The idea behind the “Time Sliced” Project was to photograph iconic world buildings at sunset and capture the changing light from day to night in a single image. Experimenting with a few different kinds of processes I came up with the “Sliced” idea. I decided to Slice time and light showing the progression of the day from left to right.
1.a woman or girl in relation to other daughters and sons of her parents.
There are many words in the English language I do not know how pronounce. Aluminum. Ask. Envelope. Other words, I struggle with forming. I ponder over the formation of thought into sentence, what exactly do I want to translate into articulation in this conversation, delivered by the great and magnificent system of my brain I test the word I am incapable of pronouncing on my tongue, then I release the product of such carefully thought out speech in my high pitched voice with a very slight undercurrent of an accent people try but can never put a finger on.
When I am writing, a poem, a short story, even if I know the meaning of the word - I still look it up. I want everything laid out in front of me to be perfect. By perfect I mean, girl, do you understand the entire context of the paragraph? Girl, can you replace every word with three synonyms and completely rewrite this paragraph but still have it be paraphrased from the original one? Anxiety manifests in odd ways doesn’t it. If stress reduces you to a crumbled tower bodies find strange ways to cope with the debris.
I am convinced inside of us all is a crumbled tower. The debris floats and rots and collects in large piles in different locations inside of our bodies. Maybe your neighbour has it in her knees, and that is why she creaks and bends with a grimace etched onto her face when you pass her in hallways, but quickly rearranges pain into forced smile and a ‘do you want to come over for tea’. Maybe your friend has it in his eyes and that is why they are red and crystal clear in the morning, and when you ask him is everything okay, you can see water build up in the white. I am convinced most of the damage is in our hearts. We spend our whole lives cleaning up the wreckage site, but sometimes we find a set of hands besides our dirty, calloused own who gently remove shovel from our arms.
The older I get the large gathering of male friends I once had no longer exists. It’s dwindled down to two. One not so close, one I hold in my heart. He’s a writer, and a fellow communist, and every time I think of him I smile. He reminds me of the mountains. This is especially important because my mother’s village in Somalia is encircled by mountains. So he is a sort of homeland.
Long but beautiful.