paparazzi

in the first released photos, i'm walking back from the co-op in mismatched clothing, a striped t-shirt and pair of plaid shorts, a canvas bag filled with carrots, fennel, beets, and chard swings from my grip and a pair of yellow sunglasses perches on my nose. i have bedhead and my face is pretty scruffy. i hold hands with an unknown woman in dark sunglasses, covered in tattoos. we walk down a sidewalk, turn a corner, and cross the street.

a second set catches me out back alone, talking on a cell phone. these are shot from above, most likely the neighbor's roof. it is dusk. i am barefoot, and i wear what looks like sweat shorts and a ratty t/shirt, like i've been doing yoga. i pace the driveway, bend over and poke at the plants. in three of them i gesture cartoonishly with my hands or make a goofy face to emphasize a point or as a reaction to some piece of news.

i turn the page and find the last set. in these i'm out at a bar. it's late and i'm with my friends. we leave the bar and the photographers take me by storm, the bulbs flashing in my face. i am tired and don't want them to see me like this. in the first few, i try my best to look uninterested, eyes elsewhere, leaning into my friends with sly grin, lighting a cigarette. but then the series changes and i am angry, getting closer to the cameras. my hand takes up a whole frame. on a diagonal from the frame, my friends hold me back as i try to throw a punch. my face contorts and eyes bulge as i threaten and curse.