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If you can believe it, it’s a Friday once again.” 

I bought the Twin Peaks gold box set in my early ’20s and devoured the series with my then girlfriend. Most of the collectable postcards are still in my desk. The strangeness that pours out of David Lynch’s works feels like an offering that could only be gifted by someone deeply alive and tuned in. There was something about him that reminds me of my granny, but I don’t think I could explain that. She was born some 10 hours northeast of where he was born; both of them blessed with slick white hair. 

In 2019 I took a detour on a road trip so I could go ”where pies go when they die.” It was, indeed, the best cherry pie I’ve ever eaten. I saw the Snoqualmie Falls, where it seemed no one cared about Twin Peaks, and then the Salish Lodge (aka The Great Northern Hotel), where it felt like everyone was on pilgrimage. The “Welcome to Twin Peaks” sign isn’t where it’s supposed to be anymore because people stole it all the time. 

I think often of this line: “Just slow things down and it becomes more beautiful.” 

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This is a place for my photographs to live that is more mine and less compromised than the other places that currently exist. It’s called Hymnal because I like to consider those photographs as small prayers or devotional songs. There will always be a photograph in these entries; sometimes there will be writing. The writing will not always be my own. I’ll add to the space when I feel like it. 

I’m working on a long-term project about three poems and poets, and one of the chambers of its heart is located in central Italy. All over Italy, the sky seems to explode with swallows at dusk. I feel sometimes like I could watch them forever. In this photograph they’re simply flitting to and from their home in a train station. 

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