I love finding old contact sheets.

These photos are from grade twelve. I remember this day perfectly for some reason. There were about five of us who skipped english class to sit on our school's front lawn in early april or may; the weather was just too beautiful for us to even consider sitting in a classroom.

Come back soon, summer!

It's February, it's cold, there's about a million meters of snow on the ground and aerie has decided to launch the new "Spring Line". This means that I have to walk around a bathing-suit, floral print, denim short laden store all day pretending it's nice and hot and sunny until I walk outside and am blasted in the face with -30 temperatures.

I have never, nor will I ever, be a fan of winter. Ever. While every other normal Canadian walks around in Sorels I wear my moccassins whenever I can get away with it (I do own Sorels, I just find it unnecessary to wear them outside when there is no snow on the ground).

I'm antsy, unfocused and desperate for some vague hint that spring is, in fact, on its way. As a result, I've decided that I need a project. I have dug out my film camera (funny how I posted a similar blog about this last February!) and am vowing, beginning tonight, to carry it with me everywhere and document people and places and anything remotely worth shooting. I plan to post my shots frequently.

The UTSC Messenger!

In late October I got the job as photo editor for UTSC's first online magazine, The Messenger.

As well as editing for the magazine and contributing photos, I recently wrote an article about the importance of heatlthy eating at university.

Check it out here:
http://theutscmessenger.com/?p=1732

Letterbox Love

There it is. Slightly faded; slightly small; but there, whooshing through the slit in the door. The breeze follows behind, causing it to hover in the air with a sense of urgency before continuing to flutter gracefully to the floor. It nestles comfortably between my feet, hitting the polished wood without a sound. I stare at it a moment, its picture face up, nervous at the prospect of picking it off the ground. The word EDMONTON jumps out at me first, the yellow line beneath it a lame attempt at adding some excitement to the otherwise drab photograph. EDMONTON! with an exclamation point is how I’m assuming it should be read, overzealously, but without any real emotion. I continue to stare at it until the letters rush into one another, a jumble of yellow and Es and Ns and Os. I bend down to flip it over before I ruin the moment, the long-awaited excitement. My fingers buzz in anticipation.
Lauren, this is edmonton. pt. 1, Jake.
Edmonton! must be exciting. You used to sign love before your name in bold black ink, as if you had traced the letters over and over again to make sure the word, or perhaps the meaning, did not fade before it reached me. There is something so definite about black ink.
Your love got to be a sloppy green when you reached Nunavut and then a crooked mess of penciled letters when you hit Newfoundland. And now in Edmonton where your love has faded or perhaps just couldn’t make the journey, I have become a hazy blur, my face a pleasant memory that you keep tucked under your pillow for something to dream about at night.

Snow

"Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over a pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying "snow", my lips move so that they kiss the air."

-Ann Beattie, Snow, 1983