excerpts from the zine:
someday never comes + cop land,
I only ever learned she died because I talked about her often the following year. My mom tried to explain she had gotten sick and not recovered. I remember the look on her face, it told me something worse had happened. Years later a book came out that detailed the hell she endured because of a police officer/serial murderer that summer after we moved away, and suddenly I knew too much. It didn't feel like I was ready to learn what had happened then, and the years are proving that I'll never be old enough to understand.

time is a diamond,
Taking pictures of people you love is a collaborative effort, shared with someone you might never be as close to again. That's not meant to sound depressive, just to say, soak up your friends while they are right next to you.

dreamer deceiver,
Jake liked my paintings and always pushed me to keep making them. Now that he's gone I feel like I have to use that muscle. The last conversation we would ever have was about collaborating on an unfinished child's coffin he had found. How can someone be so symbolic and so real at the same time?

In memory of Kathy, Buffy, Thelma, Susan and others.