A selection of my photographs from these years became Firecracker, a collaboration with Mike Monteiro. Mike originally told story on the Brooklyn Museum of Art's Twitter account. It was later combined with photographs and published on Blurb, where you can buy a copy. Presented here is a faithful representation of the printed work.
Haven’t been inside this museum since the breakup.
Lingering around the Kiki Smith exhibit longer than I normally would.
Because I know she would have spent hours here.
Wisely decided not to.
Went outside for a cigarette. Started again as an excuse to use the Zippo she gave me on our first anniversary.
Die With Style, it says.
Forgot how much I love the Mummy Chamber. Everything feels so permanent here.
Picked up a Kiki Smith postcard in the gift shop. Might mail it to her, might not.
On my way home. The N is filled with high school kids. Two are making out. A third is eyeing them sheepishly. I recognize the look.
Home. Hung the postcard I got at the museum over the bed. Over the left side. I still can’t bring myself to use the left side.
I almost don’t check her Flickr account every day anymore. That’s something.
Dammit. Poured two cups of coffee again.
New secretary at work asked me if I needed anything then added:
“No, silly. Office supplies.”
Don’t check Facebook. Don’t check Facebook. Don’t check Facebook. Don’t check Facebook. Dammit.
“Little things just seem to undermine her confidence in him.”
Staring at the Kiki Smith postcard from yesterday’s museum visit. There’s a small grease stain handprint on the wall next to it.
Someone at work is having a birthday. There’s a card on my desk. I’m supposed to write something witty.
I write stay young and pass it on.
My mom called. Asked about us. I haven’t been able to tell her. Next time. Also, Dad is forgetting more.
I want to put on a suit. Go to a bar and pick a fight. Have a girl wipe blood off my lip.
The movies make it seem so easy.
Exactly a year ago, we were on a plane to visit her folks in Pittsburgh. She held my hand on ascent, then took me to the VFW hall where her parents met.
Hollywood has taught us that it takes natural disasters or alien invaders to bring estranged couples back together.
I’ve started putting all the things she left behind in a box. Little things. Hair clips. A pair of socks that was mixed in with mine.
The new secretary asked if she could tag along for lunch today. I told her I was meeting friends. Then walked three extra blocks just in case.
Today was my birthday.
When was the first time you knew the next time would be the last time?
Relationship status: Taken. Taken?!? How about stolen! Stolen.
Filled a box with her old stuff. Called her mom to ask where to send it. “Send it to me.” I want to send it to her. “She doesn’t want that.”
Talking to her mom reminded me of visits to their house in Western Pennsylvania. The sound of loud cicadas. She used my pockets as hers.
I held on to the lucky firecracker from the July 4th we met. All but one went off. “Always a chance.” She smiled, putting it in my pocket.
Attached the firecracker to the Kiki Smith postcard over her side of the bed. Then opened the window and had a cigarette. Zippo clicking.
In the building across the street, a couple in their 50s is watching TV. He reaches for her hand. She pulls closer, her head on his shoulder.
She called this morning.
The new secretary at work grabs my arm as I’m headed to lunch. “You look like you could use some company. I know a great place. Shut up.”
Her name is Carol, by the way. We’re going to the museum on Saturday to see the Warhol show.
On the roof. Having a beer. And a smoke. And lighting a firecracker. Looking forward to Saturday.