I'm not going to joke, this summary gets loooong like a novel that doesn't bother with an arc. If you're adverse to reading, here's the spoilers: I'm from Texas, I live in Harlem, and I take pictures as a hobby.
I moved to Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn after a longtime net-friend needed a roommate. That was August '05. I'm a post production ronin in filmmaking attempting to blunder into work. I've managed to find some, and now it looks like I'll be on a project for the rest of the year. I live in West Harlem now. This means I'm a little more stable...for the time being.
I'm an amateur photographer, filling a flickr with shots of the city and its graffiti. This is mainly because they do not move. I'd like to take more shots of you humans, but that would require not being a recluse and a faster draw with my camera. I love trying to capture non-posed moments, which I find much more interesting than getting someone's variation of the Blue Steel look.
flickr.com/photos/blueneurosis/ (be gentle)
I'd probably get a tattoo if I could think of a good enough design, and somehow ignore my dual fears of needles and things piercing my skin. I like the irezumi style of tattoos, not for their exotic-ness, but how they were originally used to tell the story about the person.
A scar is a tattoo with a better story. I have several. Most of them have faded, but I can still remember how I got them with weird recall. Story-wise I have so many I would like to tell, some in screenplay form, others in visuals, but the hard part is getting them out of my head.
The many things I do in my film related job: courier, manny, plumber, janitor, curator, music supervisor, promoter, poster designer. This means I have to be everything to everyone and leaves me feeling like no one.
I miss Texas, open spaces, not having to watch my back, having cats and dogs, my friends in the southwest, the simple pleasure of driving, and having nothing but free time to kill.
PS: I have a beard now. Sorry, these things happen.