Yet in some countries the kitchen is also the women’s place of empowerment. It is the place that they provide for their families both physically and emotionally through nourishment.

During my time spent in Honduras I toured home after home where women would proudly bring me into their kitchens and show me what they were preparing for their families that evening. As I walked into each home and treaded across everything from tile floors to dusty dirt floors I saw tables spread with multiple courses and other times pots simply filled with corn and water. I began to notice and document the disparity between these women’s lives that in turn reflected the disparity between socioeconomic classes. Yet, more importantly I gazed into the commonality they shared of family, love and generosity. There I found that the portion on the plate was irrelevant to the content of the heart.

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I’ve done stories on the Punk Rock Flea Market before, but this year, as a vendor, I was wedged between tables for the duration of the day. However, that didn’t mean I could capture the day with all its beautiful faces.

I love PRFM for its diversity in cast characters and wares (For instance, I was seated next to a woman that made jewelry out of lab rats. In all honesty, they were some pretty great pieces.). As I sat behind my table face after face passed by and eventually I just couldn’t let them keep passing with out asking to share their beauty with everyone else. Albeit startled (Why does the crazy woman with a camera want to take our picture?), they all obliged.

Enjoy these faces and I really hope to see you at the next PRFM in December. You will undoubtedly find some amazing and unique Christmas gifts. Be sure to stop by my table and say “Hi!.”.

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A couple Thursdays ago I found myself at Warren Wilson College outside of Asheville, North Carolina. Most wedding receptions involve a DJ and an open bar, but unimpressed by conventional standards my best friend, Andy Beth, longed to Contra Dance just as she had before she moved to Hawaii. So after the nuptials were said, the entire wedding party caravaned to this campus, walked through the doors of the gym, paid our $7 and waited with anticipation to see what could possibly come next.

A hundred plus people from all age groups and genres milled about – men with long hair, women with short hair, men in kilts, or tie dye, some with bandanas around their heads to catch the impending sweat. Some women wore yoga pants anticipating the immense energy about to be expended and other wore beautiful dresses – all free flowing and unrestricting, designed to bloom with all the pomp of a gladiola when the girls were spun around and around.

One man with a fiddle, one man with a guitar and one “caller” stood on the stage. As they improvised one rousing Appalachian country song after another the caller would proclaim a two or three word instruction like, “Women: Gypsy!” or “Men: Allemande!”. Each song began a new dance and each dance had it’s own set of choreography, but all the choreography was based off of the same repertoire of ten to twenty moves that were amazingly simplistic and repetitive. So anyone could catch on – even a novice like myself.

Imagine every nineteenth century period piece movie, with a dance scene, you’ve ever seen. Now, Imagine a hoedown. Mix the two together: Contra Dance. I’ve set the scene for you. I’ve explained technically what it is. Yet, what it means to me – how it made me feel is it’s own entity. It is nearly impossible to stay afloat amid the romance of it all. The dances are designed in a way that you begin with your partner, in a line and then throughout the dance you are choreographically parting with your partner, moving to another partner down the line, but always coming back to the one you started with, over and over again. I was certain, as I was twirled about from person to person that I danced with every last one of them (woman and man) at least once. How can people avoid falling in love steeped in this brew of romanticism? I wanted everyone to fall in love this way: accepting to take a dance with a stranger and clinging to the pieces of themselves they share in between being tossed between themselves and everyone else, but always coming back to each other.

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Once again, there’s little more I can offer that the smiles on these faces and bright vibrant colors can’t. Enjoy a peek at the intimate fanfare and I know you’ll immediately feel like you’re in on the conversation.

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This was my first poetic stop outside of the Philadelphia scene. Philadelphia is an extreme example of a melting pot of verse and experience. So, I was eager to try on this small town open mic night to see what it would offer to an out of towner.

My apprehensions perked a bit when the first poet stood and delivered an attempt at a poem, but fell short by simply sketching a verbal outline around some thoughts. Yet, every single poet that followed offered something compelling and provocative. The gem of that night stood out when I digested the greatest meditation on life in the college town (Texas A&M resides in the next town over.). She offered beautiful word portrait to the effect of: ‘In this town we bleed maroon and paint our houses white.’ Though you may never live in a college town in the deep south, I’d bet the themes of fear of mediocrity and conformity are not lost on you. Thus, the message transcends.

This single truth resonates for me: poetry is a microcosmic expression of the culture and environment it finds itself in. However, It is always a reflection of the human condition: struggle,growth, regression, life, death, love,etc. So, no matter where you go, the struggle may be greater or lesser or it may be a different kind of struggle, or love or death, but the same, essential components are always there.

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I love cheering runners on in races! I am always moved to ridiculous depths as I see them achieving the finish line. They’ve worked so hard to make it.

I was elated when my brother welcomed me to his half marathon. While I was waiting for my brother to cross the finish line I noticed several cadets practicing formation and wondered what the big deal was. Upon questioning one nervous man with a box, I discovered he was preparing to propose to his girlfriend who was currently running the race. As the runners crossed the line one by one the time neared for her to cross as well. They received an update that she injured her ankle along the way, slowing her down. Nails were being bitten. Anticipation was mounting. The cadets assembled in formation a short distance from the finish line. Her name was announced. The crowd that had formed whispered with excitement, camera phones ready. Moments passed and she did not appear. Due to the crowd, she couldn’t see her boyfriend, the cadets or the reason there was a crowd. She was in post 13.1 mode. She had walked off, took deep breaths, got a banana, looked for a bathroom – whatever. She wasn’t there. Then, suddenly, she appeared, cut the crowd in half, received her real prize at the end of the miles and said yes to another race with a running partner at her side.

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These prints are available for purchase as an 8×10 for $25 each.

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Not too long after, I toured the halls of Cushing Memorial Library and Archives on the campus of Texas A&M. My guide, Dr. Todd Samuelson (Curator, Rare Books and Manuscripts), took me on a journey from ancient Sumerian tablet receipts to an original page, straight from Ezekiel in Gutenberg’s Bible. The tablets amazed me most – a tiny two inch by two inch block of clay. Imagine a piece of charcoal, but red and with characters. The receipt accounted for the transaction of sheep sale. I considered the labor intensive document, and how I account for the cost of my time in a career as a photographer. Finally, I traversed, in my mind, to an ancient civilization. One man in a skirt says to another, "Sure Phil, I’ll sell you the sheep, but I’m going to have to charge you a Siku if not a full Ku dependent on how long it takes me to chisel out this receipt.”

We moved on to the real treat; a fully functioning replica of a 15th century printing press – one of only a few in the United States. Todd fired it up, which involved arranging the type, tacking the paper on the tympan and cranking a large arm to lower the frisket onto the paper. Dave tried his hand at it. We discovered that if this were a current livelihood there would be no need for a gym membership.

Papers hung all around like clothes from a clothes line. All of them were the excerpts from the same book. Some of them had varying “logos” emblazoned on the cover sheet. Dr. Samuelson explained that these were the remnants of the Book History Workshop that the library conducts annually. At the end of the workshop participants gather into teams and make their own pamphlets. They designed their own “team logo” by hand carving an image into a wooden block that is then pressed into the title page of their book.

Before we left we took notice of the Game of Thrones paraphernalia amidst all the books from various ages. Our inquiry led us to the discovery and ultimate disappointment that George R.R. Martin would be gracing the library with his presence shortly after our visit. However, we did get first glimpse at the items on display and in nerd glory mulled over maps of Kings Landing and family trees.

On my journey from ancient tablet to printing press and, finally, pop culture notoriety I could see that Cushing Library offers something for every connoisseur of the printed word.

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At eleven years old (a one year age difference from the girl in the image) I came across her face and was taken in. I read the caption to learn she was butchered across the face in the Rwandan genocide. She survived by faking her own death amidst the bodies of her loved ones. The importance of this story struck a chord in me. People needed to know. What made it so real was the captivating image. There’s no way anyone could imagine the gravity of the words without the assault of the image. It was at that moment I knew I wanted to tell stories through photographs.

Simultaneously I began to measure all struggle by the genocide standard (call it the genocide scale). That is, nothing was ever that bad next to the abrasive perspective of a child caught in so much tragedy.

I cut out the picture, posted it to a shelf in my childhood room and reflected on it with every moment of teenage angst that came my way. Many tantrums were abated this way. How could my frustration matter next to these realities so vividly surrounding me?

The positives to this perspective outweighted the negatives. However, there were negatives to this world view. I’d learned to deny hurt in my life because next to the richter scale of the Rwandan child, my pain didn’t even register. This proved to just be a complex way to avoid confrontation and courage that took years to undo.

Today, flipping through the latest issue of Compassion Magazine, the publication that orginally posted the photo, I stumbled across the reposting of the image and all those feelings I first felt welled up in me. I had not seen it in over a decade. I am on the otherside of the image now. Before I was a child who started a journey to share the world with others. I have not yet arrived, but I have come far.

Passions were rekindled when my eyes fixed on the girl after such a long time. Where is she? Does she have happiness, a family, peace? What is her story now?

I decided it was time to cut the image out and place it in my camera bag – the place where the stories come to life. Now I look at it as a reminder of my first hopes and all I’ve had to learn about myself and the world around me in order to come even come close to orbitting those passions. It’s a good reminder of the world, myself and my firm belief that everyone has a story that deserves to be told.

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