I try to explain this kind of love
to myself, your mind invisible and
silent—a shuttering of thought,

a blind kiss of faith. I can’t hold you. A stranger
went on vacation, captured on camera your
smiletouchlaugh and held in his hand

a glimpse of you. Lies. The mind lies,
spins stories, wreaks reality wretched.
Inside of you there are drunken tattoos,

figuring out what time it is,
lying broken on the floor.
Don’t look at me, you used to say.

You used to say I was
so painfully open you could
see it, my mind spread out in the shadows of

my eyes. A mind can ask why, too.
Why is it your eyes, mine. Why
is it me looking, you look and look. Why

is it me, this no one, I am no one--
but I want you to look at me,
heart of my heart, see the broken certainty in me

and hold it.

Tonight, it strikes me how alive you are.
Your voice, a verdigris vase of clear
water, soaking roses.
A sound aware of itself,
blooming into the stuffy air
made of our
girlhood.

You sing to a room full of us.
How is it that one man can be
known by so many?
And yet here we are:
novel,
nameless,
giving our open hearts
like rosebuds.

Winter: the world whitening like it’s
            growing old, thick bark shuddering beneath
the weight of snow.
            I like to watch from my window
the way the trees slowly cave. Flexible they seem
            until winter deepens, when branches
crack like old bones do when age comes knocking.
            Snow doesn’t patter glass
the way rain does, but whispers softly
            against my hand on the other side of the
window. A gentle reminder, a new awareness
            of the pending winter that settles in sleep.

*Note--to view all of the pictures, use the toggle arrows at the top of the image*

Not enough time between
us to recall when you
were born,
to recall the screaming,
the helplessness.

I wish I remembered
when you were
smaller than I,
big blue eyes in a
scrunched red face,

wish I remembered 
what it was for you to be
vulnerable, but instead
I stand beside you,
looking up, thinking

not enough time between us
to see you now as anything
but equal.

For two years, I have pursued what I love through 'projects'. In 2013, I took a picture every day--365 in total. In 2014, I wrote a poem a week--52 in total. Over the course of these two years, the 365 Project and the 52 Project challenged me and stretched me as an artist in both of the fields I'm passionate about. Separately. 

For as long as I've been writing, and as long as I've been taking pictures, I've seen each art form as distinct, as separate. Up until now, this has worked out. I spent a majority of my 2013 growing as a photographer. And when I finished, I felt like that was enough, and I moved on. In 2014 I decided to start anew with my other chosen art form: poetry. Just a few days ago, when I finished this project, I reread all of the poems I'd written and my heart swelled with excitement at how much writing I'd produced. But I began to look back on 2014 in a bittersweet way. Although I'd grown immensely as a poet, I produced very few photographs to be excited about. And so this year, I've come up with a new, and final, project. It is inspired by events that have transpired in the past year, which I'll detail for you now. 

2014 was a very big year for me personally, academically, and artistically. Much of this revolved around the college process. By March 31, 2014 I had received all of my decisions, except one. The only one that, at the moment, mattered. 
Let me give you some backstory. I had been deferred, and later denied, from Yale University, the school that, in 2013, I believed to be my dream school. I'd been likely-ed, and later accepted, to the University of Pennsylvania, the school that, before March 26, 2014, I believed I would attend. At this point, I'd gotten over Yale, and I loved UPenn. Particularly, I loved its creative writing program. And I loved feeling wanted--I was in close contact with the Dean of Admissions, who made me feel like Penn would not be the same without me.

But on March 26, 2014, I visited the University of Virginia for the Jefferson Scholarship national selection weekend. I had interviewed twice already to be able to make it to this round in the scholarship process; and in my second interview, I had been dubbed an "alternate". As an "alternate", I would get to attend selection weekend only if spots opened up from other regions across the country and the world. My alternate status was removed when spots did open, and I was invited to compete in the selection weekend. Over the course of 5 days at UVa, the only 5 I'd ever spent there, I fell wholeheartedly in love. After the competition and selection, I was not awarded a scholarship. Instead, I was chosen as an "alternate". Again. Two weeks later, when that title was once more lifted (and I was awarded a scholarship!!!), I committed to the University of Virginia as a Jefferson Scholar. It was the happiest day of my life. 

So, how does this relate to poetry, photography and the culmination of documenting my years through 'projects'? It connects because I am no longer an alternate. And I shall no longer alternate. 

In the past year, I was a double alternate for the program that would ultimately allow me to go to my dream school. For too long, I have 'alternated' between photography and poetry, never combining them. So in 2015, I am going to take a picture, or a series of pictures, every single week. And then, I'm going to write a poem inspired by those images. This year I am embracing the idea of combining, of no longer separating my two passions. And because "alternate" has become so much of who I am, I thought it to be a fitting name for the project itself. 

I'm excited to introduce The Alternate Project.

Simply, a project that does not waver between two things, but combines them. 
Alternatively, a project by a girl who's embraced her alternate designation and identity wholeheartedly. 
Finally, a project to end all projects. 

The beginning of the end. Join me.