It is almost nine in the morning. I've been up a while but moving slow. I'm ready to walk out the door but not ready to move... I've been taking some pole dancing classes, and am supposed to be at one in an hour, but it's an upper level class that I'm sorta crashing but I've grown scared and decided not to go. I want someone from the studio to call me and assure me that I will be fine, but it's not happened and grown almost past the time where if I left now I could make it. Fear, what an interesting concept and feeling. So much fear is based off of nothing. Fear of judgement. I face that one a lot. Fear of failure... fear of sexuality... The studio, called S Factor, is equal parts workout, dance and sex therapy. You are guided to touch your body, to freely move without fear or consequence. There are no mirrors, it is dark, and no men are allowed in the studio at all. 

Through this and not smoking anymore, taking a break from drinking, living a life sailing... I'm completely separate from this other life I was living just months ago. I feel so good about myself and what I'm doing, yet I am completely alone. There are so many people I wish to know better, who I miss, who I wish to love and love me. 

Update

So. The boat Appledore didn't exactly work out so well for me. So I've moved onto another boat called the Grace Bailey, who goes out on long multiple day/night trips (3-5 days). I'll be on a five day trip, as a volunteer and photographer. Pretty neat and I'm looking forward to it. I have my own little cabin with a fairly big bed, which is pretty sweet. We return on Friday and then Saturday I'll be flying out to NYC to get on a catamaran to crew on it up to Chicago via the Hudson, which I hear is a great trip and also, I am very much looking forward to learning how to navigate. Transits are the best, and it'll land me in Chicago in three weeks. It would seem it's all fit together better this way, anyway, and I'm looking forward to it all. I've been taking a lot of photos with my medium format because there's something wrong with my Olympus, which sucks, but thankfully I have more than one camera and currently much more 120 film than 35. Whatever, I am happy to be on boats and have film, period.

I am getting a great tan.... on about half of my body. Good thing I don't plan to model anytime soon cause it's a little ridiculous.

merp. this is a boring update.

people sometimes ask me where I want to be, if I were to settle down for a while. I have no answer. I want to be away from everything I know, everyone I know. I want to have no history, no future, no dreams. I want to live in today, in the now, and I want that to be the only thing that matters. People accuse me of running away. I say, I'm running to. Searching something, even if I'm not entirely sure what it is. I feel like I've started to lose my words. I don't want to talk to many people because I don't want to be misunderstood by one more person... 

Ugh

I hate that feeling of not feeling good enough. Sitting there thinking what you could do differently, who you could be to be more wanted company. I feel extremely alone.

I'm losing my mind.

Bravery

Many people have called me brave. But I never feel brave. I am comfortable roaming from place to place doing what I've been doing. I know I have something and someone to rely on on the other side of  that plane or train ride. I have someone picking me up, a place to stay, a job to take.

What I'm about to do is in the face of all that. I'm scared. I'm alone. And that's what bravery is about. Facing your fears.

All I know is that I'm tired of traveling on the backs of modeling and men who want to photograph me naked. I want something more. Not that I hate modeling, I just don't want to do it for a living anymore. I want to find something else...

Wel, I've found something else. I have found sailing.

First things first: Find my way to the ocean...

Musings on Musing

I guess I understand why a number of my friends have spoken up against the desire to be a muse. What a thing full of pressure, Musing. It is love, it is desire, it is pain and suffering. Ultimately a muse is inspiring because she is ever elusive, taunting you further than you were before- a mirage, a handful of water, a side glanced ghost. I, who have always aspired to being a muse, may have found myself among those who step away from such a title. Do not chase me, do not want me... For I am unavailable, and I am cruel. I will leave. I will always leave.

Sailing

I'm in Chicago. There is a festival nearby here in Lincoln Park, I hear music and the dull din of a crowd. People drinking, dancing. Having fun. A part of me wishes to be a part of it, but then I realize that I never have fun at those things. I don't care about music enough to go to loud festivals and I don't like people enough to carry on a conversation with strangers. I realize that drinking is dulling me, is making me less capable. 

I say this even as I'm about to dip into my bottle of whiskey.  

At what point is enough enough? At what point do I wake up and say, it's time. Time to get my shit together and not in any other way but my own. I don't want to be the wild, rebellious, loud, outspoken girl anymore. I feel like that's not really me. Does that mean I've changed or does that mean I've been trying to be someone I'm not? Or is this what growing up feels like?

I do know that sailing is the answer to it all, to all of my dreams. I want to sail around the world. I am not sure how I'll make that happen, but I know it's something that I want. I want it bad. My own boat, eventually. I don't even know how to sail and I want my own boat, like now. 

I guess for now I will press on, looking for a boat to work on for the next month and a half. 

I wish my plans to join the Hawaiian Chieftain hadn't fallen through. Shit, or the following replacement plan, either. I feel like I'm sitting here with the rug yanked out from under me and now I'm scrambling. Quite unpleasant. Especially being nearly dead broke. 

Sigh. 

Wings and Roots

So yesterday I decided to do nothing with my day, and a part of me felt pretty bummed and guilty about it. First of all, I had a model cancel a shoot on me, and another girl who I just met who I am so dying to photograph doesn't have time for me, and my friends are out of town or unmotivated or whatever. These are the same people who tell me how they love my work... How am I supposed to believe it when I can't get anyone to commit to shooting with me? Don't take it personally, Chip says, You'll be fine.

Okay, Okay. So I sorta take the day off. I spent a lot of time thinking about what it is about NYC that is so disenchanting to me this trip (besides all of that). I watched lost and cried over Jack telling Kate about how he deals with fear by letting it wash over him, take over, but only for five seconds. But the problem is, is that I'm afraid of pretty much everything. A part of me is, at least. I took a nap, I watched Silver Linings Playbook and then the Hunger Games while drinking a bottle of wine and then slept great.

But I wake up at noon. I swear the only place I ever wake up at noon is in NYC. Why is this? Why when I love the city so much, and there is so much to do, do I find myself hiding away in apartments here? It's not just this apartment, it's any apartment I've ever stayed in. But then I started thinking and I realized it's not just NYC, although it is worse here.

But it's not like that when I was living on the boat. Why?

I think on freedom and energy and happiness. My singularly and regularly happiest moments are when I'm driving in my car, the sun is out, the windows are down and I'm going somewhere new, or I don't have a destination, or whatever it may be. When I had my car I had a lot of those moments, and in my head I would imagine wings - which were my whole being and self - stretched out and soaring. Underneath me and my car, were my roots, searching out and springing forward, content on just touching the ground but not planting. Searching.

And then it came to me - on the boat I can have both my wings and my roots.

I also have structure, discipline, responsibility. I actually enjoy being told what to do. I'm learning something, I'm a part of something.

We'll find out what I'm actually made of for this boat stuff in June, looks like I'll be there for a good three weeks or more. The coolest part is that I can come and go. But I really want to know what I'm doing. So much to learn.

I really wanted to go to Europe for a couple weeks for my birthday, but traveling with the boat for a month isn't a bad replacement.

Now for my boat wardrobe.... ;)

the Hawaiian Chieftain

Here I sit in the aft cabin, looking at my computer wanting to tell my blog all about my last week and a half and it's hard because there's just so much. Shit, a week and a half ago I didn't know what an aft cabin was.

I've enrolled in a two week program called "two weeks before the mast" in which you are given a bunk and thrown into a trial by fire process of adjusting to this lifestyle. Waking on average at eight am to the voice of Knuckles, the cook, hollering out to us "o-eight-hundred, coffee and breakfast!" and within 15 minutes 11 of us crowd the galley to snatch our portion of breakfast. Me and one other sailor lazily smoke a cigarette first (coffee in hand, naturally) before eating. Afterwards, "muster" is called and we are told what the day looks like. Next, chores.

The Hawaiian Chieftain is owned by a non profit organization who works and sails up and down the northwest coast teaching 4th and 5th graders about sailing, particularly around the Revolutionary war. During the week there are two programs for the kids; "Dockside tours" and "Education sails" (or "ed" sails). Dockside tours are where they are split into groups and in three different station learn about things like trading, navigation and hauling on lines. Ed sails we actually take the kids out sailing and, once again, in three groups are led to helping to actually put the sails up.

 Which, I suppose I should mention, is no small feet. The Chieftain is 103 feet from tip to tip, a square topsail ketch, with something ridiculous like 15 sails she can fly with - though mostly we stick it to about 6. The sails are heavy and solely raised by our dedicated strength. I'm a week into the program and I still barely know what I'm doing on each sail, learning so much every day and still feel like I haven't scratched the surface.

None the less, the weekends are public sails. We take them on two hour "Adventure" sails where the crew sings shanties and tells the passengers anything about sailing that they want to know about, and also encourage them to join in on the hauling of lines when raising the sails or tacking. The more fun sails are the "Battle" sails, where Hawaiian Chieftain and her sister ship, the Lady Washington have an exciting mock battle with cannons with blanks (though no less boom) and a point system to rate hypothetical damage. The fun comes in the jibes and calls back and forth when we get close, and in the hussle of being a deckhand when so much action and dancing of circles around eachother (the boats, not the crew, though in the chaos I find myself running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to figure out where it is I'm supposed to be).

 Now, all of this is the shell of the experience. The meat and bones is living on the boat; making the rest of your crew a second family, the ship a home and the skill of sailing filling your lungs and soul with the essence of adventure and freedom. Every burning muscle is a trophy and everything from food and drink to sleep feels better to me, out here, exploring a whole new way of existing.

New Year Thoughts

These past days I've been sitting around reading or thrifting or playing with my kid cousins or reading or watching movies and when I get a chance to express myself all I can think is how much I'm going to get done, and what I'm going to get done, in 2013. And it's not like, "oh here is my new years resolutions" it's more like "PREPARE FOR WAR, 2013, CAUSE 2014 IS GOIN DOWN" I don't know whether it's like building the ultimate tree fort in the back yard or what, cause it definitely feels like I'm a kid in D-Z who just discovered how to sneak attack my little brother and shove my sister safely down the slides when no one was looking. It's a childish sort of victory I feel, plotting and planning my route to success... perhaps because it feels so doable, I feel so capable and so sure-footed. I am happy and excited and inspired, every day. So many of these days I say to myself, okay okay, well it's not going to last so you best enjoy it while it does. But then it keeps happening. And I'm like, shit I must be doing something fuckin right because this feels GREAT. The only thing I remember from Sunday School was when they talked about our paths that God has set in front of us, and that when bad shit starts happening, it means we're straying from our path. First of all, before any of you gets weird about anything, I was very conflicted about all that, myself. So I have spent many years returning to this idea. What is God? And who is he to choose what I will do with my life? I have come to the conclusion that while many Christians might want to believe there is a man in the sky, or some singular higher power, I don't think that's what ever was to be. I think God is the collective higher power, whatever that might be. The Universe and it's workings. That being said, since I was a child I have dreamed of being great. I have wanted to be a writer, a traveler, a model and a photographer. I have been a dreamer and desired to be nothing short of Great since I can remember. I want to make a difference, I want to help change the world, I want to see as much of our world as I can and understand as much of it as I can. I want to share beauty and pain, life and death, nature and nurture. And through this desire I have laid my path already. Through this *God* has seen fit to help me on my journey, in my passion and dedication. It is long laid and long strayed, shit has happened and people have helped me where they can. And now, having rolled in the dirt of my own stupidity and rebellion, I can say I see my path clearly. Maybe not too far down it, and certainly not straight or level... But I see it. I fuckin see it.

Cafe Thoughts

I could sit at this cafe for hours longer, even though I've been here for hours and I am frustrated with how much I have to do and how little I really have gotten done. I look at this list and it doesn't seem so hard, yet I sit here and I find it difficult... I suppose when you've let things get quite out of hand it takes a long time to sort it all out and put everything in place. I almost said "back" in place, but I don't think it was ever quite right. Indeed, I've thrived in being chaotic. I've wanted to disrupt, destroy, upset the balance- and grin, standing in the middle of it all. But I don't desire that anymore. I want to pick it all up, examine every piece and place it neatly where it belongs. I don't mind taking my time. I want to know every part of my world that I've created and built and collected. I want those entering my world to not be wild eyed and crazed, excited to see what I will do to lead them into some insane adventure- but to enter confident and comforted and powerful, building on creativity and inspiration. I want to be a muse in every way, to help people find their strength, art, love, passion. I want to save the world of mediocracy.

An Amazing Day with Horses (and Cameras)

And yes, it's quarter after seven at night and I'm about ready to hit the sack. That's what happens when you get up at three am to go to the track in order to help with the daily runs (and walks of the sick) race horses. It's freezing cold and the sun wont be up for hours but most people there are happy to be - I am not the only one enchanted by these animals. Though that isn't what brings all these people here. If not love of horses, then love of being a jockey- or, simply the love of the gamble and thrill. Though I don't think many of those people are at the stables at 4am.

R was thrilled when I actually got up in the morning to go with him, I think he doubted how much I really do love horses. It's a childish love, one that I was rarely indulged growing up (though my grandmparents did take us to ride a few times on trails where you could pay $20 for an hour, at your own risk). I shake with excitement whenever I'm around them, truly believing that horses are a part of the perfect existence.

I told R that I would be happy to brush horses, I love them so. He says, "They say what's good for the inside of a man, is good for the outside of a horse."

In my mind, dogs might be man's best friend but horses are a link to something spiritual. When you ride a horse, you're becoming part of them, moving with them, feeling with them. The are extremely empathetic and obviously ridiculously large and strong. I have never felt the overwhelming thrill and accomplishment like I have with moments of experience with a horse.

Today I sat bareback on a horse again. I was lead, like I was last time, but still, I sat. I got up via the fence and getting down R asks if I want the fence or if I can jump down myself. Pff, of course I can.

When I was about 12 I went riding with my sister and grandfather, in a group that was lead for the first half of the hour and the second half you could roam the trails on your own, though you were supposed to stay in pairs. Of course, I didn't. We got pretty deep into the woods and then turned back towards the barn, where the horse knew we were headed back and started going fast. Grinning, I held on, bent over it's neck while it jumped a log and ducking under branches. I had no business doing these things, but had no concept of what I was doing- just that it was fun. We came up on the stables pretty quickly and I was scolded for not letting the horse cool down and made to turn around and do it right.

Now I am older and have more concept that I can be hurt, but not enough to keep me from loving all up on as many horses as I can get around. My hands tremble with nerves every time I am around them, though how much of that is fear and how much excitement, I have no idea.

Afterwards we had a great shoot, to top it off. Naturally, I had my camera with me all day.

Silent Goodbye

I thought of you yesterday, while I took down my show. You're there, in everything that I printed. It felt like celebrating you, it felt like celebrating us- or what I thought we were. I pulled the photos off the walls and said goodbye, to the person I was the day before, to the person I was last year. To the person I was a minute ago, even. I said goodbye to you, looking in your eyes as I peeled you away and I apologized to you, silently, for all the things I did wrong. I forgave both myself and you for our mistakes. I didn't even bother to think about them all, or point fingers. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I let you go, and I forgive myself. That I move forward with the person I want to be.

I spent a lot of time thinking you were the best thing I'd ever found, the most amazing person in the world - that if I couldn't keep you in my life, I wasn't anything. Something in me put you on a pedestal, above me, above everything. I was wrong. Not that you aren't amazing, but that I am any less amazing. I told you once that I will love you forever, and I will. I told you that I wanted you in my life always, and you will be- even if we don't talk. You are a sister to me, a heart sister. My soul will always recognize you as the lovely being you are. I will cary you within my work, a part of me, a part of my experiences.

Sea Hair

directed by me, shot by Ed Ross

I brought the Pacific back east in my hair, the salt and sand still clinging to me. I've resisted taking a shower, the ocean is with me.

Ahhh, there's some sort of poetry in there somewhere, in my head, in the sea. I am a creature, a sea creature and a horse whisperer. It is love, love that they respond to. That and confidence. God, the feeling of triumph I still feel over not falling off of that horse. Naked, bareback, no reigns. He tested me and I passed with flying colors. Fistfulls of mane. Wild. Shaking with excitement and fear, I passed.

And I swam in the ocean. I slept under the redwoods in my hammock. I rode (and crashed) a mini dirtbike. I acted in a short film. I saw spirits. I photographed my best friend, making amazing polaroids for my show, which are nude and I'm not allowed to put nude images in said show, but I will find a way to make them let me.

"you're already a butterfly," she said to me with a small pained smile, "I'm still in my cocoon, trying to scratch my way out."

Maybe she's right. Maybe I've finally found myself. I feel full and beautiful and excited. I feel this love in my heart and I want to share it.

I instantly choke myself up, feeling these feelings. I'm such a baby.

Tears, tears are like ocean water. What an amazing thing. I can taste it, in my dirty hair.

I found crab shells on the beach. I saw this dark sand.

"Why is the sand sparkly?" I asked

"It's oil," She said.

Her red hair and pale skin feels foreign to my eyes. I am tan and I feel wild. Wild in a good way. Freedom is a state of being, I realize. Freedom is in your mind. I am more free than ever. Fly with me.

Fly with me...

Baby Blanket Woes

When I was about five, my aunt gave both my sister and I a quilt that she spent a couple years sewing by hand. Since I can remember, it's been my most favorite possession, granting me comfort not unlike that of a mother's hug.

At 26, this hasn't changed. I travel with this blanket, I sleep with it. I went about five or six months once, where I didn't, because I said to myself Meagan, you're being stupid, you don't need to bring your blanket. And then I regretted it. It's my sense of home. It might seem silly to most of you (though I bet not to some of the other traveling models who are constantly on the road) but to me, there is very little that is consistent and comforting to me.

But, it is in great need of repair. I asked my aunt to fix it and she said she might have to replace the whole back panel and I said no, that couldn't be done. That is the most important part. Though a third of it has slowly ripped off (I have the pieces). It is very important to me to keep it as close to perfectly the way it is as possible, but without continuing to rip!

I am not, mind you, asking for advice. I am merely expressing my stress over the matter.

So much pain has gone into this blanket, yet it somehow just absorbs it all and gives back love. Some sort of wild magick, I tell you!

June is my Birthday Month

It's my birthday month. Yes, month.

It's funny, for my 18th birthday I came to NYC. Now, for my 26th birthday, I want to go to Watertown, to hang out with the rafters. The town I graduated highschool from. The town I spent the three years I lived there, dying to get out.

I have a crush on a raft guide. That helps. 

I don't really have much to say I guess. I feel like I need to express myself somehow but it's not coming to me at the moment.

In other news, I'm almost out of film. Any of my friends out there who would like to get me a birthday gift, film is all I want. Color. 800. 35mm. Anything, though, really. I prefer Portra but I literally will take and shoot anything. I love all film.

Welcome Home

Last weekend, I went whitewater rafting up just outside of Watertown NY. My twin sister's ex boyfriend invited me to go and I said, shit, sure, why not. I think it was his way of getting at Melody but I didn't care, I just really wanted to go camping. Him and his group picked me up from the Syracuse train station in a rented RV. That should have been my first clue. But this isn't a story about them, it's a story about me. 

Originally, I wasn't going rafting because it was too expensive. We rolled into our campsite just at dusk and I immediately strung up my two hammocks. One of the guys says, you know, you can sleep in the RV. I told him, again, that I WANTED to sleep in my hammock, very badly in fact. I started a fire and we all drank jungle juice. I have nothing in common with them, or so it would seem, but I'm in heaven because I've got my hammock and a fire and the woods and the water, so I'm set. In the morning Matt insists on buying me a seat on their raft, even though I told him I didn't mind not going, though I'd be happy to go. I'm so happy he insisted I went! 

The girls were all nervous, but I wasn't. I wasn't afraid at all, I had no butterflies or anything. I was just excited. I felt like a kid going to an amusement park. And to top it off their was this cute boy who took one of our waterguns and was fuckin around and how could this day not go well? We gear up, hop on a purple bus and off we go. 

I've never had more fun in my life. My muscles burned and the rapids were high, I loved the feeling of riding out this wild ride, watching the rushing water advance. It was exhilarating and mathematical and magical all at the same time. 

When it was over I think I was the happiest I've ever been. I was like rubber and goo, my body so well used by the river. I'm in love. I was high off of it, walking around with all this mysterious energy, I couldn't sit still. And I wanted to see the cute boy again. He had been in the safety boat, a kayak, and was zooming all over the river and it looked like so much fun. Him and our guide ate dinner with us and Matt and I went for a big beer run. Later we had a party at our campsite with a bunch of the guides and guide trainees. In the morning I told Matt I was going to stay and have Kaylee, a guide trainee that I made friends with, take me to my mothers. It was a lie, and I don't really know why I told it. 

I spent the majority of the day walking around, lugging wood and being generally active, mostly because I wanted to feel the ache of my body from rafting the day before. I felt so alive and healthy and happy. I wanted to cry and laugh and bounce and shout to everyone about how amazing I felt and how life changing this experience was for me but there was no one to talk to. I was currently not talking to my sister or my best friend, and all the guides were on the water. But when Chris came back to his camp, there I was in my hammock, strung up between his tent and his amazing garden. 

Later, when we were packing up his truck to leave (he had to be to his weekday job in a town a couple hours away) I desperately did not want to leave. Then when we got into town it was like entering a foreign world, normal people doing normal things, just a few miles away from a place so magical as the camp. I mean magical. These guys that guide, they're all amazing people. The light in all of them is bright, they care, they love, and they are happy. One thing they all have in common, and that's their absolute love for the water. Which is cool by me, cause I do too! The camp is a small maze of trees and grass and tents, tarps, and random decorations. Beer and weed and laughter. I didn't want to leave. 

But I also didn't want to get turned away from my mother's house. She told me, while I'm standing helplessly in the door of Chris' truck, that she's got some bug problem and I couldn't stay there, there was nowhere for me to stay, even. She had thrown out her mattress and slept on the pullout couch. I was devastated. 

There's one thing to say you are homeless, a vagabond, a gypsy... That you carry your home with you, in your heart, and have no stupid ties like rent and furnature. It's a whole other thing when your mother tells you that you can't come home. 

So, my cute boy, he does the only thing there is to do: brings me back to camp. By that time it's night and he has a ways to go. There's no one at camp, and as far as I know the only people staying there is a couple. The rafting is only on weekends still for a few more weeks, so the weekdays are very quiet. When Chris drove away after leaving me at his camp, I felt heartbroken. I felt like an invader to this world I didn't belong, an unwelcomed guest. So I sulked sitting on his deck and drank a beer and smoked cigarettes and did a lot of sulking. Then had another beer and more sulking listening to a group of happy and laughing voices on the other side of camp, who had come back (I assume) from a beer run. Sulk sulk. Then I stood up, paced a lot, trying to get up, what? The courage? To go over and join them. I guess part of me was waiting for someone to fucking come hold my hand and invite me, but I realized how stupid I was being and these people are accepting and open and you already have a fucking invitation so stop being a baby and go over there and have fun! 

So I did. And I explained in short, why I was there. 

This one guy, also named Chris, who's camp we were at, he's got curly blond hair all around his ears, under a cap and he's always smiling and smoking weed, which is exactly what he was doing then. 

He says, "well then... Welcome Home." 

I will hold that moment, that specific feeling of belonging and comradery, in my heart for the rest of my life. 

Whitewater Rafting

is my new favorite thing to do. I've never felt better than after I was thrown about by the river, playing in it like never before. I can't wait to raft more, take pictures, learn to kayak, hike, get awful tan lines.

I'm starting to think that I really do want to do everything the world has to offer me. What if I could shoot fashion, erotica, documentary, sports, music, dance. What if I just did everything, and found fun ways to do it. I certainly have no desire to sit on the sidelines and photograph football or baseball, but I definitely want to photograph people doing more extreme sports.

Bring it on, universe, I'm fucking ready.

Livejournal

So I am sitting here going through my old yahoo email and deleting junk and checking out other old shit, and I go to Livejournal for some reason and I can't remember my username, so I find it in my email and plug it in. It's been deleted and purged. Part of me is relieved, the other part very disapointed. I've meant to save every page of that journal for years now. It was silly and I was really young and stupid but it was my teenager self, and I updated a lot.

I'm always fearing forgetting things. Forgetting when and where and how. The mind has the power to warp things but if you log everything, then you can be reminded of how it really went.

Dear Douchebag Who Stole My Hasselblad

Seriously you can go fuck yourself, I hope you live a long terrible life and I hope you believe in hell and I hope you get to go there and face all the fucked up demons you've created with your dishonesty and generally shitty life.

More than anything, I just wish I could get my Dad's dog tag that was being kept safe at the bottom of the bag.

In retrospect I always seem to have premonitions about bad things- I looked at his tag over and over wondering if I should put it somewhere safer, but I liked it there with my camera, and I always had my camera bag with me, I'd cling to it while traveling, terrified of losing it and now it's gone- of my own stupidity for not only leaving it in my mom's car, but for leaving the car door locked (though I would never do that on purpose). I keep wondering that if I had actually tried to find it if I would have found it, but I let it go, feeling too defeated by it being gone to even hold the hope of finding it again. I also wonder if I should have stayed on top of the investigator who was in charge of my case, but I also think he doesn't give a damn.

What sparked this is going through my film and realizing how much more medium format film I have over 35 and how much I prefer my square shots to my small format. I miss my Rollieflex more, that camera was magical and was given to me by a very generous photographer who believed in me.

I feel so frustrated, having had some lowlife take my main camera from me, taking my favorite tool, denying my voice and vision it's proper medium.

Sure sure, it's not the camera it's the person behind it. But we all have our favorite pens, brushes, guitar, whatever. I keep telling myself that I wont put energy into continuing to mourn the loss of my camera, but to look forward into the future. I have my Olympus OM-4 and a shitty digital I hate and never use. I keep thinking to leave the Nikon D70s behind somewhere, just ditch it, since I hate it so much. But truth is, it's a fine medium, even if it's terribly out of date. Make due with what you have Meagan, beggars can't be choosers.

But all I want to do is skip some steps and start making a little more money, sell some prints, something! All my best stuff is on my squares, though, and I look at the other work as un-uniform. Perhaps all of it is, and the coming months spent in the warm and new territories of New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada and (especially) California will bring me to what I'm looking for.

My last shoot of 2011 will be of my sister Melody, tomorrow. I hope to be able to drag her out of bed around sunrise and catch the dawn, then chase down the perfect light and location around the waters and old Underworld of Chicago...

On another note, I took my first pole dancing class yesterday and got my snatch waxed for the first time this morning. Shit hurt of course and I'm painfully aware of the lack of bush going on downstairs and I'm pretty sure I'm not very comfortable about the whole thing. I believe full nudes will be put on the backburner for a while until I am.

It sucks, lately I feel incredibly not pretty. I look at pictures of myself and I'm disgusted.