By some horrific turn of events (I totally blame the Internet Archive Wayback Machine and a sudden fit of nostalgia), I’ve managed to recover a collection of poetry I wrote between 2001 and 2003.
It’s positively dripping with the angst of an oversexed, underpaid college freshman. What can I say? I’ve always had a penchant for the dramatic. But, seriously. “Ketchup love?” And what’s with the pointed aversion to capital letters?
More importantly, how is it that the me of 2007 cannot comprehend what was going through the mind of the me of 2003? Have I really changed that much? Obviously I have, but I can’t pinpoint a time in the last four years when I said to myself, “Self, from now on, you will stop being such a drama queen, and you will start using proper punctuation!”
It’s funny how change sneaks up on you like that. I can only imagine how much I will laugh if/when I dredge up this blog in, say, 2015.
In any case, for your amusement and my embarrassment, I present to you: Why I am a photographer, and not a poet.