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I'm not observant enough for journalism.

evan(dot)bryson (at)gmail(dot)com

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Jul
29th
Tue
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I appreciate how reverent Thor is, in the barn, before the paintings, where everything is covered in bird shit of a kind.

I appreciate how reverent Thor is, in the barn, before the paintings, where everything is covered in bird shit of a kind.

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Jul
27th
Sun
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Jul
26th
Sat
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Heather and I circled around this ethanol* plant tonight just outside South Bend, on US 23. We parked close then far away, close then far away. I switched lenses twice.

One of my goals this summer was to document where I live: what makes South Bend so particularly South Bend. Maybe a thousand other towns in the US look exactly as rundown and seedy and sapped. Surely they have ethanol plants exactly as foreboding and inscrutable as this one, rising up out of the cornfields.

Getting near was easy. I think we could have parked and crossed the fence and walked up the stairs of the tower and pressed our hands around the blinkers. Nika would have waited for us in the car. Nika already waited for us in the car.

*Ed. note: Beth corrected me—an ethanol plant, not a power plant, as I had originally called it.

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Jul
25th
Fri
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Nicholas and the Beehive

When Nicholas got on the train this morning he stood beside an old woman clutching pearls—typical in Miami: the ’80s power-suit in coral shades, its wide lapels and heavy shoulder pads, and nude-wedges open-toed, displaying oddly silken feet and perfectly aquamarine-lacquered toenails. Still an old woman, and nervous on the train, her eyes diminished behind dark aviators as she scanned the boys and girls shrieking—joy-riding—on the people-mover around her. The most significant aspect about her appearance was her hair—combed and sprayed into a high, tight, shining white beehive. She looked out of place in the Financial District. What made Nicholas so nervous about her being on the train was her air of grave unhappiness. Defeat. Shoe straps sinking into the tops of her feet. Tan moist knees. Sweaty throat. The pearl-clutching. And what was more obvious was her lost mission—as a bee goddess. The goddess in charge of the world’s bees. The youth and vitality run out of her under the Florida sun, trapped first in a West Palm swamp, then a mall in Aventura, and now so near to Miami Beach, where she preferred to walk beside the ocean, to enjoy the surf breezes and the sunbathers’ bodies, and the sucking away of the land into the sea. While all the bees on the continent above her died, one hive after another, she contented herself among coral mansions and orchid shows and Redlands produce stalls, and read Chekhov alone while sipping from tiny styrofoam cups of colada, which she does not share with others, but drinks from alone and in her solitude feels pleasant agitation, while everywhere else the bee die-off continues and worsens and the hostage-crisis of pollen, its dereliction, continues, and so she sleeps fitfully. Tremors in the night. Old age. Perfect hair. Nicholas wondered if her snow-white beehive was maybe a wig. He texted me about it this morning, he called it “luminous.” 

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Jul
23rd
Wed
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The New Yorker in 1986 was a thing of unsurpassing earnestness.

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Jul
21st
Mon
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Jul
20th
Sun
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Last night I hung out with Heather, Allison and Erin. Heather projected animated water onto and inside a defunct silo, as part of an ongoing installation experiment focusing on boundaries and inhabitation.

I brought Pringles and PBR; she served stuffed poblanos for dinner; we moseyed out with extension cords. We moseyed back inside for bug spray, coated ourselves, grabbed more extension cords, and set to working on how our light and sound might play off the silo.

Heather came up to the MFA in printmaking at the University of Notre Dame from Austin, TX, where she worked as a limited edition print maker for Flatbed Press (lithography, etchings, the like) and later as a blacksmith. We became friends in a video art class. She moved to installation works during this class—borrowing a projector and sieving images through cheese cloth in an attic-space. 

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ALL RIGHT LET’S DO THIS

ALL RIGHT LET’S DO THIS

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Jul
19th
Sat
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