Censored by a Machine
We’re nine days into 2026, and I already want to pull the emergency brake and ask who exactly is driving this thing. I’m not enjoying the state of the world. I’m angry, properly, bone-deep angry, and it feels like every headline is just another reminder that we’re stuck in a late-stage capitalism funhouse where the mirrors are warped, the exits are fake, and someone’s charging admission.
So much of what’s wrong feels depressingly obvious. Capitalism squeezing until nothing’s left. Politics turning every problem into a blood sport. Religion still showing up uninvited, like that one guy at a party who insists on explaining the meaning of life while blocking the snack table. We’re overworked, under-rested, constantly monitored, and told this is freedom. If this is freedom, the return policy is terrible.
And now capitalism’s newest shiny toy has arrived: AI. Not helpful AI, no, no, but AI bolted onto everything whether it belongs there or not. AI in your email. AI in your phone. AI in your car. AI making decisions that used to require a human being with a brain, a conscience, and at least a little hesitation. I don’t need AI reading my emails. I don’t want Google peeking into my texts or DMs like a nosy neighbor with binoculars. I don’t want AI flying planes or deciding what’s acceptable, true, or real.
What really sends me over the edge is how AI is being used to censor things without explanation or accountability. This morning, I posted a photo of Gabriel on social media. A real photo. One I took myself. On a Sony a7III. On Playalinda Beach in Florida, in the kind of heat that makes you question why humans ever left caves. I shot it. I edited it in Lightroom, color, white balance, a little vignette. That’s it. No AI. No prompts. No digital wizardry.
The platform removed it.
Why? Because an AI system “suspected the image was AI-generated.”
Let that sink in. A machine decided my photograph looked too real, or maybe too good, and erased it. Reality failed the vibe check. An algorithm shrugged and said, “Nah,” and that was that.
And of course, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no customer service. No human to talk to. No appeal that doesn’t lead straight back to another automated response. Customer service, as a concept, has basically been euthanized. Even when it technically exists, you’re funneled through endless menus, chatbots with fake empathy, and forms that disappear into the digital void. If you ever reach a person, they’ll apologize, transfer you, or accidentally-on-purpose disconnect.
This is not the future I was promised.
I was promised flying cars, shorter workweeks, and more time to make art, take photographs, and exist without being monitored like a suspicious package. I was promised a brighter, better future, not one where creativity is flagged as fraudulent and reality needs a verification badge.
I would very much like to return this timeline. I have the receipt. I have notes. I am willing to exchange it for literally any version that includes accountability, humanity, and maybe someone, anyone, answering the phone.
Unfortunately, there is no customer service department for reality.
And that, more than anything, might be the most dystopian part of all.
Starting the Year With an Empty Camera Roll
I have a couple of end of year traditions that I have followed for a few years now. The first is simple and, frankly, necessary. I step away from work almost entirely starting Christmas Eve and do not come back until the first Monday after New Year’s. This year, that means January 5th. It is a pause I look forward to every year. A chance to slow down, reset, and remember that time does not always need to be optimized.
The second tradition is the one that tends to raise eyebrows.
Every year, I wipe my phone of almost every photo on it.
Not recklessly. Carefully. Every image is moved to a secure drive, labeled, organized, and archived. Then I start the new year with almost nothing in my camera roll. A blank slate. I keep a few photos of the animals and a few from my wedding, but beyond that, everything else goes into storage.
People usually ask why.
For me, photography is something I share constantly on my website and across social media, and most of that sharing happens through my phone. When my phone is full of old work, it is easy to lean on what has already been done. Clearing it out removes that option. If I want to share images, I have to go out and make new ones. It forces me forward. No shortcuts. No coasting.
It is a small act, but a meaningful one. My own quiet way of burning the ships.
Of course, all my past work is still there. It is backed up, safe, and accessible through the cloud. But there is something about opening my phone and seeing an empty gallery that nudges me toward creation. It feels like an invitation, and sometimes a challenge, to go make something worth adding back.
Even now, I am already wondering if there will be an ATL Shooters event this weekend, because I would love to get out and make some photos if I can.
Regardless, I hope you all had a good New Year’s Eve and that 2026 has started off well. Here’s to clean slates, new work, and moving forward with intention.
Happy New Year.
Welcome Home Santa
It’s Christmas Eve, and somewhere between the soft hush of falling snow and the distant clatter of a ladder against a gutter, Santa is on the clock. The man is working overtime. He’s crisscrossing time zones like they’re minor inconveniences, squeezing down chimneys that absolutely did not pass code inspection, and fueling himself on a diet approved by exactly zero nutritionists: warm cookies, cold milk, and the occasional carrot filched from a reindeer who definitely earned it.
It’s beautiful chaos. A red-suited blur of good intentions and poor sleep hygiene. He keeps going, not because it’s easy, his knees disagree, but because he knows what’s waiting on the other side of the night. He knows that when the sleigh is parked, the hat is hung, and the last ho-ho-ho finally gives way to a yawn, Christmas morning will arrive like a quiet reward. Home. Stillness. Maybe a fire crackling. Maybe a moment to put his feet up and remember why all this madness matters.
So here’s to the magic, the mess, the crumbs on the plate, and the carrots with teeth marks. Here’s to the work behind the wonder, and the calm that comes after the storm of tinsel and joy.
Merry Christmas, everyone. 🎄
Winter Solstice
Happy Winter Solstice, everyone.
I’ve always loved this time of year, the quiet hinge in the calendar where everything slows down and the world leans into itself. I’ve never been someone who fears the dark. Quite the opposite, actually. Darkness and night have always felt like home to me. That’s where my shoulders finally drop, where my breathing evens out, where the background noise in my head lowers to a tolerable hum. In the dark, I can exist without having to perform. No spotlights. No explanations. Just stillness.
A lot of people celebrate the Solstice for the promise it makes, the return of light after the longest night. That’s fair. Optimistic, even. Very on-brand for humanity. But I celebrate the Solstice because it’s dark. Because this is the night that doesn’t apologize for itself. The longest stretch of shadow, officially sanctioned by the cosmos. A reminder that darkness isn’t a problem to be solved, it’s a place you’re allowed to rest.
The world tells us, constantly and loudly, that more light is better. Be visible. Be productive. Be “on.” The Solstice gently counters with a raised eyebrow and a low voice: or… you could sit still for a minute. You could let the night be the night. You could stop trying to fix everything long enough to feel your feet on the ground and your hands wrapped around something warm.
There’s no right or wrong way to celebrate the Solstice. Light candles. Don’t. Meditate. Don’t. Make it sacred or make it simple. Just know that the darkness you’re standing in isn’t empty, it’s generous. It holds space. It gives cover. It asks very little of you.
So here’s my hope for all of you in the coming year: fewer stresses that gnaw at you in quiet moments, more happiness that shows up unannounced. More nights where you feel safe enough to exhale. And if anyone needs me, I’ll be by the fire all day, drinking hot apple cider, fully committed to the radical act of doing absolutely nothing useful, except maybe being present.
ATL Shooters - October Event
ATL Shooters - October Event
Over the weekend, I went to another ATL Shooters event, one of those little creative storms that make living in Atlanta worth it. For anyone new around here, the ATL Shooters Club is run by a guy named Tony, who, once a month, somehow rallies a small army of photographers and models to meet up, take photos, and make art. He picks the spot, we all show up with cameras and caffeine, and for a few hours the city becomes our playground.
It’s honestly become one of my favorite things about being here. But what keeps surprising me, in that strange, humbling way, is when other photographers tell me they look up to my work. That I’m someone they’ve followed for years, or that I’ve inspired them to shoot more. I never quite know what to say to that, because deep down, I still feel like the kid I was 13 years ago, wandering around Olympia, Washington with a camera I barely understood, taking pictures of anything that would stay still long enough.
Back then, I used to buy cheap roses from the grocery store just so I’d have something to photograph. I’d ask friends if I could take portraits for practice — most said no, a few said “hell no.” But I kept shooting anyway.
The one moment that sticks with me most was this photoshoot in an abandoned building near Puget Sound. I had a few friends with me, no clue what I was doing, and zero understanding of editing. I knew what I wanted my photos to feel like... moody, cinematic, alive, but I didn’t know how to get there yet. My creativity was bigger than my skill.
So I did what seemed smart at the time: I asked for help. I posted some of the photos in a photography Facebook group, said I knew they weren’t great, and asked if anyone had advice or tutorials I could check out.
Big mistake.
They tore me apart. Dozens of photographers told me I was awful, talentless, that I should sell my camera and give up. Some were cruel just for the sport of it. The comments got so bad the group’s admin actually stepped in and told everyone off, but by then, I’d already logged out, feeling about two inches tall. I still remember that feeling, the sting of being told I wasn’t good enough.
And maybe that’s what lit the fire. I worked hard for years after that. Not out of anger, but determination. I wanted to prove, mostly to myself, that I could make art worth looking at. Thirteen years later, I like to think I’ve done that. But every time someone compliments my work, it still pulls me back to that moment, the kid who just wanted to learn, to be part of something creative, and got laughed out of the room.
That’s why I love the ATL Shooters so much. It’s the kind of place I wish I’d had back then, a space where photographers of all levels come together, share tips, teach each other things, and just create. No gatekeeping, no judgment. Just art, curiosity, and a little bit of chaos.
I didn’t have that community 13 years ago. But I have it now. And that makes every long night of trial, error, and stubbornness worth it. Because now, I get to help build what I once needed, a creative family chasing light together through the wild streets of Atlanta.
Lisa Frankenstein - The Bride of Lisa Frank
Lisa Frankenstein - The Bride of Lisa Frank
Long before I ever touched a camera, I was just another night owl lost in the endless scroll of Tumblr. I’d spend what felt like lifetimes drifting through a sea of moody portraits, cosmic color palettes, and quiet emotion, wishing I could create something that lived up to what I saw there. I sometimes wonder how many miles my thumb traveled in pursuit of inspiration.
Now, years later, I stand behind the lens as a photographer, my work a living collage of all those nights. I can still feel the echo of Tumblr’s influence in my images, the colors, the texture, the quiet ache for beauty. It’s a craving that never really fades, this urge to bring the imagined into being.
Luckily, I’m married to someone who shares that creative pulse. Leslie, a Special Effects Makeup Artist, often dreams in a different direction than I do, but every so often, we both catch the same spark. That happened when she came to me with an idea: The Bride of Frankenstein, but with the color palette of Lisa Frank.
I saw it immediately. dolphins' in rainbow hues, gothic drama dipped in 80s nostalgia. Lisa Frank, the queen of technicolor notebooks and childhood joy, had never stepped into the shadowy world of Halloween… until now. The idea felt both absurd and perfect.
We’d played with the Bride before, once twisting the concept into something new, but this was different. This time, it was about contrast: horror meeting harmony, darkness bathed in color. So, we gathered at Casa Scott. Kat, our model, brought her radiant energy and creative soul. Mac, our stylist, arrived armed with combs, hair picks, and enough hairspray to stop time. Leslie conjured her magic with colors that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. And me... I stood ready to catch the spark when it hit.
Did we capture it? The impossible blend of gothic and glitter, of lightning and laughter? I’ll let you be the judge.
But I like to think that somewhere, deep in the archives of Tumblr, a ghost of my younger self is scrolling through the feed, pausing on this one, and smiling.
What I Am Continuing to Give Energy To
What I Am Continuing to Give Energy To
At the beginning of this year, I had a list of goals, things I wanted to learn, build, or become. Some of those goals I’ve done well with. Others… not so much. Occasionally, I like to stop, take inventory, and ask myself where my energy is actually going, and whether that’s where I want it to go.
This is a summary, or perhaps a quiet confession, of what I’ve decided is still worth giving energy to.
Socializing
When my wife and I moved to Georgia in 2023, I unintentionally became a hermit. I rarely left the house, and when I did, it was usually to wander around alone — the quiet explorer type, armed with a camera and far too many thoughts. I missed my friends in Florida, and, truthfully, wasn’t ready to start over socially.
But as 2025 began, I decided that needed to change. “Be social,” I told myself, which sounded simple until I had to, you know, do it.
So, I started attending the monthly ATL Shooters events, organized by a fellow photographer named Tony. He picks locations, brings together photographers and models, and somehow makes the whole thing feel like both a creative playground and a social gathering. I’ve met incredible people there, seen inspiring work, and I think — I think — I’ve even made a few friends.
As 2025 winds down and 2026 prepares for her grand entrance, I plan to keep showing up. Keep talking. Keep practicing the strange art of human connection. It’s worth the effort, awkward small talk and all.
Organizing Themed Photo Shoots
For the last several years, I’ve loved organizing themed photoshoots, little cinematic experiments that bring my imagination to life. This year has been no exception.
Through ATL Shooters, I met some wonderful models and hosted a “Bond Girl” photoshoot with MacKenzie, Heather, Morgan, and Hunter. A while later, Heather and I finally made it to Shoal Creek Falls for that waterfall shoot we’d been planning. This month, I have shoots scheduled with Sammi, Maeve, and Gabrielle down in Florida, and in November, I’ll be part of an LGBTQ+ swimwear catalogue rebrand, which still feels a little surreal to say.
There are a dozen more concepts swirling in the back of my mind... a laundromat shoot, something Christmassy, a maternity concept, a dark femme fatale series, and more. I have no plans to stop dreaming them up. If anything, the list just keeps getting longer.
Continuing to Learn Art
One of my goals for 2025 was to study art more deliberately, to dive into art history and teach myself to draw. It sounded romantic in theory. In practice, art history books have the unique power to put me to sleep faster than melatonin. I’ll read a few pages, realize I’ve absorbed nothing, go back, try again, and drift off somewhere around page two.
So, I’ve decided to meet my brain where it lives, in chaos, and explore art history through YouTube channels instead. Maybe that’ll stick better.
As for drawing, progress is slow but real. I have no natural talent, but I’m stubborn, and there’s something grounding about learning a skill that refuses to come easily.
Lately, I’ve also fallen in love with art/junk journaling, the deliciously messy act of gluing scraps and smearing paint across a page until it looks like emotional archaeology. It’s cathartic, unplanned, and I have no intention of stopping. If anything, I suspect my journal pages are only going to get more unhinged as time goes on, and I’m perfectly fine with that.
I Will Continue Going to Therapy
Let’s be honest: I am, like most humans, a bit of a work in progress, cracked in interesting places. Some of that damage is my doing, some of it isn’t, and some of it is just life being life.
This year I found a new therapist. She’s excellent, brilliant, kind, and slightly sadistic in the best way possible. She’s helping me dig into things I’ve buried so deep they probably have fossils by now.
I believe therapy matters. Life is hard, and being human is harder. None of us make it through without scars, and having a place to unpack them safely feels necessary. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a point called “healed.” I’m not even sure that’s the goal. But I am committed to the process, one difficult conversation at a time.
Using My Phone Less
At the start of the year, I made a noble (and wildly optimistic) g
oal to limit my phone use to one hour per day. Naturally, I failed spectacularly.
But the experiment wasn’t a total loss. In fact, some good things came out of it.
First, I started using Spotify less because I finally bought a modded iPod — newbattery, SD card storage, the whole nostalgic package. I’d missed that feeling of listening to music without algorithms lurking nearby, taking notes. Just me, my iPod, and the soundtrack of my day.
Second, I’ve stopped scrolling during shows or movies. For years I’d multitask entertainment, barely absorbing either thing. Now, I try to actually watch what I’m watching, and it turns out, stories are more enjoyable when you’re present for them.
So yes, I’m still on my phone more than an hour a day, but less than I used to be, and that feels like progress worth celebrating.
So What Will the Future Bring?
No idea. I stopped trying to predict the future years ago, she’s too unpredictable, too fond of plot twists.
But I do know this: I plan to keep doing these things. To keep showing up for art, for people, for healing, for myself. To keep finding the things that give energy back instead of draining it away.
The rest will reveal itself in time. It always does.
Spirit Halloween on 35mm Film
Spirit Halloween on 35mm Film
I took my old Olympus mju ii point-and-shoot 35mm, into a Spirit Halloween store. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. Just some fun shots of skeletons, masks, and the chaotic aisles of seasonal weirdness. But film has a way of catching ghosts you don’t see until later.
When I got the scans back, the photos were nothing like what I thought I’d captured. They came out gritty, raw, almost dirty in a way that feels too perfect for Halloween. A cheap mask looks like something cursed. A plastic skeleton feels like it’s waiting for the lights to go out so it can move. Even the props, mass-produced and over-the-top—carry this dingy, haunted vibe you’d never expect in the bright chaos of a store.
And that’s what I love about it.
Film always surprises me. It doesn’t care about perfection or control, it leans into the flaws, the blur, the shadows, the dirt in the frame. That’s where the magic happens. In a world that polishes everything smooth, there’s something thrilling about images that feel a little unhinged, a little haunted. Spirit Halloween is chaotic enough on its own, but through the lens of 35mm film, it becomes something else entirely: a lo-fi fever dream where the plastic monsters feel just a bit too real.
That’s why I keep coming back to film. It makes even the fake look real, and sometimes, realer than I bargained for.
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Shooting DragonCon on 35mm Film
Shooting DragonCon on 35mm Film
This past weekend I was back at DragonCon in Atlanta, GA—my eighth time wandering through the whirlwind of costumes, creativity, and caffeine. Usually, I come armed with my Sony a7iii, photographing cosplay with the clarity and precision of digital perfection. But this year, I decided to do something different.
I left the pro camera at home.
Instead, I carried only my Olympus mju ii, a 35mm point-and-shoot that feels more like a time capsule than a tool.
Why? Because I wanted to see DragonCon differently.
Film doesn’t care about perfection. It doesn’t smooth over the cracks or polish the chaos. It gives you grain, blur, light leaks—accidents that somehow feel more alive than flawless digital files. Shooting DragonCon this way reminded me why I fell in love with photography in the first place.
It felt real. It felt raw.
And in a world overflowing with filters, AI-generated “art,” and endless fakery, that matters to me. I want to create work that can’t be faked—images that carry fingerprints, flaws, and honesty.
The experiment worked. These images? They aren’t just technically strong. They have soul.
So here’s to the imperfect, the unpolished, the beautifully real. Sometimes, leaving the fancy gear behind is the only way to remember why we pick up a camera at all.
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A Quiet Trail Away from History
Ethical Hiking in Georgia
Yesterday, my wife and I went for a hike here in Georgia—a last-minute decision sparked sometime around 1:30 in the afternoon, the kind of plan that comes together more on instinct than intention. But even spontaneity has its roadblocks. Most of the trails near our place wind through Kennesaw Mountain, a site heavy with Civil War history—Confederate cannons still poised as if waiting, statues carved in reverence, and museums that feel like they’re trying too hard to remember the wrong side of things.
Neither of us felt comfortable walking through that sort of curated nostalgia. So we kept searching, scrolling through park listings and trail maps until we found a quiet spot not too far away—no monuments, no ghosts, just trees and trail.
We threw on our boots and headed out. The hike was gorgeous—sunlight filtered through the canopy in ribbons, the air smelled like warm earth and green things. As usual, I brought my Sony a7iii, convincing myself I might use it. I didn’t. It hung off my shoulder like a very expensive mistake, while my Galaxy S23 did all the real work, snapping quick photos and short videos along the way. I really ought to stop bringing the Sony on these kinds of hikes—it’s just extra weight I carry out of habit.
Still, it was a good day. One of those slow, quiet adventures that sneaks up on you and stays a while.