food for nostalgia
Mom and Dad, 1984
My father, the sky, cold and distant
My mother, a field, her grass so tender and sharp I would cut myself on her.
She is King of the Wood. 2024
failed film scan, 2025
Winter is in full bloom. I'm frustrated with learning to scan my own film; I'm doing something wrong. I have burnout from trying to learn so much so quickly, but I'm addicted and I can't stop. December, I met with my shadow and called the repressed versions of myself to come forth. Let's turn this straw into gold.
Bane, 2024
Healing salve; Calendula, Yarrow, + Plantain in oil, 2024
I told my mother that she's a kitchen witch. She's always concocting salves, playing with botanical properties to see what she can make. "You mean apothecary", she protested. Being called a witch didn't taste right on her Jesus worshipping tongue. What she doesn't realize is that's all a witch ever was.
The Holly king peaks. Thus begins the rise of the Sun. Happy Birthday my boy.
Creek coulee, 2024
2023
Until Death
"Welcome Winter", I whispered into the fall wind as it dawned on me that winter is Nature's monochrome work. This is the first time in my life that I haven't dreaded the cold.
personal photobook, 2024
Home, 2024
I still worship the Old Gods: Pine, Birch, Hazel, Oak, Aspen, Alder, Ivy, Hawthorn, Yew, Rush, Rowan, Blackberry, Ash, Gorse, Apple, Elder, Holly, Heather, Blackthorn, and Willow.
Sometimes we shoot together.
Beaux, 2024
grain bin pigeons, 2024
I went to the city and felt like a scared wild animal. I think I might be starting to grow fur.
River babies.
He's got iron and dirt in his viens.
Week long camping trip, the talking trees creek, 2024
Home, 2024
When I was 15 we lived in a shack without running water 45min from Quesnel BC. There was a spot by the river along the way with a fresh water spring we would stop to fill reused gallon milk jugs for drinking water. My mother parked the truck on the side of the highway and disappeared into the hillside trees, re-emerging with jugs filled to the brim. It was the best water I ever tasted. I remember knowing that the further we got from town, the cleaner the land was. We used to drink straight from the earth, not 100 years ago, but less than 25. I don't know if that spring is still there.
He says he loves swearing and can't wait to be older so he can do it whenever he wants. I told him I don't care if he swears at home as long as it's used for poetic emphasis and not just to be crude. I'm learning that strong willed people need you to be adaptable. Coming down hard only flares up their beautiful combative spirit and created turbulence. Autonomy is a core value.
May you always be wild and challenge societal norms. A lot of them are just dumb grown up games anyway.
Mammary, the dugout 2024
Bane, backseat window ritual on 40-2, 2024
She is where I go to pray.
Personal reference image.
Willow, golden hr, 2024
Mom + uncle Luke, 1970s
We made corn husk dolls to give to the Earth, a yearly tradition. I waited too long and the husks were dry, flaking all over the floor as we formed them. September waits for no one. We buried them in the field and thanked the soil for our sustenance and I worried about the slippery slope of time. I only have a few more years left to normalize for them what I'm only just learning myself. Raised in the wild I should already know, but I spent that time dissociated, my thoughts consumed with escape. I was an ungrateful fool back then. Sometimes I want to dig myself a whole in the field and plant myself anew. Maybe this time the roots will take. Maybe this time I'll remember I'm kin with the Dirt. If I could drink the soil I would; to taste the songs of the earth my ears can't hear but my body can't forget. Dirt religion is in my bones.
Remember, remember, so I can teach them before it's too late.
corn husk dolls, 2024
Revelation by the creek, 2024
There is no end to howling.
to live is to die
and be born again
but with each new opening of the throat comes a moment of alchemy; a chance to turn your straw into gold.
My favorite smell, second only to the top of my children's heads.
family photobook, 2024
Root systems and loose soil, Van Island 2024
Print them. Accept, Release, Transmute. Evolution is imminent and ongoing. I integrated something deep and important making this personal archive. I don't have words for it yet, but I can feel it writhing around in my bones.