Micah Mackenzie / Fashion Photographer

05/04/2026

❤️

Art Isn’t Something I Chose, It’s Something That Quietly Chose Me And Refused To Leave. It Lets Me Say The Things That Don’t Sit Still Long.

06/14/2025

❤️

10/30/2024

Thank you SkSky Loraine Walshor your support!!

10/27/2024

The land and I have always known each other well. We have been bound together by ancient agreements, unspoken but understood. But now, the ground trembles beneath my feet, as if the mountain herself is in pain. The boulders, once proud and immovable, have been scattered, torn from the earth like leaves in a storm. I feel the anger rise within me, but it is not out of hatred—no, it is out of love. For I know the mountain suffers, and I suffer with them.

Yet, this is no time for rage alone. To rebuild, we must come to her, not as conquerors but as allies. We will have to ask for her strength and, in return, give our own. We must dig back into her depths with reverence, restoring her form not simply for our survival but also to heal her. The scars she carries now are our responsibility; together, we must find a way forward.

She will not yield easily, and that is how it should be. We are not owed this land; we must earn it once again. The mountains will only forgive if we work with them, rebuild with them, and honor their power. Only then can we return the balance to this broken ground.

10/25/2024

Looking back through these photos, it’s hard not to feel a deep weight when I see the places like Marshall, the River Arts District, and the surrounding studios. These were places where life and creativity flowed, especially inside other artists’ studios—places that held so much spirit. The River Arts District, in particular, was more than just a collection of buildings; it was a heartbeat of this community.

And now, after what’s happened, there’s a mark left behind. It wasn’t just the physical damage. When nature came in, it felt personal, like she was speaking directly to us, leaving a scar that no one expected. The photos remind me of what they were, but reconciling that with what they’ve become feels heavier than I can explain.

But this will not stop me. While things have slowed down, I am always creating, today and until my last breath. I look forward to what we will build again, stronger and more connected than ever.

10/19/2024

When I was walking through downtown Asheville, I could feel how the streets have changed. What was once familiar now feels different, shaped by the time that’s passed and the storm that came through. But as I reflect, I know we’re not just rebuilding—we have a chance to make it better..

Twenty-Two Days

Twenty-two days ago,
we stood on streets that carried us,
steady and known.
The water hadn’t yet come,
and the ground beneath our feet felt like home.
But everything shifts,
and now,
We know those same streets but with different aches.

We’re mountain folk—
we’ve always known how to stand strong,
but now we need to build smarter,
to live with the land, not above it.
The mountains have shown us their truth,
and it’s time we listen.

The past may be familiar,
but it’s the future we look toward,
building a place that breathes with the earth,
a place where we honor what came before
and create something better, together.

MM

10/19/2024

10/12/2024

❤️✨☺️

This Gender-Neutral Adult T-shirts item is sold by MicahMack. Ships from Hialeah, FL. Listed on Oct 11, 2024

10/09/2024

I see it in their eyes,
a heaviness beneath the smiles,
a burden quietly shared
in the spaces where words can’t reach.
The homes may rise again,
but the hearts—they ache,
bruised by memories that flood
without warning.

Brick and wood rebuild,
but who will mend the soul?
We walk among each other,
holding the silence,
sharing glances that say:
I understand this weight you carry,
because I carry it too.

We rebuild not just walls,
but the pieces of ourselves lost
to water, to wind,
to the moment everything changed.
And still, we rise—
not in defiance,
but in quiet solidarity,
a hand on a shoulder,
a glance that holds the weight.

10/08/2024

In the after, we gather what’s left—
Scraps of wood, torn roots, cracked earth,
But also hands, brown and worn,
Holding what remains of us.
We pull together what the flood tried to scatter,
Rebuilding in rhythm,
Our backs bent to the work, our hearts bent to hope.

There is no silence here,
Only the hum of voices,
The laughter, the grief, the gospel of survival,
Lifting above the mud and wreckage,
As steady as the sun, rising again.
We were not washed away, though many were.
We hold them in our breath, in our hands, in the soil.
Each brick we lay, each stone we lift,
Is a hymn to the lost, a prayer for the living.

We know how to build from broken things—
We’ve been doing it all our lives.
Torn histories stitched into homes,
Old songs carried through the wind,
Teaching us how to stand tall, even in the water.
We are makers, creators, healers.
And now, even as the land shakes off the storm,
We are still here, planting, tending, growing.