I have a bit of an addiction to hanging over tall buildings.

And yet the last label I would put on myself is adrenaline-seeker. 

I'm more of a Bob Dylan girl: the only adrenaline I get is from being on a rooftop in the middle of the day while one woman in black (pictured below) walks to the grocery store and the sun praises itself on its knees, and the company you keep (that keeps you) is weeping for the secrets they've traded for stability.

self-portrait: this month, this year, this feeling

When I lived in Montreal (many years ago now), I meandered around the summer-soaked city, constantly listening to my cd player and headphones. I owned three cds then: To Bring You My Love, Pink Moon and Dylan's Blonde on Blonde.

The Dylan album is what I'm playing tonight. As I type this, he sings, "I didn't mean to treat you so bad; you shouldn't take it so personal.... You just happened to be there."

* * *

I take these photos hanging off of buildings, and the taking of them (the being in my physical presence while I take them) scares people. How could it not? I tell this story about an ex-lover who, on his birthday, climbed the slender balance-beam-like bar above a high bridge over a freeway in Houston; I tell of my anger at him and his decision and its affect on me. Self-righteous creatures, we are! I hang off the side of a building and laugh when whomever's near me yells, "What the fuck are you doing?"

The only experience of me that scares me is that the wrong feelings scare me.