journal, mt. hollywood summit
if butterflies are symbols of transformation then mt. hollywood must be a place of transformation because it’s always swarming with butterflies up here. they make me nervous.
how to wear myself
a swirl of cloth
tied at the elbows
expectation of give—
I never learned
what holding firm is.
-how does the body work?
-what does the body hold together within & without itself?
-what does the body hold?
-where in the body is the ‘self’ located?
-how can language or thought interact with the physical body?
-how does the body need language in order to exist?
s y m b i o s i s
when I was 15 years old I went to paris. I had been obsessed with france for several years, so when a school trip appeared I begged my mother to max out a credit card so I could go. I had traveled a small amount before, but this trip launched me into becoming a person who loves being somewhere totally new. though I've returned to europe on occasion, I've never gone back to france.
tomorrow I head back to paris for the first time in over a decade, stopping over for a day in reykjavik along the way. this time, I've been dreaming of iceland & walking paris' streets testing out the travel photography tips I've been reading about in books.
& also eating a lot of bread.
dawn + fog + boats + bridge.
after spending the night by the ocean I woke up at 4 am to make my way to the presidio to catch the early morning light on the golden gate. the fog was so thick I had to drive at a snails pace. the sky turned deep blue just before the sun came up & bleached everything white.
just after dawn I get lost in the presidio & eventually find my way out into the haight-ashbury. the streets are largely empty, with only the odd groggy commuter clutching their coffee as they wait for the walk signal. I find a parking spot half a block from the intersection of haight & ashbury, which I'm certain wouldn't be there any later in the day. the morning is cool & the fog hangs in low & heavy. my los angeles blood can't bear to be out too long. I walk a half block in each direction, taking in the multi-coloured buildings & old victorian houses. the streets are quiet. none of the shops are open. I think about the east village in new york. I think about what these places used to mean, before you had to be a millionaire to afford their wood floor apartments & local coffee shops. I think about where all the art has gone, when profit becomes more important.