hello!

photo journal

spainland

jillian rose

000438390018.jpg

this side of the city is old, crumbling

full of magic and life

like the earth

the narrow cobblestone streets

snake through climbing white walls

find the path behind the cactus garden

it will bring you to the space overlooking

snow-capped peaks and rabbit holes  

feel the air

as you run along

see the trail, hear the song, smell the fire

there is no bad taste

in the heart

000438390020.jpg
000438370005.jpg

granada

jillian rose

I sit at one café,

dreaming of another.

an americano

café "cortao".

white-washed buildings

lean in towards eachother

whispering what they've heard,

or perhaps to feel the space between.

a gypsy named Marino plays outside my window.

I hear the murmur of energy within,

watch the oranges split,

prepare my lips for their tart juice.

I see snow-frosted peaks,

tiled floors

escaping from the cold.

 

It's a feeling. We grasp onto certain threads; woven through our hearts are stories of pleasure and pain. The city holds it in her walls, her streets, each stone. Placed one by one. I notice how one man's line inevitably affects the rest. The choice of one pebble throwing the rest into a spiral, carpeting the hillside in unforeseen patterns. The guitar still flutters in my chest.  

000438370009.jpg
000438370015.jpg
000438370007.jpg
000438370012.jpg
000438370014.jpg
000438370019.jpg
000438370011.jpg
000438370020.jpg
000438370021.jpg
000438370002.jpg
000438370026.jpg
000438370027.jpg
000438370017.jpg
000438370032.jpg
000438370030.jpg
000438370036.jpg
000438380017_c.jpg
000438380018.jpg