Mrs. Pong's Lace

Bonus material. I mean, seriously? The composition here is impeccable. This is just a sneaky of what's to come. The photographer is one of my oldest friends in the book. She's remarkable. Everything she does looks amazing. She's got that poetry in her eye. Objects move independently in her presence. I have been in a serious love affair with her since our junior year in high school. She acted in plays. She caressed the violin. She made the world beautiful and littered with violet. People and things were ALIVE. There was a pulse where a mark of stone once was. She entered with her heat, her omen. The sky cracked like an egg, leaving tiny shell pieces in the wake of discovery. But I was in love and I was not ashamed. I danced and made shapes in the air with a beautiful, dark soul. She showed me things I never knew and I loved the not knowing. I was young, immature and juvenile in the face of modern technique. Who was I kidding? I needed and wanted real structure. The thing that maybe a University gives you but I didn't want to go to college. In fact, I didn't even want to crack a book. I was better than that. I was a self-made mess. Everything that was collegiate and structured, I was not. I hated agendas. Rules. Guidelines. I just wanted to BEND. And from that impulse, I leapt! See me through this lace but don't really see me. See me through this filter but don't really assess me. I beg of you, dramatically. There is little left to decode. The proof is in the pulling.