I figured it out!

Remember when I added the "googlebait" content in the upper left corner, because Google was doing a very poor job of summarizing my site? And then it automagically fixed itself, to my utter bewilderment?

It turns out that my obsessing about this annoyance coincided exactly with my admittance to the dmoz directory, which is also the Google directory.

So if you, like me, have problems with Google's inability to properly describe your site, I highly recommend that you submit your site to dmoz with a quality description.

It will do wonders for the quality of your site summary, at least when people are searching for it by name.

Other searches will still show snippets that demonstrate the occurrence of whatever keywords they are seeking, which is all well and good.

I think I'll leave the googlebait there anyway, though. I'm kind of getting to like it.

It's becoming an addictive pastime, this effort to look at my surroundings with new eyes.

It's interesting that as a photographer, I'm accustomed to looking at most things without letting my vision be clouded by preconceptions of "tree" or "flower" or "person". Yet at home, I tend to automatically see a box, a mass of rectangles, an uninspiring collection of right angles.

However, as recent evidence will demonstrate, the average room is anything but uninspiring.

The hotel room would seem a more difficult subject, given the inherent mundanity and sameness of its design. I do think the results here are not as interesting as the apartment series, but again there are some surprising details for the attentive eye.

Wednesday I took the train into New York City from Princeton, to hang out with high-school classmate Kyle. En route, I was inspired by a fluttering black curtain to write this mediocre draft of a poem, which for reasons of timeliness I'm releasing before the usual long period of disgust, revision, and eventual acceptance.

Eurydice, New Jersey Transit

Sliding past the train window, these ruined cities. Graffiti, piled husks of cars, and broken-windowed warehouses.

In dilapidated office towers, the myth of American capitalism repopulated by sad, airless apartments.

In the seat ahead, a pretty girl reads a magazine.

Its sunny, hopeful pages reflect in the window below her sweetly curved lips and pensively set teeth.

From a window in Newark, Cerberus strains at his chains like a black curtain in summer breeze and the angular light of sunset.

Dusk, and then the darkness of the tunnel.

An infernal heat clings to the subterranean tracks as we disembark.

On the escalator, I look back to see her behind me, in a cloud of wandering souls on the dim, receding platform.

By the time I smile, she is not there to see.