though she asked twice for water without water with a lemon.  i suppose being picky isn’t the best thing when ordering water.  it was humid, and rain was on the way.  following this excursion i made my way home, and took a brief nap before running up to walk the little puppy on the hill.

after waiting for what seemed like a million seconds, potter did the first step to my swallow tattoo.  the pressing remained on my back for an extra twenty minute before he began a two and a half hour ink session on the very small swallow located on my upper left shoulder blade.   potter was impressed by my ability to fall asleep during the whole tattoo sesh, and in addition, i was a “very nice foreigner”.  he was sweet, that goes without saying, and he also was the best dressed korean i had seen that day- rocking a pair of tie-dyed balloon cotton pants, jesus sandals, and a black wife beater.

ms. chelsea, a very good friend, was married to her dearest john on august 29th.  the wedding was out of control and on the island.  we took an early boat over, and the good times started to roll at 2pm.  clearly, after this little soire, i know that i can handle a large amount of alcohol.  as A and i later hypothesized, the entire wedding was just an excuse to get loved ones together to drink to their heart’s content. and the choice of drink was limited to miller light, pbr, pinot grigo, pinot noir, merlot, and jello shots made with meyer’s rum.  very limited indeed.

when anne and cory first observed my camera, they struck a pose, but after i took a little while explaining i didn’t like poses, they began to ignore me, thus allowing me to get a candid shot like the one above.  anne and cory are my favorite couple in the entire world.  leading the bridal party, anne wore her black dress from bliss, paired with a legit pair of frye motorcycle boots.  miss rock n roll asian is pretty B.A.

jack and andrew pickin’ around at their octopus entree.  squirmy, yummy, delicious, we are strong…like warriors.

Mr. I tried his best with snappin’ some candid shots of my session with potter… while he is an amateur at camera usage, i enjoyed this photo and i still do.  this was about half-way into our session, and potter had just started shading.  b-roc, the miniature dog was moving about beneath the table, and my hand was resting on potter’s thigh.  i didn’t quite know where to put my hands the entire session, for they kept falling asleep.

this is my depiction of silence at the boston public library.  i’m very pleased with how this came out, besides the little light leak on the bottom left.

sinchon at night.  neon signs have a power over a human’s feeble mind.  all things that sparkle/glitter attract our attention, and sinchon was just that… a big ball of sparkley, glittery, neon signs.  i miss the vendors, the street food, the hemp stores, the cheap shoes, expensive skincare, and ironic shirts that would say, “it girl” or “diamonds or gold please”… did i say ironic, i meant idiotic!

Mr. I all dolled up, and finally he admits that he is a hash hippie.

the weekend brings me once again to the humble abode in cambridge, and immediately post-weekend, i am back in school, ramming my head into chem books, alg2acc books, russian history middle ages text + freeze text, pride and prejudice, and translating latin that i would have never thought possible to translate until now.  rest well portland, enfin will be back.

post scriptum: i was at norms tonight and got to spend some time with my surrogate big bro who i haven’t seen in what seems like ages.  now i know that i’ll have some guaranteed help for my struggling times in mathematics class.

enfin's reality, Uncategorized

dearest, oh dearest.

craving some stuffed peppers and iced nice coffee.

i keep blogging right before i go to bed, and then while in the midst of a terribly good sentence, i fall asleep. shame on enfin for not realizing this trend. anyway! happy last day of avril. it’s been quite a short month- absolutely insane to think that i’ve gotten all the way to late spring and early summer. 2010, as i had wished when it was 2009, has not been up to par to be quite frank. there have been good moments and bad ones, but nothing defining- thus nothing that i will remember the year at this point. this past week has been busy, but certainly not my busiest- in fact, i feel as though i haven’t accomplished jack shit (to be blunt) at school. it only seems like i’ve played tennis- through wind, hail, rain and sunshine- oh and 32 degree weather. i’m still getting into the swing of things- seeing as this is my first week back from april break. three tennis matches- two practices, tonight… last match. i’m not planning on doing too much this weekend- seeing as i feel incredibly lazy right now, so lazy that it seems as though i’ve forgotten how to answer my telephone or even log on to facebook.

i went to SPACE wednesday, surprise surprise, right? it was Johnny Cash Tribute Evening which is held there every year.  all the proceeds went to the betterment of prisons in New England, and there were a bunch of kick ass bands there who spit out the best J. Cash and J. Carter songs. I danced and danced my little heart idle. Prior to that i visited bates- a small oasis in the town of lewiston (which i have always perceived to be trashy… but bates belongs in cambridge bitches). i know that i wouldn’t like attending there, but it was nice to get out of hell for a day.

i know that i’m being wordy… and i’m beating around the bush, so below is a list of truths i’ve been meaning to get out in the open for quite some time but have obviously had a bit of trouble doing:

-i lost my first tennis match
-i am applying to spend a month on the ocean during this summer, where a bunch of students as well as myself will be studying ways to help preserve the world’s biggest ecosystem- the sea.
-i still have writer’s block
-i definitely am not a team player
-i need to work on my attitude

there we go. out in the open. i’m so stoked (oh god, who am i turning into…) for the summer. i’ve been trying to figure out things to do and this would be great- although i am feeling rather pressured because i wanted to (and when i say wanted to… that mean i really wanted to) take a photo class, rent a darkroom at the bakery, be with meredith as much as i could be, work a regular schedule, beach and driving around and because i said that, driver’s ed, spend time in boston teaching le langue d’amour, and of course, go camping. who knows if i’ll even make it into this program- if i do, then wonderful! i’ll totally go about that and help save the ocean, but if i don’t than that’s wonderful too. i won’t be sore either way. i’ve been trying to learn that everything happens for some bigger reason, and i am no longer enticed to know why those sorts of things happen. if i could help change the world in some way, than i would most certainly do so. i hope though, that i will have fun (in fact, i know i will)! the good news about this program though is that its 4 days a week, and there is only one instance where it goes all 7.  the remainder of the week (ie 3 days) belong to me and i can go home etc. plus when we’re hanging intown learning, that means i can just go home when the day is done and do whatever i like then. oooh the advantages of being a child with no strings attached- i must say its a breath of fresh air.

enfinlove (i just gave y’all some)

enfin's reality, Uncategorized, writing

“can i have you?” caught up in what to say, i said, “you do!”

maybe this is the wine… but maybe its not.  isn’t there some latin phrase that says, through wine comes truth? oh boy. forget regrets, it’s time to get this off my chest and into the open.  i’m a coward and i hide behind words and excuses and personas of all sorts.  i have learned those things in therapy! but yes…. coming back with the lovely tuung and angus and julia stone, i realized love… when you love without desire..love…does not exist…but mediocrity love sure… is that even a word…or a real thing. affection..better word choice there. love without desire. when i ride you home because you’re drunk and its raining and you win. your untouched world….your views our similarities. que..que. ququque.


if i had him i’d do so much. i’d walk to his nook-in-the-wall house in the middle of the night to apologize for whatever drama i caused that day.  i’d take rolls and rolls of film of him and ses companions.  i’d bike baguettes to his doorstep, with books of matches, just incase. i’d listen to everything he would say, and because i’d listen, i’d remember. i’d laugh at his jokes even when i would be sad, i’d hug him until his heart’s content. i’d ask him about his aspirations, about his past, and about his ideals. i’d smile encouraging smiles. i’d say things that i’d regret. i’d have multiple playlists for him and his moods.  i’d go searching for beautiful writing implements with him.  i’d wallpaper his room. i’d find him a stray and name it harriet. i’d write for him. more than i already do. i would cook for him and let him pick the movies we’d watch. i’d know where his freckles are.  like the one on the back of his neck, the lone one that caught my eye when i first saw it.  i’d know how his joints work, how he’d walk. how he slept and how he dreamt. his room would be my haven, and my world would be open to his.  we’d join forces, taking midnight bike rides around the west side, drinking wine and beer in the middle of the summer days.  the wharf would be our park, where we’d picnic, write and photograph. i’d speak my broken foreign languages with him, and he’d respond with his broken languages too. my eyes would be intent on his, and my hands would be reaching towards him. i’d take a daily adventure with him, whether it be to mackworth island, or to a flat surface where backrubs could be donated. i’d give him hope and i’d give him love. it’d all be a secret, every last bit of it though.  when he would be drunk, i would go to him and listen to his rants about his partial insanity, and his hindered dreams. i’d loan him my shoulder and show him my secrets. i’d collect his bits and pieces of poetry and keep them in my pocket.  i’d pack up my bags and find us a fort to live in, somewhere with an herb garden and vegetable garden. diana ross would be our sunday soundtrack, and barathrum’s would be our favorite place to adventure. rules would be broken, but passions emphasize.  we’d run, jump, skip, dance, paint, do, create, initiate whatever which way we’d want.  the clouds would be our bedtime stories. my hates you pin would be my way of saying just the opposite.  dinners in the dark, days under the covers.  no one getting up to turn the vinyl. i’d forgive and forget.  he’d do the same.  later on we’d laugh over cups of mint tea. we’d think that cable has a hex that comes with it.  our newest discoveries in the department of music would be shared via text, or via whisper. affection would be expressed through jabs, through words, through contact. eyes fierce, smoke puffing. one of these days…one of these days.  drives on long stretches of highway, stopping at random fields of wildflowers. history in the making. crazies on the loose. no such thing as fail, no such thing as atrocious. we’d go our ways. we’d remember. being forever…perhaps in the mind, perhaps in reality.  no promises that can’t be fulfilled. no empty hopes or empty dreams. he’d be mine, but he’d be his.  i’d be his, but i’d be mine too. black coffee after a never ending night.  hating when divine days end. sharing each other….rarely. takeout and foreign films. early morning trips to diners and delis. trading literature, in exchange for other literature. stories and words mark our progress. the more we write, the more we are. today doesn’t start until the page says so. lives lived, and lives to be lived. restraints…minded but not. a world to explore…each other to do the same. messages meant to be delivered explicitly, as if to address it to him in the title.

intuition to be heard and trusted. once in a lifetime opportunities to be grasped, days to be seized. company to be shared. lilac bush. in season once a year. in season once a year. then death when winter arrives.  when winter arrives, we begin.  we end when we’re done.  his attempts to end it are countered by mine. nothing happens when we both try. courage built up….maybe later rather than now.  if there’s a will, there’s a way, and there’s certainly a will.  to be, or to be. question him, or me.  love is what i’d give him. love and aspirations. love, aspirations, and a loaned shoulder.  all in exchange for just him. because he…well he’s me. but perhaps not. perhaps i’m him, and he’s me. but we’ll never know. if i could do anything right now…well i suppose it’d be telling him this. telling him my thoughts…my wishes, my wants. but all in good time…all in good time. who knows what that means. all i know is that i’d do a great deal for him. and i’d hope he’d do a great deal for me.

Uncategorized, writing

the book that changed everything

my words are methodically printed on the sheets of this moleskine.  each letter constructed with exact precision.  my secrets are engraved with permanance, my thoughts go unscrutinized by the covers, my aspirations are announced.  sketches of the world around me lay within the boundaries of my journal.  secret messages that i am unable to communicate are enscribed, the possibility that perhaps someday i will be able to mumble these messages to those they are written for remain intact.  my moleskine is home to the inner catacombs of my mind.  tumbling and spiraling thoughts, that tower to the highest point of thought that exists in my psyche.  its waiting to be read…waiting to be explored, but as the author, i am not able to describe what lays beneath the red bound leather covers.  many a times, i’ve imagined losing it, imagined losing my one constant companion.  i’ve realized that if i did end up losing it, and someone found it, read it, and hypothesized about me, then they would, without a doubt, know a great deal more, about its author, than i do.  and of course, i am the author.  i know little about myself, about my inner-workings.  i think i know what makes me tick, what makes me smile, but there are those instances where the sound of a cat hissing, instead of making my head whirl, makes me at ease.  my pre-conceived knowledge about myself is erased constantly and rapidly.  for days at a time, i think i know myself, but the next week i’m in a state of uncertainty.

recently the thoughts going through my mind have circumnavigated around the notion of losing my notebook intentionally.  hoping the right person picks it up, takes it home, and reads it in their dimly lit room, surrounded by tokens of their past, by four walls regulating their lives, by menacing recycled air, and by the sounds of the world where absolute silence does not exist.  this person, the finder of my moleskine, sorts through it, decodes my thoughts, my jargon, my wit, my truths.  they know me without knowing me.  a spark of interest is ignited, and they’re enticed to learn more.  i lay at home in distress, wondering where, oh where could my moleskine be? who has it? and what do they know? but distressed is not the proper word.  its a persona, a phase i go through.  acting one way, when i really am not experiencing those emotions at all.  my therapist tells me that i’m a romantic.  she adds that she also believes i like expressing myself in a variety of ways- one of which is making myself appear mysterious.  creating all these different layers for the “real me” to hide beneath.  for different people, i appear in different ways.  the “real me” is shown to the rare few, and never shown through actual conversation.  the “real me” is expressed through minor actions, and through prose.  those who have witnessed the “real me” can and shall attest to that.

the first time i tried to lose my moleskine was unsuccessful.  i was sitting in a stuffy classroom, that was engulfed by the lights of the fluorescent gods.  chatter was scattered sporadically throughout, knowledge was being hindered rather than facilitated.  it was a dry day in the middle of october.  the guiolltine windows were open, sounds from the construction company working on the building adjacent to the public establishment bellowed in, thus becoming the soundtrack to my day.  my history teacher, a stout italian man, flipped through his notes anxiously.  brow furrowed, mustache loitering, words were anything but omnipresent.  my neighbor whispered to me, motioning at their almost blank quiz, suggesting i give them the answers.  looking down unto my crisp piece of loose leaf paper, i too, hadn’t recorded the answers.  my shoulders shrugged in an almost apologetic manner.  my neighbor sighed disappointedly, and i began working promptly on the quiz.  my right hand gripped my ticonderoga pencil loosely, and my left hand steadily kept my piece of paper in place.  within a few minutes, after my hand was long tired, i refrained from finishing.  only two questions were left.  both of which i knew the answers to.  what had caused this sudden refusal to work? the mocking sound of the analog clock, had appeared louder than it was supposed to.  my eyes drifted up the wall to the clock which was adorned in a minimal way, what with just numbers, tick marks, and three hands.  my teacher cleared his throat, unaware of my short pause in time, and i continued onward to complete my exam.  shortly after i passed my quiz up the row along with two other quizzes that belonged to the folks sitting behind me.  fifteen minutes remained in class, and my teacher announced that we could begin our homework assignment.

instead of reading our history text, i took out my moleskine, and began writing a poem that i had started the evening before.  the ink flowing out of my pen worked at the same rate as the words emanating out of my mouth.  everything fit together in a satisfactory manner, i felt as though i had just written a poem just as good as any of Longfellow’s, but of course that wasn’t the case.  my serenity was interrupted by a fellow student inquiring what i was working on.  i retored, that i wasn’t working on anything that would matter to him, and he chuckled nervously.  his eyes surveyed my face, picking up hints of sorrow and hints of irritability.  will you ever let me read your poetry? he inquired, either genuinely or mockingly (still to this day i am unable to say which) and to this i responded coldly that i don’t share my writing with just anyone.  this comment of mine had hurt him, so much in fact, that he began to resemble a dog licking his wounds.  i began to regret what i had said, but being the exemplary capricorn that i am, apologies were not in my nature.  i began to pack up my stuff in my green shoulder bag, wedging my US History Book, published by Amsco, between my Honors Biology Book and my Honors Latin Prose Guides.  My ticonderoga rested tucked behind my ear, and my mobile phone was checked, in regards of whether or not i had received a text message all day.  i had not.  on my desk remained my moleskine and my water bottle.  the teacher shouted over the gossip of his pupils that the homework was due next class and to make sure to review for the section test.  no one but me heard his announcement.  he began to add something else, but the bell cut him off.  the majority of the class flowed out of his room, but a few remained.  i remained inside, solely to put my jacket on, and to avoid the rush.  others remained inside to discuss their mediocre grades, and explain why they were unable to pass in the homework due next class.  i lauged at what i heard, but i gathered my bag and water bottle and began to leave the room.  i subconciously knew that my journal was not on my person, but, i suppose i didn’t want to admit that to myself at the time.  i walked through the curved corridor, making my way to the main stairs.  the hallways were deserted, partially because it was a friday, and partially because school was over.  scrap pieces of paper, and graded assignments were littered across the floor- very typical for my high school.  as i started to make my way down the main corridor, to the main set of stairs, i heard the pitter patter of feet gaining speed and proximity to where i was currently located.  the hindered breath was resounded about the hallway, and i turned around, all to find the boy, who had inquired about my poetry, running towards me.  in his hand, was my moleskine.  i had hoped, secretly, that he would have found it, brought it home, read it, and delievered it to me on monday.  hey, you forgot your notebook in class he huffed, mustering up enough strength to speak.  i asked if he had looked at it, while i grabbed it out of his freckle dotted hand.  he shook his head no, and added that he respected what i told him, about only a select few are able to read my work.  i looked at him bewildered as to why he hadn’t read what i wrote.  why he had obeyed and listened to what i said.  he smiled at me, told me to have a good weekend, and then turned and sauntered away.  i stood in the hallway, looking curiously at where he had been standing until a janitor asked me if i was alright.

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