Men of Arms

So two adventurers no doubt, dr Metalchromegetsyouhome (4130), and professor inthebasementthereislifting. Both extrapolate on the favorite reification of today's adventure: the woman possesses the secret of who these heroes are, but they want none of it. It is a conflict for which they are prepared to die but a war not worth winning, yet a war that they return to in spare moments. They dig trenches and hang photos. Years pass. Comrades are gassed in the fields and lay hung, opened by large caliber wounds, on the razor wire fences which welcome each night's recovery from absorbing this other. They wish to be identified by the other's freedom, but do they want a part of letting that freedom fall where it lands and hope that the secret, soon to be revealed, is a good one? Or is the apprehension of her freedom a big scam, do they condition the animal to roll over on command but know at the periphery of each thought that the beast will tear the neck apart for fun and for amusement? There is a war on how they make us and we make them. Pack it up and you know you've lost. Get in formation, start the aerial raid, let loose your 20mm anti tank munitions, and you know it's an invisible target, a charade. It's a hell, a fucking blast, and what's this, oh shit, a green commodity based currency. The fucking arms trade infects everything, even my kitchen drawer.

Rollin: Inspired by 4130's study in 4 images, "Breadcrumbs"

Meaning of images:

All good nights begin with solid currency. Not fiat currency. This would freak out Moraline and he'd fucking post a Von Mises treaty. No, these chips are backed by booze, which is more ancient and rooted in value, commerce, and balling than any other substance. So the night begins with solid currency, and you are on a solid foundation. What's next. Well men and women like to get naked and get to know each other. It is a different conversation, one about one's primordial roots, roots going back further than booze itself and the solid currency which eventually backed the liquid substance. The cat killer would be fun naked, she would say something different when naked, but not 'said' in some correlate of text and all that it misrepresents. No, she would finally say something lasting. And the conversation, should we slyly denote such as conversation, would go for quite a distance, because it's obvious she's rollin. Scarlett looks like she wants to bite your lips off. Those bee-stung facial labia scream for meaning--'make meaning from the abyss I chase' is what they scream as common as as the black nitrogen froth of Guinness. I see eyes, surprise, tongue, style, wonder, all preemptive gestures to calm the gyroscope, to set it right. As she chooses her music, she is being watched. The other, you, in this case, shatters her intentions, and now it's a play of how is he watching me as I am aware of how I am being watched. It is now a trial, administrative law, kangaroo court, she wants the charges to stick or be thrown out, just let the night last long enough for the cold spring of Irish whiskey to, as chollie would say, drink, to drink and be whole beyond confusion.

What's this them 4 weeks

Went out for a run.
On the second lap, 2 led fast and the Australian eventually dropped me. As I waited for the other runners, 2 females collected in waiting. One caught the eye, but I decided to depart and head home. I turned around and instead headed to the eating joint where the running people meet. It was there over Chinese food I talked her up and got her email, some innocuous, less direct intrusion. I emailed her and told her I could show her around, at least maybe just give some advice to her, at the most maybe even run with her. Emailed her that night. She emailed back day later. She accepted an invitation to eat food. Ate, spoke, drank some booze. Coffee next afternoon. It was a good coffee, because it was 1/2 good legs--my legs--from a run and bike ride that morning and 1/2 good Americano. She was there too. Then next Saturday a random engagement with an old pal's ex, she drank of the banana cognac, waited in listless vacuity until pool came, snow fell and intercourse was realized in a Subaru. More meals followed, more sad looks of longing, and then an empty car unfulfilled and a long drive away in passing. That's all I have to say fellas, that was that.

summer

Lost on dark Broadway, the morning came. How can I speak of dry wells when this summer morning has come so early. It was just last Tuesday when I watched snow fall on Emerson. The mountain is not less welcoming in the murmured black of winter. No, each night the cold, alone, offered its friendship. Standing on worn ice, I've never felt it closer.

The night rider

The night rider

I think it's the cold weather,
I've had the window open and cannot breathe.
Can't bear the cold anymore.
Cannot bear Texan women,
for they bear the cold yet wear
warmth which ruins the snow.
And this is why we go to parks.
To see the snow.

Snow

Man I love when it snows.
I don't hear the noises anymore. My bed is so goddamn silent.
If a squrrirel were lifted by a goose, in the night and dropped in
to the cold lake, I would drink whiskey and sleep soundly. I would
sing with Bruce Springsteen and shoot my rifle.
In the night, in the mountain, none of your aphorisms or
photo-graphs matter. Having been alone, having smelled lavender rain,
I know how to get to shore, man, always have.

New friends in the forests and mountains

Note: This is a scatter of photos of a recent journey. I made some good friends here and they will hate you if you don't think each photo here is beautiful. Some snapshots were taken in haste due to circumstance, some were more careful. It's up to you to like my photos, and my new friends to unleash their wrath if you feel otherwise. I present to the viewer images of things I saw. No visual cockblocking ('editing') occurred here. "...to be lonely, to be lonesome, that state of being for me is really familiar--it's the only one that I know intimately." (Gallo). Are people boring when they shoot all kinds of photos and don't edit them? Maybe I would be less boring if I took some time to have talent, 'composition skills,' as it were. Yes indeed. Real artistry. I understand this. I've read shitty writing. I've written more shit than I care for. But I also know that Kafka asked on his death bed for Metamorphasis and The Castle to be burned. Maybe all these photos are shit. I'm just trying to show what I saw. I am sorry if it is all shit. I am sorry. I apologize to all the investors. I am sorry I lost you all the money.
Maybe this will be my last journey. I am sorry, then. Maybe my problem is I am a sucker for the beautiful things I see, that I can't put them in perspective and exhibit discretion and choose between the banal and familiar and the truly special images. But I am visually immature--all these sights, to me, are so special and spectacular. I am overcome by the concept of their existence. What a bore I must be. Again, to my investors, I apologize. What is worse, there are so many images taken from this recent journey, and the best are to come. I will keep updating this same post, and you will see the growing inventory of images. Please be patient until all 90 images are posted. Then, collectively, tell me how horrible I am. But only then.