Two weeks before my final review for my senior thesis, our school went online. 

Ten days before my final review, I asked my review panel if I could mail them photographs. 

Eight days before my review, I mailed each panelist an envelope of prints. 

Six days before my review, the photographs arrived at the panelists’ houses and I uploaded a statement onto box. 



Today, I texted my friend part of an essay: 

If I, for instance, want to tell you that a man I loved, who died, said he loved me on a curbstone in the snow, but this occurred in time after he died, and before he died, and will occur again in the future, I can't say it grammatically.

​You would think I was talking about a ghost, or a hallucination, or a dream, when in fact, I was trying to convey the experience of a certain event as scattered, and non-sequential.


In so many senses making these spiral, or serial, poems is very close to dream-construction, where we collect pieces of most and emotionally charged moments and see how they interact, outside of the usual story-like narrative. And ultimately I see the whole body of work as existing all but untitled and without beginning or end, an explosion of parts, the quotidian smeared.

--Fanny Howe, Bewilderment 

When I read this, I sat bolt upright.  “But this is photography!” I thought, “Smeared quotidian! Yes!”

​Sometimes, I stand on the toilet in my bathroom so I can see my whole body in the mirror above the sink and pose like the pink picture of my bruises and track the changes in my appearance. I’m paler now. I’m thinner. My hipbones stick out a little and there are three long hairs beneath my belly button and a big space between my legs and two new piercings and a small pink scar. I like that I look different. The differences make it feel true that that picture is in the past. But I’ve done this so often that that picture is ingrained in my muscle memory. I fall into the pose so easily--arms up, twist to the left, right leg forward.  

For me, right now, everything is about touch. I look at two trees twisted together and think about the space between people. I look at plastic wrap and think about the separation of air, the allowance for touch without actual contact.

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