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Hi y'all

2006-08-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

Spending lots of quality in the hospital.

What I learned: it's impossible for restructure a hospital like Brigham b/c everything is entrenched in the philosphy of "this is what we've always done." To reform, it's almost necessary to build a hospital from the groud up.

Otherwise, I can be found lounging around on sandy beaches on my few days off.

Silences and Introspection

2006-04-22T15:28:00.000-07:00

I live my life in a series of silences and introspection. When someone says goodbye and walks away with his back turned, I linger in my silent moment, wondering what “goodbye” actually meant. I’m too cerebral: too much introspection over the should-I's and would-I's, and always weighing out my reactions to people and things in perfect, exact proportions.

The battle for me is realizing that I don't have control over everything. Life happens over flu's, traffic near misses, misunderstandings, obsessing over the past, "I don't know if I'm good enough" internal fights, and "I'm too sad to get out a jar of ice-cream" depressions. Life happens with your hair in a pony tial and you wearing a flip-flops and a tank top with the bra straps showing.

Perhaps grace isn't about having artful negotiations and diplomatic goodbyes and the internal zen when you run into someone you used to care about (or not ending sentences with a preposition, for that matter). Maybe it isn't about feeling perfect peace when you read old letters and emails. Maybe it's about letting your regrets and hurt and loss run their course so you'll be done with them, and not feel the need to bury them away like landminds.

The life we live now.

2006-04-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

I did half a dozen "home" visits with a woman living at a Cambridge Shelter last year. Someone just called to tell me that someone found her under a bridge in Chinatown three weeks ago.

"She passed."

Why do we say "pass"? What's so wrong with the word "die"?

She was 45, and she hated being on the "inside." Being caged in was a fate far scarier than being haunted down by dealers on the streets. When she called me, she was always standing by a payphone around Central Square or Chinatown. She always sounded cold.

She had three children, whom she never sees. Her friends were her dealers and her doctor at the shelter.

She used to tell me, "But everyday, everyday now, is my chance to turn it all around."

She's a sliver of my life. And we all die alone. And we are all but transient in each other's lives. The only person could have turned her life around was she. I couldn't do it for her.

With the time I got here, I learn to turn my own life around. And enjoy the view. How do I do it? I write. I live. I ask questions. I listen for the answers. And I send flowers to an unmarked grave somewhere in Cambridge.

Crushing tomatoes with bare hands

2006-04-18T18:23:00.000-07:00

I'd be wary of anyone who keeps an extremely organized desk, or color coded notes, or anyone who keep his hands clean while cooking.

He’s probably boring and sterile. In life and in bed.

I’m a mess. Organizing is a fate worse than death. I can’t operate filing cabinets and keyboard covers and label makers and linen cabinets. I crush tomatoes with my bare hands, pulling the pulp into strips. Always leave the seeds in - viscous and lovely. There is no mixing spoon unlicked in my kitchen.

I abhor college ruled paper. Lines constrain me. I must scribble: harmless apples, tennis shoes, trotting horses, and even schizophrenic faces. (Never anything R rated in my sketchbook though).

Since when did we become so clean and organized? Since when did our lives become Ikea catalogs, with a holder and label and color, coordinated, friction-protection cap for every single, fucking thing? We've become sterile. Every 15 minutes in the day has a designated purpose. What happened to getting your hands dirty, singing off key on the streets, and letting a breath out with your belly and boobs roll and all?

Dig your hand into life, and let the juices and pulp seep through your fingers. Try it. You might just enjoy it.

Wind on water

2006-04-17T07:37:00.000-07:00

I know too many people who don’t have hobbies. Their hobbies become bar hopping to meet someone, and once they do, their relationship becomes a series of meals and movies. They love one another because it’s comfortable to have someone there at the end of the day, someone to order-in with, someone to just sit in front of the television with. They love their relationship because it’s comfortable.

I have a news flash. Anyone can sit around and watch TV and enjoy eating fries with you. If when you speak of your relationship, you say it’s just so nice and comfortable, you should open your eyes. I’ve found that kind of comfort with nearly every other person I’ve dated. It takes more than a night of 24 and take-out for it to be right.

To really be happy, you need to make yourself happy. You need to discover and commit to things that bring you joy, where hours ruffle by like wind on water.
Once you find what brings you this happiness, no one can take it away from you. You can't find it in someone else.

People leave. People change their minds. People die.

There, I’ve said it; I’m off the box. Go back to watching TV. I'm off to study for Boards.

Top Five Reasons to Love Boston

2006-04-12T19:31:00.001-07:00

1. "Why should I major in Writing? There IS only going to be one Carrie Bradshaw." - Girl with Simmon's sweat shirt on the T.

2. Teen - "Hey, look at this! It says 'Train for jobs in biotch.'"Smarter teen - "That word is biotech. Why you gotta be ignorant all your life?"

3. Alison walks friend's dog around Jamaica Plain. Hobo jumps out of bush, shouts, "That dog is going to end up in pot of rice!"

4. "What kinds of books do you like to read?" Guy in Trident Bookstore. "Well, I like fiction, non fiction. But not much else." Girl, whom he's dating.

5. "Maybe you should let the pregnant lady sit." Alison says to male friend on crowed T.
"Why? I didn't knock her up. I'm not responsible if she can't handle standing." Male friend.

Woman without party - the life of a closet conservative

2006-02-19T10:18:00.000-08:00

You know a conservative when you see one. He sports the Southern accent, walks the Texas swagger, thumbs the Bible, drives a gas-gusler complete with the obligatory American flag, and he goes to the shooting range for good ol’ American fun. He isn’t very smart either, which explains why there are so few right-wingers in any elite academic institutions. How many conservatives are there at Harvard.

Well, things are not that simple. Closet conservatives do exist here. They are intelligent people, and surprisingly, they do care about the poor and the sick. The only difference about these closet conservatives is how they act when the conversation drifts towards anything political. They stay mum, avert the topic, and fidget in their seats as their friends dive into Right-bashing.

I happen to be one of these closet-conservatives. I fit none of the stereotypes. I’m a minority. I’m Ivy-League educated, and I have never been to Texas. I read. I read the NYTimes and have conversations in my head with David Brooks. I am a tree-hugger and I get physically ill at the sight of hummers. I care about the 40 million uninsured Americans, and the plight of the working poor. I was raised by two such people. I simply believe in different solutions to these problems.

I'm a conservative in the old fashion sense. Small government, conservative government spending, more control on the local level, and let the folks in Versailles, Missouri decide for themselves what to teach their kids in their schools and how to run their city politics. Having grown up under a totalitarian government, I wary of centralized power, and of the notion that that big government understands how life works in Versailles and has the people's best intention in mind.

Sadly, these beliefs leave me with no party - neither Republican nor Democrat at this point. These thoughts leave me few opportunity to have a civil, political discussion here as well.

Sadly, in our fine academic institutions, we suffer from a profound uniformity of thought. No one dares to question the supreme evil of George W. Bush. All must tout the utopian vision of universal health care. In a place filled with intelligent and diplomatic people, we somehow resort to a kindergarten style of disagreement: “if you don’t believe as I do, I will call you names.” If you are not a liberal, then you are racist, deluded, homophobic, and selfish. The result is that we no longer discuss pivotal issues of American politics. The liberals already agree with each other, and the closet conservatives are too afraid to disagree. Lost is the art of gentle persuasion, and in its place, rehash of harsh sound bites of political pundits.

The Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (1853) defines the word “liberal” as meaning “free; open; not narrow; embracing other interests than one's own; as, liberal sentiments or views.” I beseech my dear liberal friends to embrace the original meaning of the word “liberal”. Realize that people have differences in opinions, and it’s not a reflection of character flaw or intellectual defect. Uniformity of thought is far more worse for our country than having a few right-wingers around.

Lessons from Cardiology

2006-01-06T12:07:00.000-08:00

Consider the blue whale. Its heart is so big that you can climb through the chambers into the aorta. With each beat, the heart is audible for 20 miles across the ocean.

The human heart isn't nearly as big or as loud. It weighs just under a pound, and someone has to lay his head on your chest to hear it moving. But so much is done and held in the heart. It beats more than 2.5 billion times in a life time - depending on how you live your life, of course. In one day, the human heart pumps blood through all 12,000 miles of vessels in your body -- that's four times the distance across the US from coast to coast.

So much has been said about the heart. We want to know the heart of the matter; we mourn our heart-breaks; we want our intentions to be heart-felt. The ancient writers of the Psalms called the heart "the well-spring of life," which must be guarded at all times. The pure of heart are chosen for heaven. Emily Dickinson measured the purpose of her life by the heart, "If I can stop one Heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain."

The heart is strong, vigorous, dynamic, yet terribly fragile at the same time. A single, miniscule bacterium that takes root on the heart valve can end a life. So can an single, untimely heart beat. The heart tears and breaks under the pressure and the pounding of life. All hearts scar and fibrose over time. The walls thicken and stiffen, and it becomes harder and harder for the heart to be moved.

Perhaps this is why the wisemen of old taught us to guard our hearts. The heart is sits safely in the toughened pericardium membrane and the bony casing of the rib cage. We put brick and mortar around our hearts, even our mothers and fathers and dearest friends and lovers never truly know us. Our hearts are tout and cold and tough and constantly on guard for intrusions.

Then in an instant, when we are not careful, our defenses fall over the smallest thing: the voice of a child, a hand gently placed in the arch of your back, the words "don't leave," the note left behind saying "it wasn't bad," the voice of your your friend from home who called the first night you moved into your dingy apartment in New York City, the memory of your mother laying in the sick bed in the ICU, still worrying about your grades and your father's daily vitamins, and the thought that you were brave enough to let someone so close to you, that he heard your heart beat.

Resolutions

2006-01-05T20:34:00.000-08:00

Say no to diets and exercise regimens. To eat more carbs in the forms of crepes and canolies. To buy an out-of-print book and read it in my bed. To buy an original recording LP and listen to it in the dark. To wear more skirts, silks, and anything hopleless feminine that makes me look unprofessional. To realize that my time is finite, but the fact thrills more than it chills. To smile more to strangers on the T and at Trader Joe's because life is too short to be bitter. To understand that some one is not evil even though he or she lies and hurts others - sometimes we can't help it, and we are but rough drafts of ourselves full of mistakes and cliches. To sit on the floor and use the acrylics and the sketch book I got three years ago. To learn to be angry for once and ask for what I deserve. To do something new everyday. To dance more even if the beat is aweful and the club ain't happening. To ask for forgiveness - two people comes to mind. When I get into the hospital, don't hurt of kill anyone. Now for things that I wish I have control over: let there be fewer broken hearts, fewer hurt feelings, and no one wakes up in middle of the night wondering how can he (she) do this?. More bear hugs and massages and cheesy post-it note messages and all the other good things that people give to each other. Let everyone in my life find that someone who's makes him smile every time he thinks of her; let everyone, after a long, cold, hard day, have someone to go home to.

Photographs lie.

2005-12-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

Photographs lie; I don't trust them. I flipped through a family album with a young girl I'm working with at the Sharewood Clinic. Her family looked so peaceful and full of bliss: vacations in Aspen, weddings in New York City, mom and dad holding hands on the front porch, the girl posing in Disneyland. It's hard to believe what she and her family have actually gone through together: the arguments, the custody battles, the bankrupsy claims, the dad in and out of rehab, the girl running away in middle of the snowy night in January. Yet, she keeps this album of apple-pie happy pictures. She keeps these pictures of the family perfectly content underneath her bed at the half-way home. No bitterness, no regrets, just pictures of all-American smiles. We all have to believe in something. Sometimes we need to hold on to sweet memories made of nothing at all.

The thing is

2005-11-28T19:52:00.000-08:00

Busy

2005-11-07T13:44:00.000-08:00

If you asked one of my friends how he's doing, the standard answer is "stressed out!" We pride ourselves on being busy. We point to our filled-up palmpilot schedules as if they were trophies. We are constantly rushing between meetings, lunch talks, fund-raisers, shaddowing, research, and complaining about how busy we are because of things we committed ourselves to on our own volition.

Being busy has become an armor. We feel inadequate when our friends stayed up until 2am when we were in bed by 12. We fear that if we weren't in a constant state of action, we are lesser human beings and less deserving for respect. It is as if we were loved for what we do, not who we are.

The city imposes a sense of purpose and direction in us. We forgot how to take a walk that leads us nowhere, or write a poem that no one will read, or eat a meal alone simply because we enjoy every morsel we're tasting.

I'm not 16 years old.

2005-10-28T04:19:00.000-07:00

Someone just mistook me for a Boston Latin High school student yet again.

I did go to college, graduate, work, pay my own bills, get published, make mistakes, learn from them, have my heart broken, and only to be confused with a 16 year-old!

* * *
I'm going to the All-Ivy Halloween Party tonight. What should I be?

The 11th Annual All-Ivy Halloween Masquerade Ball is being held thisFriday, October 28th, 2005. Entertainment is being provided by BostonParty Makers and dress is costume or creative black tie. A cash barwill be available, and hot and cold hors d'ouevres will be served.Positive ID is required. Price per person: $20. Starts at 9:00pm, endsat 1:00am.The sign up link is: http://www.harvardclub.com/events/halloween05.php(BTW, the Harvard Club tells me they have had problems updating theirsign-up list online but currently have about 160-200 people signedup.)

Thank you

2005-10-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

I came home to find flowers. Thank you. They brightened my day. Take care of yourself in New Haven.

My reflection on Mrs. Cindy Sheehan

2005-10-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

Let me preface what I am about to say with this: I have all empathy in the world for Mrs. Cindy Sheehan and her tragic loss. I can't imagine the magnitude of a mother' sorrow over a lost child. Casey Sheehan, her son, died a hero's death. He volunteered for military service, knowing the cost and dangers for committing himself for service. He paid the ultimate price for defending others' safety and freedom.

But I am afraid that Mrs. Sheehan, in her moments of intense grief and sorrow, has made some impulsive decisions. From her appearances with Michael Moore to her many anger-drenched demonstrations, she risks losing the grace and moral superiority of being a hero's mother. She has unknowingly put her son's death in the forefront of political controversy. Casey is now the dart board for partisan debate and the target for mudslinging for extremes both the left and right. I hardly think that this is what Casey would have wanted: would he like to be remembered for dying a hero's death, or for being at the center of political quagmire?

If I could talk to Mrs. Sheehan now, I would say this: as much sorrow as she has exprienced, never let her sadness and anger overshaddow her son's heoric sacrifice, and the beautiful life he had lived.

Aphasia

2005-10-25T19:05:00.000-07:00

Now for a heart-warming story:

After a stroke, a lot of people lost the ability to speak (aphasia in fancy medical talk). The intriguing thing is that these people are still able to say over-learned phrases, such as "it's okay," "I don't know," or even profanity. These patients' family are often shocked and embarrassed to find their loved ones unable to produce a single sentense, but still perfectly capable of cussing out of frustration.

The theory is that these over-used phrases are more emotional gestures than linguistic constructs, and they are produced from a different brain center than a logical sentense. A person can lose the ability to formulate a complete, coherent sentence, but he may still be able to express his frustration and anger using emotional phrases.

I met a patient a week ago, who had a MCA ischemic stroke that lead to aphasia. The touching thing is that one of the few phrases he was able to say is "I love you." And he looks at his wife of 42 years as he said it.

Nude and pregnant

2005-10-24T19:14:00.000-07:00

Would you pay $150 to photograph a pregnant model? I think there is something incredibly beautiful in a pregant woman and just the human form in general, but I really don't have the luxury for said experience. I suppose I'll have to stick with leaves and random fancy cars I see on Newbury St.

Sometimes I really wish I had a cheaper hobby - like kniting or something.

P.S. If you like to draw and paint, Mass Art has this thing where you pay $10/hour to paint with a model.

The meek

2005-10-23T07:52:00.000-07:00

I'm really not sure if there is karma in life. I don't think the meek shall inherit the earth either: the gentle and the meek are trotted on by the boots of the ruthless and the self-absorbed. I don't think happiness has anything do to with whether you deserve it or not. People who are self-centered and amoral tends to be a whole lot happier than people who lay down their life for others and bear others' burdens. The most professionally successful people are often those with the cutthroat mentality and those who can practice selective amnesia on the times when they have used and hurt others. This is NOT to say that I have any desire to become one of these people. In fact, I don't think I even can. It's just not me. But I'm starting to recognize that being a loving person has very high costs. Whenever you invest your compassion and care onto others, you risk grief and heartbreak and disappointment.
***
I guess the only way to end grief is to live through it and allow yourself to experience it. One can cling onto family and friends, or drown herself in alcohol or other forms of temporary amnesia. But if one allows herself to live through it, and really own her grief, in the end, she would at least have the satisfaction that she used her own innner resources to live through the experience.

Signs

2005-10-17T07:56:00.000-07:00

A stunning shot of the Seattle harbor by Nick Ragovis. (I have no new photography given the weather in Boston).

I look for signs. When something happens, say a person dies, I think back to the days before and wonder about that bird I saw passing by or that tree struck down by lightening. I want see patterns and connections in life; I hate the thought that our lives are but the result of random collisions of molecules. I want to know that there are reasons for things, and all the beauty that we see around us and all the good people that we meet are somehow meant to be.

Not quite poetry after reading Principles of Neuroscience for 4 hours

2005-10-09T16:53:00.000-07:00

"We are all alone together. Hope and bones are what holds us up. "

Not-quite-poetry after reading "Principles of Neuroscience" for 4 hours

The books tell me that my memories and imagination are but a collection

of molecules and nuclei and white matter tracks,

that everything I hold dear are but the devious work

of dopamine and receptors and secondary signalling proteins.

I refuse to believe that neuroscience explains the grace I feel

In the prescence of a stranger's kindness,

Or the utter awe I feel watching the priest stop the Homily

to invite a homeless woman standing on the steps into the church,

or the strange combination of joy and grief

I feel when alone at night,

suddenly rediscovering a lost memory

of the loved one whom I loved and lost long ago.

Guest Photo Post

2005-10-02T18:36:00.000-07:00

My friend Nick Ragovis took this breath-taking photo of SF Bay. He's a wonderful person and a great friend and a total hottie.

Grief.

2005-09-30T21:45:00.000-07:00

I can't deal with grief. I just don't know how. There are only two occasions in my life when I saw very profound grief. Both occasions involved women, each has just lost a child. The image of a young woman sobbing on her floor will be etched into my mind for years to come.

When facing grief, poetry and philosophy have no place. Grief is solid and raw and massive.

And please, never say "it was meant to be" or "it was all for the best." Only a person who has never lost anyone he/she loved would sweep another person's grief under the carpet with such useless statements.

Euripides and Flaubert and Proust were right: that happiness always never has anything to do with the happy person's objective worthiness. The same is true for sadness. The person you see suffering neither deserved or planned for her loss.

C. S. Lewis said, "No one told me that grief feels so much life fear."

Joan Didion said, "Grief is a dark place where none of us know."

They were right. With grief, put away your clever words. Light a candle for the sufferer in a church, help her with her chores, put a pillow under her head. And never say, "I know what you're going through." Because you don't.

My Patch Adam Moment

2005-09-28T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have been doing interpretation for an Asian clinic. Today, I ran into a patient and her little boy on the T. The kid pointed at me and shouted (in a great Bostonian accent),

"Dat's my doctah!"

This is the first time that anyone has called me a "doctor." Disclaimer: I'm a merely a second year med student - AKA unpaid scutt monkey.

Grace

2005-09-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about grace. To me, grace is when someone gives you the gift of kindness, but you did nothing to earn it.

A story about grace:

I met a patient who suffered from schizophrenia. She told me that when she was the sickest, she didn't even recognize her parents and her closest friends. She lashed out at people. She was a mess.

After being in treatment for two years, she returned to the neighborhood in which she grew up. She had thought that people would be terrified of her. She would be forever labelled as the "crazy" person. To her surprise, her neighbors organized a welcome home dinner for her. People hugged her with tears in their eyes. They were so happy to have their friend back.

She said, "Alison, they had so much grace. And I didn't have to do anything to earn it."

"See a little bit of God in everyone you meet."

2005-09-05T15:30:00.000-07:00

While reading neuroanatomy in Starbucks on Newbury Street, a man sat next to me asked if I were a medical student.

"Well, I've been in medicine for forty-years," he said.

We started talking about being in medicine and being uncertain: what to do when a patient comes to you and you do not have an answer for him/her, what happens if you start questioning your own commitment to medicine.

Half way through the conversation, I told him, "It scares me that I'll be responsible for someone else' life in 11 months."

He said, "You'll be alright. My father was a rabbi, and he always said that there is a little bit of God in every human being. It's your job to see that in a person. If you'll remember to do this, you'll be a good doctor."

Private sorrow

2005-09-04T07:27:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see a photo like this, I wonder if the reporter asked the subjects for permission. Did this women realize that her moment of private, intense sorrow will show up on the front cover of the most circulated newspaper in the world? Does she want this to happen? In some ways, all of reporting is paparazi - you snap a picture of a person when he/she is at her worst, and you publish it for the shock value. Our world is so transparent that you can no longer mourn and grieve in privacy.

Then my heart skipped a beat

2005-08-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

Walking down Newbury Street, I met the love of my life, and my heart skipped a beat.

Through our weakness

2005-08-23T17:43:00.000-07:00

Ihad set up a stand along Yonge Street. He hands out Islamic literature and talks to anyone who would listen about his conversion to the religion. Ihad grew up in a middle-class American family, and had a regular childhood and teenage years. He converted to Islam two years ago, and now is one of the most out-spoken advocates for the faith at his mosque.

A few Somali and Arab men were with him, but they seemed much more reserved to talk about their experience. One men, who grew up in Egypt, said, "the new converts are always the most vocal. They didn't grow up in the religion, and they have not seen a lot of the problems within the community. They have all the enthusiasm."

I asked him what problems were there within the Islamic community, and what he thought about them.

He answered, "Of course, there are problems. If those who believe are perfect, then we would have no use for Allah. Through our weakness, we see the power of Allah. Through our imperfection, we see the perfection of the Holy One."

*I know very little about Islam, but I am fascinated by faith and religion in general - what drives a person for believe something he can never prove or see or touch? What is this thing we call faith - something so powerful yet so unreal at the same time?

"Never sacrifice what you believe for political correctness."

2005-08-22T17:33:00.000-07:00

I met Rob and his 120 lb pit-bull on Yonge Street. Rob is a pot-smoking, grunge-rocking Canadian. He is proud to be from the Great North, where "true freedom and liberty live".

He wore his protest T-shirt for the first time today, and had only received positive feedbacks on the street.

"Maybe it's your pit-bull,"I asked.

"Maybe it's because I'm telling the truth," Rob said.

Notice his belt-buckle, it also served as a lighter for Rob's "herbal supplements."

"I'd never keep quiet about what I believe to please people. Life is too short for that," Rob said, "Never sacrifice what you believe to be P.C."

*For those of you wondering, my own political stand is very far right field of Rob's. I'm a Bible-owning, Christian girl. But I love his style, standing proud for what he believes. That's what America is all about.

"Always sleep outside churches."

2005-08-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

A life in Boston

Everyday after work, I walk down Newbury Street. Outside a church, I always see a women selling tainty pieces of water-colors for $3 each. We smile and nod to each other, but today, after my last day of work, I decided to take a moment and say hello.

Her name is Lisa. She's an artist and she is homeless. She always sleep on the steps of churches, "Even really aweful people get feel a heavy conscious when they see a cross. It's the safest thing to do when you're on the streets."

She wears a whistle everyday in case she feels threatened at night. She camps out with a group of several women, and they take turns sleeping at night. They watch out for each other.

Lisa's world is an unkind place. She worries about getting TB from other homeless persons, she worries about her safety, and she worries mostly about the dreaded, upcoming winter.

I think I'm going to say hello to people more often. When you take the time to speak to another person, you recognise his/her humanity, and learn about a world you never knew existed before.

Reflections

2005-08-15T18:35:00.000-07:00

The rest of the world produces, and America consumes. Well, what exactly does America make anymore? We're not that great at making cars, or computers, or anything high-tech. And we're too high and mighty to go into manufacturing - textile, etc. We're going to end up as a nation good at making only block-buster movies and rap music. While the rest of the world - especially China and India - have made economies favoring production and exports, we have an economic structure that is based on solely consumption. Our economic stays afloat with the real estate market, and only 40% of all housing purchases are made by people who actually bought houses to live in. The rest is all speculation. There is something wrong with this picture.

Guest photo-post

2005-08-14T18:49:00.000-07:00

( Click to see larger image)
My friend Nick is as good as they make them. He's a great doctor, an awesome photographer (see photo above), a devious poker player, and in general, just a damn great person.

Once he got up at 4am to drive me to the train station. He lets me borrow his photography books indefinitely. He took my calls at 3am when my mother was sick, and he let me fall asleep on the phone so I wouldn't feel alone.

He knows all my flaws (and there are many) and still think I'm great. He calls me out on my shit, but always gives me compliments at the right time. One doens't meet someone like Nick that often in life - someone who loves you for all the right reasons and makes you feel 10 feet tall. I'll always love him and miss him in ridiculous ways.

If there is a God, please take care of my Nick while he's out there in New Haven. Because he is simply solid, good people.

Dancing in the Streets

2005-08-09T18:30:00.000-07:00

Hot Rod

2005-08-04T07:00:00.000-07:00

Healing waters.

2005-07-31T10:37:00.000-07:00

(Click to see larger image).

A different drum beat

2005-07-31T06:21:00.000-07:00

All that glitters

2005-07-27T04:48:00.000-07:00

2005-07-26T18:17:00.000-07:00

Cambridge - Dusk

Paris