Swelling of underground missives become overwhelmingly distressing. The clanking, grinding, churning of metal begins to rattle my joints and the fibers I call my own. I was nearly dead and dehydrated, I required the nutrients of an entire harvest, so clapping at my heels with feeling in hand I went upwards.
Expelled myself. Found not the expected metropolis but instead a foreign and mildly exciting, yet all be it dis-orienting land. It was comprable to the forest in some strange ways I can still not properly equate. The metropolis was dead, the environment fucked. This was the aftermath of the apex of maelstrom, the spitting, cud chewing, gurgling devil.
There was no longer a thread of what I once knew. I searched vaguely for a familiar face, but one I knew I should not see. Unfortunately upon entering the beauty of the canyon I was not able to gaze upward to what my minds eye had informed me was there.
ALAS AND HALT.
The face I was searching for could not be found. (Trespass un-obtainable.)
I now understand the key to seeing is being seen. Ergo, If I remain to be unseen it is only an effect of not seeing?! Awareness is a most fickle and interesting thing. Suddenly I breach my ground eye line of point of sight of view to hear and see a wheezing bear ambling along. I prepared a foreign tongue, but it was un-necessary.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Stumbling upon these four polaroids I recall very well the nature of the climate seven or eight years ago from whence they came. I recall voraciously attempting to capture everything on pilfered polaroid film, compliments of the newly constructed walmart in our town. I would run into the mega-mart and slickly slide the film out of it's security protected boxes and under my jacket and then make haste out the sliding glass doors. I recall also believing that shooting on polaroid film would enable me to recall exactly where I was and what I was thinking as I took the photograph due to the instant nature of it. As I look at these I am convinced of my thesis concaucted so long ago. I remember skipping school in the dense and mosquito laden swamp, and bicycling past the horse farm, and being alone in the woods gazing at the narrow valley and low hills below. It all comes streaming back to me...and years later the fermented essences of these spring time feelings still radiate forth as the first warm days hit. The infinite amounts of motivation and excitement. The new projects, and overwhelming energy. The desire to display a winters worth of hibernatory toil and creation. Every van that rolls down flushing avenue spins my daydreams into those of the west, and great exploration. Lunch on a sidewalk in Wyoming, scaling cliffs in Oklahoma, laying in high grass staring to the California sea, and trekking across endlessly infinite Kansas plains. It was all calculated and layed out for me...the moments just needed to be slipped on and settled into. Spring is struggling to emerge through the overcast chill of the end of winter, and the rain (a dear old friend) is washing the garbage and frustration of a populace battling the cold off of our sidewalks and into memoriam. My new england upbringing bred me to anticipate seasons with a fervor, and I now excite in the explosion of spring.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
This is the latest issue of my zine, Sowing and Dawning 4. A year in culmination, it documents travel, tour, adventure, misadventure and the overwhelming reflection and introspection upon a year of living in New York City.
It is two books, threadbound, packaged in a home sewn, block printed brown paper envelope. Thick! It's text heavy, but peppered with lots of ornamentation and imagery.