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 recall casually picking up Emily Wilson's translation of The Iliad in a bookstore once and being instantly stunned by the power of the Ancient Greek that she managed to pack into English. Then came The Odyssey—equally strong. The best part came years later when I saw her remove her jacket, reveal her badass ink, and then—read. If you're unsure what a tour de force is—watch. All this fascination with Homer and the Greeks. There is 2024's The Return (Uberto Pasolini), and then… soon... Coming in 2026, The Odyssey by Christopher Nolan ...

Me and a million others—all of a sudden—raving on the wave of Surf Rider. A scintillating combo of modern dance and after hours, I have watched this an embarrasingly large number of times. So satisfying, so mesmerizing ...

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 ...

Calvino is fascinating for his minuteness of detail and his plays of visibility and invisibility, and the novel Invisible Cities is a voyage into the known-unknown: memory, desire, signs, eyes, names, sky, all mapped out in an intricate numerological/mathematical structure—imaginary conversations between Venetian traveler Marco Polo and Mongol ruler Kublai Khan.

"Journeys to relive your past?" was the Khan's question at this point, a question which could also have been formulated: "Journeys to recover your future?" And Marco's answer was: "Elsewhere is a negative mirror. The traveler recognizes the little that is his, discovering the much he has not had and will never have."

It was a joy to come across the drawings for the novel created by Lima-based architect Karina Puente. Viewing them is like a stroll in Venice, assuming one's purpose in Venice to become lost and blind, only then to gain presence and insight. A continual play. A continual wobble of vision.

h/t: Italo Calvino's 'Invisible Cities', Illustrated: archdaily.com

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This begins a series posts from a work in progress: The Forty-Nine, an upcoming novel in letters. Excerpts of each letter will be posted in sequence.

Above a city, a man hangs from a ledge. An angel without wings descends to catch him. The man falls into the outstretched arms of the angel and a miracle is witnessed: the man is unharmed; his body whole. The two men embrace. man wings cliff push death murder angel rescue god heart open vengeance mercy compassion terror without muscle without tear without feather without mercy without compassion without terror without man with wings with cliff with push with death with murder with angel with rescue with god with heart with open with vengeance with mercy with compassion with terror with man ...

I just can't figure it out. Too many algorithms, and I am lost. Time to head back to the forest in order to discover. (Away from the screens, away from the wipe boards.) ...

When... In a time of despair... Remember the flowers ...

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. ...