I don't know what city I'm in I just know where I'd rather be.

I'm a singer/songwriter who can't write or sing.
I'm grey; not black or white.
I'm the cold comfort of the inbetween.
I'm a wrong number.
I'm brutally honest and honestly brutal.
I'm the most compassionate cold hearted bastard you'll ever meet.
I'm an emotional roller coaster who can't laught or cry.
I'm a lock with no key.
I'm a burnt down dream home.
I'm a crashed excotic car.
I'm sad when I'm happy and happy when I'm sad.
I'm a sticker on the back of a guitar.
I'm the life of every party I crash.
I'm just too stoned to care.

You might know or not, but your ankles get me hot. I love you Carol.

I'm a shitbag.

I'm a god damn train wreck.

So this is a photo of the guitar I'm getting....Ovation Ledgend 1866 12-string. I can't wait.





Music: The Red House Painters - Song for a Blues Guitar

It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm eating what for me was breckfast. Frosted Flakes and skim milk. I always hated going to other peoples houses when I was a kid because they always would have diffrent milk, either 2% or 1% and it never tasted right. It's funny how simple things like that make you long for home, and your normal routine. My dad walks in as I'm looking to my bowl of cereal watching a lone corn flake spiral with the movements of my spoon, and the ringless left behind my drops of milk falling from my spoon on it's way to my digestive system. He says to me "Son, I'm dying, so you need to get a job." It's like a brick wall at 50mph and all I can think about is how Frosted Flakes are forever going to be ruined for me, forever, by this singualr moment in time. No subtlety, no warm up. No "Nobody lives forever..." speach, just, I'm dying, and you need to get a job. I'm sure he thought about it, how to approach the subject, or maybe he didn't. His father probably taught him to be a "man" and that's what my dad taught me. We're men. I'm not a man, I'm a boy. I don't want to work, I don't want to face these realistic things in life. I just want to sleep all day and listen to my music, and not really talk to anyone else, which is pretty much the complete opposite of trying to be a productive citizen. It's like nobodys father ever taught them how to handle what's in their brains, I guess theres no way to really realte putting your feelings out there to football. So it makes each son of a father a fumbling fool with words and emotions. What am I feeling? Fuck. I don't know, I wish I did, I wish I could tell you or understand it, but I can't. What am I going to do when I'm the father, and I'm telling my son something? Probably the same, because even at that stage of my life I'll still be a boy in those situations. Ignorant, young, I just won't know any better. This is probably the first time a man in my family has even thought to write down what he's thinking. So welcome to my sissy nancy boy fag journal, because it's 1950 in my head right now. My fathers a miner with black young and I'm in a flannel shirt waiting for my toy rocket to come crashing back down to earth.

I'll be be out of town for two weeks. So no new photos untill I get back, if I decided to even both with Mindsay anymore.

P.S. You should check out the new Ben Folds albumb, it's good.

I'm still in love after all the time we've been together. I don't even realize how long it's been, seems like yesterday.

I've been doing alot of design for the lay out of my photography website....heres one of the ideas I've been playing around with:




Remeber, it's not full sized, and the compression is kicked way up to save room in my Photobucket account. At full size it should fill your monitor 1280x1024, anyways leave me some feedback on it.

...and I couldn't fall back asleep, so I decided to play in Photoshop. I also made a wide-ass headder so my shots wouldn't get croped. So enjoy the new viewing friendly layout.

Final print of a previously posted shot:

Alabama filmaker Alan Barton sporting his $1 thrift store gospel t-shirt.


Edited while listing to: Heastmiser

Fuck Richard Scrushy.

I got accepted to Brooks Institute of Photography.......again.

Java's gettin' loose on some cheap box wine.

Mood: Don't want to go to work.
Music: American Analog Set -"Weather Report"

If you ever wondered what the man behind all those crappy Americana-esque photographs looked like, well you can stop wondering now. My beard is about 4 inches shorter now, and my hair about 20. Still the same ugly mug though.

Photo credit: A. Barton



Music:Elliott Smith - "Alphabet Town"

She walks in slow motion. Everything is in on it. The sun, the wind, even the colors serve to complement her as she walks. You see her and you know she is alive. The color of her eyes, and skin. Saturated with life, and a love for it. Her vibrant colors that she projects make mine seem so dull and fadded. She's the finest crystal and I'm a paper cup, complete with a bad aftertaste. She's the finest French red wine. Full of flavour and perfectly fermented, and I'm the cheap box.

Mood: Good
Music: Elliot Smith "Single File"