Mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, granddaughter, niece, and friend. A poet, writer, and author. Amateur photographer, for better or worse, with a passion for capturing headstones and sweeping epic monuments on film. Self-appointed family researcher, historian, keeper of respect and peace for those deceased before us. Born and raised in the graffiti-riddled metropolis of Jacksonville, Florida, a surreal expanse of neon bridges and bustling heart. After losing my beloved father without having the opportunity to say goodbye, I became a bit obsessed with death, with memorials and memories, exploring my family trees, and helping to give voices and sometimes even faces to those who have passed on from this physical realm. I believe in bringing everyone honor and dignity in death (well, almost everyone; Jack the Ripper, Hitler, and Caligula are obviously fair game for a little disesteem).

"There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,
with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth,
with no tongue, with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral."

-Pablo Neruda, "Nothing But Death"

Mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, granddaughter, niece, and friend. A poet, writer, and author. Amateur photographer, for better or worse, with a passion for capturing headstones and sweeping epic monuments on film. Self-appointed family researcher, historian, keeper of respect and peace for those deceased before us. Born and raised in the graffiti-riddled metropolis of Jacksonville, Florida, a surreal expanse of neon bridges and bustling heart. After losing my beloved father without having the opportunity to say goodbye, I became a bit obsessed with death, with memorials and memories, exploring my family trees, and helping to give voices and sometimes even faces to those who have passed on from this physical realm. I believe in bringing everyone honor and dignity in death (well, almost everyone; Jack the Ripper, Hitler, and Caligula are obviously fair game for a little disesteem).

"There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,
with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth,
with no tongue, with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral."

-Pablo Neruda, "Nothing But Death"