yesterday my 62nd year ended
today my 63rd begins
the day before yesterday I found this fellow, and song
Category: Poetry
Careless time
some days
people flock to the edge
where water meets sand
they sculpt, toss things back and forth,
and mingle with birds
A dad, sculpting sand on the beach
with his daughter, Mia, said to me,
“It’s all about the kids.”
I think, perhaps, it’s all about returning
to childhood for a brief,
careless time.
To compose = present the subject in strongest manner possible
“To compose a subject well means no more than to see and present it in the strongest manner possible.” — Edward Weston
enjoy the summer
blooms return quickly to earth
with autumn’s approach
(click image for larger view)
Can we trust pictures?
“I don’t trust words. I trust pictures.” — Gilles Peress
water, wondering,
waiting for still to reveal
trustworthy knowledge
(click images for larger view)
Slide show of additional “river walk 080715” photographs.
Nature’s anxious to reclaim our dreams
Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still. — Dorthea Lange
dreams dug out of dirt
exposed for all to see
nature reclaims her
(click images for larger view) 
When my father (and tool and die maker) died I moved his tools to my home. The milling machine sat in a shed for a couple years and nature’s need to oxidize quickly made it unusable. I felt a good deal of shame in allowing this to happen. On Sunday my desire to make an adapter which would allow me to mount my Hasselblad lenses on the Ultima gave me the impetus to get the mill up and running. A long, hard day with wire brushes on grinders, WD40, and grease put me straight with my deceased dad; and by 10 pm I had my adapter. He made the precision tables himself. Unfortunately the “jeweled” surfaces were partially destroyed by rust and my cleaning of same. Scars: evidence of my neglect.
It all seems so fragile
Beauty can be seen in all things, seeing and composing the beauty is what separates the snapshot from the photograph. — Matt Hardy
thursday morning she
flew into the window and
ann loved her alive
(click images for larger view)
a walk through the play ground
continuing to learn the Ultima now with 90mm Apo-Rodagon and R8/DMR
The prints and labs have gone away
“When photographing I want to reach and touch something that I feel is at the core of people.” — Mary Ellen Mark: 25 Years
she lay on the ground
propping the camera with sticks
set the self timer
ran to her friend and posed
they repeated this dance several times
then enjoyed the tiny screen
(click image for larger view)
The importance of craft — technique
“A good documentary photograph transmits the information of the situation with the utmost fidelity; achieving it means understanding the nuances of lighting and composition, and also remembering to keep the lenses clean and the cameras steady.” — Sam Abell, Seeing and Shooting Straight
Sunday morning:
cold wind bites the skin
even as the sun melts fresh snow
spring appears unsure
(click image for larger view)
the birthday party – delightful
Keep looking. If you can’t photograph; write. If you can’t write; draw. If you can’t draw; pickup a musical instrument.
“The virtue of the camera is not the power it has to transform the photographer into an artist, but the impulse it gives him to keep on looking.” — Brooks Atkinson – 1951, Once Around the Sun
some times the impulse
simply will not manifest
as on this foggy day
—
beauty seen yet no
proof beyond an impression
left on aging eyes
—
her youth and allure
spilled atop the lunch counter
splashing all over us
Perhaps the virtue of the written word is not the power it has to transform the author into a poet, but the impulse it gives him to keep expressing thoughts; however feeble.
Roberto Bolaño’s Infrarealist Manifesto
More from Roberto Bolaño’s Infrarealist Manifesto, “Risk is always elsewhere. The true poet is always leaving himself behind. Never too long in the same place, like guerrilla fighters, flying saucers, and the white eyes of lifers. LEAVE IT ALL BEHIND, AGAIN. GO OUT ON THE ROADS.”
“I dreamt that a man looked back, over the anamorphic landscape of dreams, and that his glance was hard as steel but still fragmented itself in multiple glances each time more innocent, each time more destitute.
I dreamt that a storm of ghostly numbers was the only thing left behind by mankind three billion years after the earth had ceased to exist.” — R. Bolaño, “A journey through literature”
those ones and zeros
blowing about the winter
without human kind