My Detroit Photography Series, Continued

What the hell, I'm just going to put up my entire series of Detroit shots. You see, my love for that city is...more than a fat kid loves cake (shoot me now)? It's where my dad's family is from, so I frequent the area. And while some (most) may see Detroit as soul-crushing, I see it as having the most soul of any city in the United States. The city just heaves these sighs, and in the ghosts of the buildings and people there...those sighs are palapable. They are sighs of broken industries, Motown beats, shattered glass, cracks in the pavement, vivid art, poetry, human failure...Detroit reflects its social history more clearly than any other city. And because of that, it's a photographer's dream to shoot there. This past fall, I went with my mom to a labor history conference at Wayne State University (where I wanted to go to college but couldn't because of money), and took a lot of pictures and then paired some of them with words. So here is my Detroit 2007 series.
By the way, that was the first serious essay I've posted. I need to put an LOLCat in here or something.

"Detroit-Hotel Yorba" by Katherine Morrison

December 2007

Digital photography

"Detroit-Mexicantown Church" by Katherine Morrison

December 2007

Digital photography

"Detroit-Near St. Andrews" by Katherine Morrison
December 2007
Digital photography

"Detroit-Michigan Central Terminal" by Katherine Morrison

December 2007
Digital photography

"Detroit-Downtown" by Katherine Morrison
December 2007
Digital photography

I'm an Artist, but I Don't Wear Berets

I'm starting a new thaaang. In the wake of recent comedic writing block, I've decided to show some of my other meager talent: art. My art is not about cheeseburgers, but nor is it about taking things lightly. Mind you, you will see no nooses or wilted roses here; I prefer to produce quiet and intriguing pieces (I hope). I used to do more ravaged, "gross" art (as my mom would put it-and she has a very mature appreciation of art, so that gives you an idea of the gross-factor in which I indulged-rotting skin, bloodshot eyes, etc. etc.), but I've matured and I've gotten more reserved and I think more aesthetically pleasing with my artistic decisions. So as well as my...err, quirky essays, I'm including my art (also quirky) as well. I'll try to post a piece a day.





SO, here's the first piece I'll include.

"Detroit-Mexicantown" by Katherine Morrison

December 13, 2007

Digital photograph

Let's Take This Outside

I recently came across my sophomore year yearbook photo.

LOOK at that! I look like I just single handedly brought down the Death Star all to the soundtrack of "Stronger" by Kanye West (the death metal version)(no there isn't one...but there should be).

Is This Really Necessary?

What part of our evolutionary history has determined that we have to get chapped lips?

No Insomnia for Old Men

I know I haven't posted in a while (weep, my servants), but there is a valid reason: I've been sleeping. It has become all too apparant that I am waist-deep in an addiction to sleep. I don't think there is much of a deep psychological reason for it (I could be wrong, but if there is one I wouldn't broadcast over the entire interweb. I have some decency.); rather, I'm just really lazy and sleeping is genuinely fun.

The best part about it all is the whole ritual of it. It gives me a warm, cozy feeling. Kind of like when I'm eating a corndog, or petting a cat. It's calming and gives me a sense of normalcy. The first part of the ritual is to put on pajamas. I'm kind of a pajama freak. When I was a kid and I'd go to the mall with my mom, I'd beg every time we were at Kohl's (we Morrison/Gabins are a classy bunch) to get me cool pajamas. But my mother, being the Mussolini dictator of shopping, would almost ALWAYS say no. Except once I got these blue lepoard print cotton PJ pants that I still wear today. But through the years I've accumulated two giant bins of pajama pants and shirts. Actually, most of the shirts are wildlife teeshirts my parents would get me from the zoo or school catalogs. The one I'm wearing right now has an intense tiger peering through the grass and the phrase "EYE ON SURVIVAL" sprawled across at the bottom in a pseudo-African font.

So ANYWAY, I love selecting my pajamas. Then I get in bed and get on my laptop and mindlessly surf through emo kid Myspaces and Perez Hilton entries. This really kind of gets my mind ready for sleep, because whatever dreams I have, they have to be more interesting than Amy Winehouse's latest 4 AM shirtless, drug-addled rampage through London.

So after that I go to sleep. And my requirements for sleep are pretty ridgid. I HAVE to wear earplugs. I absolutely cannot sleep without them. I started wearing them when my older brother still lived at home and I had to listen to him and his friends discussing the philosophies of time's paradigm of protracted space (or whatever) and Bob Marley pulsing across the hallway into my room at all hours of the night. Since then, it's become a habit. I also cocoon myself into my blankets, and then as I'm going to sleep I try to think of names for every letter of the alphabet for guys and girls, 2 syllable words that start with "W", etc. etc. It's always good to make sure I'm not suffering from early onset Alzheimer's as I'm drifting off into sleep (it's probably not a good sign that it took me about 10 minutes and Google's assistance to figure out how to spell "Alzheimer's").

And then, for hours upon hours (I can snooze for 12 hours at a time), I'm utterly content. Unless I'm having a dream that Javier Bardem from No Country for Old Men is trying to kill me. But that's another story.

Sometimes, I Wonder...Pt.1.

How did Carrie Bradshaw (from Sex and the City) afford all those designer clothes if all she did was write a newspaper column?

SpRINg BREaK '08!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!1 WOOoOOOooOO!

Actually, my spring break hasn't lived up to what the title of this would entail. I've really been on break since December when I graduated, so Spring Break hasn't been a blip on my nap and PB&J-soaked radar. But looking at my classmates' ToTaLLie WILD spring break pictures on Facebook has got me thinking: am I a loser?

More and more, I'm starting to think that the signs pointing toward the affirmative are really visible. For one, I'm not very social at all. My mom would point out that indeed I am a social butterfly because I have wonderful conversing skills and I obsess about social situations (social situations=boy situations for the most part). But really, I'm nothing like my peers. I don't get invited to parties (and even if I was invited, I probably wouldn't go unless Lindsay Lohan was there...LOVE HER), I've only been to Florida once and it sucked, I don't go to the mall with my girlfriends, and I only have 20 contacts on my cellphone. If I went to Florida for spring break, I'd be the awkward pasty Twinkie-looking thing on the outskirts of the conversation.

Another big factor: I wear sweatpants, like, all the time.

I can't really think of any other huge pointers towards loser-dom right now, acually. My obsession with buffets borderline it...but I guess writing this has kind of made me realize that just because my Spring Break wasn't KILLER DUDE, I'm still pretty fierce.

Which kind of makes this whole blog worthless.

Moral of the story: Go to rehab, become more famous. Right?

Dude, I am so buzzed right now.

Kat Von D Ain't Got Nuttin' On Me.

Well, I didn't die. It didn't even hurt that badly-the worst part was the next day when my muscles cramped and I could barely move. I would attempt to be funnier and more in detail right now, but I really "need" a nap. Oh, and I love my tattoo. Lovelovelove it. Get your tattoos done at Tattooed Heart in Lafayette, IN. The people there are swell. If you get a tattoo of flying cats, they might encourage you to get one of the cats to hold an M-16. You might want to decline this offer.

I survived. Also, I seem to have grown coconuts for ankle bones.

In response to my parents' slight shock at its large size, I must say: I go for gusto.

Why yes, those are indeed Hello Kitty pajamas.

The redness and darkness will fade as it heals.

I'm a Fool.

Today is going to be fantastic. And by fantastic, I mean horrible. Well, once 7 PM rolls around, I will be in absolute bliss. But from 4 PM-7 PM, I will be horrified, crying, gritting my teeth, rolling around in the pits of hell, etc.

Why?

I'm getting a tattoo.

Oh, not just any tattoo. I decided it would be an extremely reasonable idea for my first tattoo to take 3 hours.

THREE HOURS.

The tattoo itself is going to be great. It's an illustration from Catwings, a book I loved as a child. I will have 4 cats (with wings) flying down the side of my calf. For the rest of my life. As we all know, cats are better than people, and as all my friends know, I am a crazy cat lady. I have 4 cats and they mean everything to me, so I'm actually very excited to honor them in a tattoo. The end result will be absolutely amazing.

Oh, that? I'm just putting my calf in his mouth for a while, don't worry.

But, I have no pain tolerance. Last summer when I got 5 stitches on my thumb as a result of a work accident, I literally bit my dad's hand as an expression of my excruciating horror. When I crushed my finger last summer as a result of another work accident (apparantly I work in a coal mine), I had to lie around and watch action movies while weeping and eating ice cream for a day. And now I am willingly submitting myself to a 8 foot metal knife machine (really) for three hours. At least my best friends and my boyfriend are coming with me. So they can laugh at me, I guess.


If I don't die, I will post pictures of the glory tomorrow.