Tag Archives: Simone Badour Photography

Delicate Finger Tips

photo by Simone Badour

With delicate finger tips, she fiercely hand rolled her cigarettes. Quick and decisive, she never hesitated. Just a couple of twists before her sharp tongue shot out to dampen the glue, finished off with a quick kiss bestowed by soft lips.

A half smile of satisfaction as she digs for a lighter in the front pocket of her skinny jeans. Black skinny jeans that fit in all the right places, a fact not lost on her, or anyone else lucky enough to see her in them.

With her hand rolled cigarette between now pursed lips, she inhales deeply, the weight of the world on her shoulders. Feminine shoulders, lean but strong, shoulders that hold the promise of good times to be had. Shoulders that know about hard work, rewards and responsibilities and all that.

Lungs fill with poison, that delicious, delicious poison. She exhales her sigh from lungs hidden behind firm breasts and a flat stomach. A runner in another life, a yoga fiend in this one. All that stretching leads to epiphanies right and sometimes left, it’s all rather grand. Grand in the grand scheme of things, you see. She sees everything, though comments on very little. Her eyes give her away when she’s in a giving mood, and when the mood should strike, she’s pure dynamite.

She takes care of her little sister the way her mother never could. Held hands and pig tails and swing sets in the afternoon. And then the night shift at the pub. Tight shirts and short skirts, still with the pig tails, but their meaning so different this go around.

She puts on old Beatle’s records when no one’s around. Just let it be, because sometimes life isn’t fair. She’s friends with John and Paul, or she would have been in a different circumstance, a different life, and a different time. But life isn’t kind. She appreciates the reality that it’s the only life she gets and so she leaves things just slightly better than she found them. Always.

photo by Simone Badour

She doesn’t need a boy to be complete, but she likes them just the same. She doesn’t need you to hold her hand, or tell her that she looks pretty. She knows she’s smart, and doesn’t need you to point it out to her. She knows she’s clever and fun and rad. And beautiful in a way that deepens as you get to know her. She appreciates sincerity, and originality, and creativity. She drinks whiskey late at night on a balcony with a hand rolled cigarette overlooking the city. Her city.

She is the revolution.

please take a moment to check out Simone Badour Photography


Sunrise Dreamers

photo by Simone Badour

She’s beautiful when she sleeps.

When her eyes close and she lets go of her day. A soft smile plays on
delicate lips; I can watch the tension drain from her body as she
finally and completely relaxes. She mumbles softly and
shifts, she pulls me in tighter; this is the favorite part of my day,
of any day, of every day.

This makes it worth it. The early mornings and the late nights. The
hard work and the paying dues. The days on the road with the strangers and their sad smiles. It’s all worth it, as long as she is waiting for me
when I get home.

The squinty corners of her deep brown eyes when she laughs, and the
glimmer of love in them when she smiles up at me. The way she finds
my hand when I need it most; and that time she told me she’d never let
go. When we snuck up to the rooftop with a bottle of wine and two
heads full of dreams.

We are the original sunrise dreamers, and she’s just so beautiful when
she sleeps.
Please take a moment to check out Simone Badour Photography

Friday Housekeeping

across the street from my building

Hello. Today is a break from the normal routine, a pause for a bit of house keeping, if you will. Won’t you? You’re really too kind, and St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner, drink a pint for me and dance with that cute girl at the bar, she looks like a lot of fun.

The Anarchist Project has received some kind words from around the internets lately, and I want to share the locations with you, it’s a bit of self-promotion, but whatever. First off, Zack at Lost Angeles wrote a really nice piece, he’s good people, we go a ways back. Supremely talented writer, he also plays guitar in a fantastic indie rock band out of Los Angeles, Fight From Above. Check them out here and the video “Between The Curves” here. Sick video produced by the talented folks at A-Hill Productions. You need a video, get a hold of A-Hill, they’re magic.

Next up, the good people at The Daily Ross did the solid of interviewing me as part of their “Artist Spotlight” series. Catch the interview here, and while you’re there, check out the rest of the site, they do good work of breaking down national and local politics.

Also, my last post, “CGIP Explained” featured photography from Simone Badour, an extremely talented up and coming artist out of Melbourne, Australia. Take a moment to check her out at Simone Badour Photography, I hope to use more of her in the future, she’s an amazing talent. (And no, I haven’t talked to the CGIP yet, but I will!)

In other news, The Anarchist Project, the book part of the experience is coming to a close. After 13 months in Portland, I’m more or less finished with the writing and have started the fantastic process of sorting out publishing. If you’re a publisher or know someone who might be interested, please contact me at [seanmcbrown@gmail.com] But with the conclusion of the book, comes the conclusion of my time in Portland, the tentative plan is to head back to Minneapolis in May to get some funds together and figure out the next big adventure starting in the fall.

Above all, thank you all for reading. You’re truly fantastic and beautiful people. Comments are sexy. Here’s a fun Friday song, enjoy the weekend my friends, make a memory, share a smile with someone you don’t know.

CGIP Explained

photo by Simone Badour

Three to four times a week we run into each other at Floyd’s Cafe in Oldtown. “Run into each other” is perhaps not the most accurate of phrases. Three to four instances a week, we happen to be in the same place at the same time. Floyd’s is that place. Three to four times a week, I lose whatever slice of self-confidence I may have possessed to start the morning, and I turn into a quivering mess of lemon flavored jellyfish.

Needless to say, we’ve never spoken.

The best of intentions and the most fantastic of plans are quickly forgotten as the only thing I can think of is, “you’re pretty.” I stutter in my head as she orders her latte and chats with her beautiful friend. She smiles at the baristas, she smiles at old ladies, she’s even smiled at me a time or two; picture perfect pixie smiles, the kind that melts hearts and inspires greatness. Beautiful by any standard, yet with a kind face colored by the hint of mischief, I’ve named her The Cutest Girl In Portland, or CGIP for short.

We’ve sat next to each other once or twice, two random strangers in a crowded café, and even then I’ve barely mustered the courage to steal a glance in her direction. No, instead I turn off the punk rock, but leave the headphones in; I listen to the music of her voice as she chats with her beautiful friend. The constant drama of office politics never sounded so good. I keep my eyes straight ahead, and type type type my life away while cute girls engage in mindless small talk just to my right. Focused and hard working, cute perhaps, but sadly and completely anonymous to her.

I had a dream three nights ago where I said hello and for once I was on the receiving end of that glorious smile. She’d been waiting, three to four times a week, for me to say hello. I smiled in response. We talked about Portland and about dreams, our time together in the city was short, but we were both desperate to make it last. We walked along the waterfront and held hands, made big plans for the future; we were fire and passion, taking life by storm. Discussing our shared love of border-collies and needing only each other, we smiled at the sunset and never took prisoners.

I have never felt such unrestrained hatred towards an inanimate object as I did towards my alarm clock that next morning. With blind fury I slapped the snooze and shut my eyes tight, desperate to bring her back, but tragically, The CGIP was gone. I took a cold shower to deaden my fire and calm my nerves. I found a sense of peace and resolve…today would be the day. My Portland adventure is drawing to a close, and I have very little to lose by saying hello, today would be the day. I wore a nice shirt, and practiced my smile, I felt like an idiot, but today would be the day.

Two hours later at Floyd’s, she came, she ordered her bagel, she left. Never once glancing in my direction.

We make the grandest of gestures in our sleep, and tomorrow’s another day.

Please take a moment to check out the exceptional photography at http://www.simonebadour.com/