Steve Weber hadn’t stayed in touch with anyone from the little farm town he left as a teenager. The place was a static reminder of high school glory or failure, early marriage, divorce and custody battles, dead-end jobs, and not much else-the face of endurance masking a vortex of interior desperation. Forty-one years later, he found himself surfing Facebook and visiting some of his old high school acquaintances’ profiles to
When she walked into the restaurant a few months ago, she looked like she had just stepped out of a Rolling Stone ad. She was wearing skinny jeans, jump boots laced only half way up, a loose white T-shirt with some vague black logo, and dark-rimmed glasses. She wore a gray fedora tilted on her head at an angle, too, resting on her messy, dirty blonde hair. Her dark eyeliner
Years ago, my friend’s parents owned around four acres in the middle of the South Carolina woods. They stocked their property with different breeds of animals, all consigned to death for food because the family wasn’t rich and it was doing what it needed to do to survive. From early on, my friend studied the relationships between animal intelligence, behavior, and appearance. For instance, he noticed that chickens were mostly
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The shades enter and leave each frame in unexpected ways. Being human means being part of the projection. I’m a visitor, here for a while but then off to somewhere else, wearing the body and everything that goes with it. The accessories make us think this is who we are, but they’re just borrowed trappings cloaking the penetralium, tight-fitting suits we have to wear until the ceremony is over.
It’s all a collective memory shaped by a planet of dreamers living inside themselves, waiting for release.
