Duane Michals once said something that I recall when I view nearly any photograph: Photographers never photograph what they can’t see, and of course the most important things are what you can’t see. It’s what you feel. What you feel is much more important than what you can see. And so that is why I had to write—why I had to find other ways of expressing myself.”

To see a photograph not as a captured image of what is or what was… but as a portal, an entryway into what cannot be seen, what is magical, what is beyond, what is felt. The photos of Duane Michals are always journeys. Oftentimes we meet him. Sometimes we encounter ourselves. The mirrors, the double exposures, the symmetry, and the play of image/text… all an invitation from Baudelaire: Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.

I have a friend named Kace who adores the Cyrillic letter ж.

Kace writes many letters to me, and early on in our correspondence, he ended each letter very simply: Love, Kace.

Over time though, this became Love, K which evolved into LK, but as he began to write LK very quickly, this eventually morphed into the shape of the magnificent Cyrillic letter ж which (as I said above) he absolutely loves.

For those interested, it is pronounced “zh” as in Zhivago.

Kace loves how it resembles a sword and shield or, more sublimely, a lovely little butterfly that takes flight from writer to reader. And thus, now, each of his letters ends with a

ж

—shorthand for—
Love Kace

The magical ruins at Moray, Peru.

A Kafka Metamorphosis—

One morning, when I woke from troubled dreams, I found myself transformed in my bed into a Kandinsky painting. I lay on my scratchy canvas-like back, and if I lifted my head a little I could see my red and yellow torso, slightly domed and divided by arches—as if Wassily had been up all night turning me into a work of art.

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections.

Today’s my birthday.

So I’m just gonna doodle.

The infinite… A myriad… Ten Thousand things

The Tao Te Ching
by Lao Tzu

1
As for the Way, the Way that can be spoken of is not the constant Way;
As for names, the name that can be named is not the constant name.
The nameless is the beginning of the ten thousand things;
The named is the mother of the ten thousand things.

Therefore, those constantly without desires, by this means will perceive its subtlety.
Those constantly with desires, by this means will see only that which they yearn for and seek.

These two together emerge;
They have different names yet they’re called the same;
That which is even more profound that the profound—
The gateway of all subtleties.

Ma-wang-tui version
Translated by Robert G. Henricks, 1989
https://terebess.hu/english/tao/henricks.html#Kap01

Signa horse —
Shape-shifting symbols.
Protector of Innocents and Destroyer of Time.
Lightning swift ego puncture,
Dispersing millions of mind kites.
Radiant black.
Glimmering sword.
Soft seed sounds of feminine mystery.
Coiled potency.
Whirling spirals of consciousness.
Wisdom

image: oxana prantl

When…

In a time of despair…

Remember the flowers…

The WRX is mythic.

If you don’t own one, you just can’t relate. There’s something otherworldly and awesome about this car (and I am super biased with my 2013 hatch). I love this anime design. Captures the feel of looking at one, of driving one.

Two fingers up…

A Torso of Men

Composite male images.

Wabi = elegance, simplicity.

Sabi = delight in that which is imperfect.

The concept of wabi-sabi aligns with the saying The glass is already broken.

In this age of clutter and hoarding and possessions, there is a delight and a healing that comes with the lack of attachment to any object. It is already broken. Impermanence. It’s not meant to last.

I meditate on one of these bowls: I can imagine the perfect state it was in long ago. I can envision its being dropped and broken to bits. But, now, healed with liquid gold and made whole, there is a greater beauty in its having-been-brokenness. Each of us is broken and that can be celebrated.

My Dearest Freddy—

On a completely different subject, I’ve been wondering about your mustache. It gives me so much joy. It’s huge. It’s consummately badass, a Mensch Mustache. When I’m an older man, I will most definitely be sprouting a Ntzsch Mstch.

Does it require maniacal care? Does food get stuck in it? I mean, heck, all the world’s pestering you about Tragedy’s Birth, Gay Science, and brash Übermenschery, and in struts yours truly, eager to know more about your mustache. Healthy minds require equal parts knowledge and distraction.

I have no clear idea why, but: From the day I met you, there was something about the mustache. Why did you grow it so strangely, insanely large?

A large mustache creates a kind gap on the face… an abyss where the self is consumed. When a mustache or beard is shaved off, there’s an odd kind of nakedness. One feels exposed. The face, the locus of identity is suddenly present, there, for all to see. A mustache works like a mask (or like a pseudonym), covering up who one really is. So if the mustache gets larger and larger, does the self behind it feel smaller and smaller—less significant, less present in the world. With the enormous mustache, it is as if you’re vanishing. Perhaps it’s the most outward physical sign of ingenious madness.

Llorando
de cara a la pared
se apaga la ciudad
Llorando
Y no hay más
muero quizás
Adónde estás?
Soñando
de cara a la pared
se quema la ciudad
Soñando
sin respirar
te quiero amar
te quiero amar…
Rezando
de cara a la pared
se hunde la ciudad
Rezando
Santa María
Santa María
Santa María