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Here we see Blonde Joni looking pretty in a rare introspective moment as she ponders what to do about the tree trunk growing out of the back of her blonde head. Should she cut it down or should she simply trim the branches??
This photo was taken at a time share in Myrtle Beach in the wee hours of the morning after the bars had closed almost a year ago. Joni is proud to state that her virtue was intact and uncompromised at the end of the evening, although it may call into question the validity of the common mantra about blondes having more fun. . . .
Every image is a gentle negotiation between the seen and the unseen.
Black and white portraits and minimalist places dissolve into a calm, lucid silence—where light sculpts the hidden side of the soul and architecture reveals its poetic geometry.
Moments suspended between consciousness and dream, memory and presence, a journey in the language of introspective visual and photographic poetry.
In ogni immagine si consuma una silenziosa trattativa tra visibile e invisibile.
I ritratti in bianco e nero e i luoghi minimali si dissolvono in un silenzio lucido—dove la luce scolpisce il lato nascosto dell’anima e l’architettura rivela la sua geometria poetica.
Attimi sospesi tra conscio e sogno, memoria e presenza, un viaggio nel linguaggio dell’introspezione visiva e della poesia fotografica.
Kelbaker Rd., Saltus, CA
March, 2010
High contrast intended to make up for poor sharpness.
Inspired by *Mike Flores, who does great self portraits. Makes me want to do more of myself.
I swear, these are the last :P
Black White.
Up Down.
Left Right.
East West.
Call them as you want.
Here are my opposite poles.
Group of sculptures called "Introspective" by Sophie Ryder, Great Britain.
Contemporary sculptures in a pre-historic landscape. Exhibition in 2017, Pilane, Sweden. When the British newspaper The Guardian appointed "10 of the best scupture parks in Europe", Pilane was one of them.
pilane.org (website partly in English)
Acrylic,alkyd paint on used paper
This work is not drawn by the plan.
First, a screen is filled with the rough dot by a paintbrush, and if a certain scenery appears there, it will be made clear and will be finished. The technique of that automatism is the feature of this series.
Kitajima Hirofumi ___contemporary art Contemporary Art CONTEMPORARY ART Cool Japan Mountain
British postcard by Heroes Publishing Ltd., London, no. SPC 3017.
Keanu Reeves (1964) is a Canadian actor, producer, director and musician. Though Reeves often faced criticism for his deadpan delivery and perceived limited range as an actor, he nonetheless took on roles in a variety of genres, doing everything from introspective art-house fare to action-packed thrillers. His films include My Own Private Idaho (1991), the European drama Little Buddha (1993), Speed (1994), The Matrix (1999) and John Wick (2014).
Keanu Charles Reeves was born in 1964, in Beirut, Lebanon. His first name means ‘cool breeze over the mountains’ in Hawaiian. His father, Samuel Nowlin Reeves, Jr., was a geologist of Chinese-Hawaiian heritage, and his mother, Patricia Bond (née Taylor), was a British showgirl and later a costume designer for rock stars such as Alice Cooper. Reeves's mother was working in Beirut when she met his father. Upon his parents’ split in 1966, Keanu moved with his mother and younger sister Kim Reeves to Sydney, to New York and then to Toronto. As a child, he lived with various stepfathers, including stage and film director Paul Aaron. Keanu developed an ardor for hockey, though he would eventually turn to acting. At 15, he played Mercutio in a stage production of Romeo and Juliet at the Leah Posluns Theatre. Reeves dropped out of high school when he was 17. His film debut was the Canadian feature One Step Away (Robert Fortier, 1985). After a part in the teen movie Youngblood (Peter Markle, 1986), starring Rob Lowe, he obtained a green card through stepfather Paul Aaron and moved to Los Angeles. After a few minor roles, he gained attention for his performance in the dark drama River's Edge (Tim Hunter, 1986), which depicted how a murder affected a group of adolescents. Reeves landed a supporting role in the Oscar-nominated period drama Dangerous Liaisons (Stephen Frears, 1988), starring Glenn Close and John Malkovich. Reeves joined the casts of Ron Howard's comedy Parenthood (1989), and Lawrence Kasdan's I Love You to Death (1990). Unexpectedly successful was the wacky comedy Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (Stephen Herek, 1989) which followed two high school students (Reeves and Alex Winter) and their time-traveling high jinks. The success lead to a TV series and a sequel, Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey (Pete Hewitt, 1991). From then on, audiences often confused Reeves's real-life persona with that of his doofy on-screen counterpart.
In the following years, Keanu Reeves tried to shake the Ted stigma. He developed an eclectic film roster that included high-budget action films like the surf thriller Point Break (Kathryn Bigelow, 1991) for which he won MTV's ‘Most Desirable Male’ award in 1992, but also lower-budget art-house films. My Own Private Idaho (1991), directed by Gus Van Sant and co-starring River Phoenix, chronicled the lives of two young hustlers living on the streets. In Francis Ford Coppola’s adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), Reeves embodied the calm resolute lawyer Jonathan Harker who stumbles into the lair of Gary Oldman’s Count Dracula. In Europe, he played prince Siddharta who becomes the Buddha in Bernardo Bertolucci’s Italian-French-British drama Little Buddha (1993). His career reached a new high when he starred opposite Sandra Bullock in the hit action film Speed (Jan de Bont, 1994). It was followed by the romantic drama A Walk in the Clouds (Alfonso Arau, 1995) and the supernatural thriller Devil’s Advocate (Taylor Hackford, 1997), co-starring Al Pacino and Charlize Theron. At the close of the decade, Reeves starred in a Sci-fi film that would become a genre game changer, The Matrix (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999). Reeves played the prophetic figure Neo, slated to lead humanity to freedom from an all-consuming simulated world. Known for its innovative fight sequences, avant-garde special effects and gorgeous fashion, The Matrix was an international hit. Two sequels, The Matrix Reloaded (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) and The Matrix Revolutions (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) followed and The Matrix Reloaded was even a bigger financial blockbuster than its predecessor.
Now a major, bonafide box office star, Keanu Reeves continued to work in different genres and both in bid-budget as in small independent films. He played an abusive man in the supernatural thriller The Gift (Sam Raimi, 2000), starring Cate Blanchett, a smitten doctor in the romantic comedy Something’s Gotta Give (Nancy Meyers, 2003) opposite Diane Keaton, and a Brit demon hunter in American-German occult detective action film Constantine (Francis Lawrence, 2005). His appearance in the animated science fiction thriller A Scanner Darkly (Richard Linklater, 2006), based on the novel by Philip K. Dick, received favourable reviews, and The Lake House (Alejandro Agresti, 2006) , his romantic outing with Sandra Bullock, was a success at the box office. Reeves returned to Sci-fi as alien Klaatu in The Day the Earth Stood Still (Scott Derrickson, 2008), the remake of the 1951 classic. Then he played a supporting part in Rebecca Miller's The Private Life of Pippa Lee (2009), which starred Robin Wright and premiered at the 59th Berlin International Film Festival. Reeves co-founded a production company, Company Films. The company helped produce Henry's Crime (Malcolm Venville, 2010), in which Reeves also starred. The actor made his directorial debut with the Chinese-American Martial arts film Man of Tai Chi (2013), partly inspired by the life of Reeves' friend, stuntman Tiger Chen. Martial arts–based themes continued in Reeves's next feature, 47 Ronin (Carl Rinsch, 2013), about a real-life group of masterless samurai in 18th-century Japan who avenged the death of their lord. Variety magazine listed 47 Ronin as one of "Hollywood's biggest box office bombs of 2013". Reeves returned as a retired hitman in the neo-noir action thriller John Wick (Chad Stahelski, David Leitch, 2014). The film opened to positive reviews and performed well at the box office. A sequel, titled John Wick: Chapter Two, is currently in production and is scheduled to be released in 2017. This year, he could be seen in the psychological horror film The Neon Demon is (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2016) and the romantic horror-thriller Bad Batch (Ana Lily Amirpour, 2016). Reeves’ artistic aspirations are not limited to film. In the early 1990s, he co-founded the grunge band Dogstar, which released two albums. He later played bass for a band called Becky. Reeves is also a longtime motorcycle enthusiast. After asking designer Gard Hollinger to create a custom-built bike for him, the two went into business together with the formation of Arch Motorcycle Company LLC in 2011. Reported to be one of the more generous actors in Hollywood, Reeves helped care for his sister during her lengthy battle with leukemia, and has supported such organizations as Stand Up To Cancer and PETA. In January 2000, Reeves's girlfriend, Jennifer Syme, gave birth eight months into her pregnancy to Ava Archer Syme-Reeves, who was stillborn. The strain put on their relationship by their grief resulted in Reeves and Syme's breakup several weeks later. In 2001, Syme died after a car accident.
Sources: Biography.com, Wikipedia and IMDb.
My series 'Don't Touch Your Face' came from a hunger to make portraits, but sequestered in my apartment during California's Safer At Home orders meant I would be the model. I made these photos to be a daily reminder to friends and family to be mindful of their actions, to show that we are all going through awkward changes in our routine, and hopefully bring a smile.
Thirteen Things
Since this year started I have:
1. Walked barefoot on a tropical beach on 1st January.
2. Been told 'welcome home' by the passport officer as I walked through the 'NZ Residents' line at Auckland airport, with no ticket back out of the country.
3. Been interviewed by The New York Times.
4. Had a photograph published in a book.
5. Discovered how much I miss the internet when I don't have it for a prolonged period and am thousands of miles away from almost everyone I know (and need the web for finding houses, etc).
6. Met up with my brother and sister-in-law after five years.
7. Paid (a lot of money) for a visit to the doctor - for the first time ever, apart from when I had food poisoning in India.
8. Sunbathed in the nude - now that I have a garden with private areas where I won't frighten or offend any one.
9. Joined a library - with no limits to how many books I could take out (just limits on how long I can keep them).
10. Posed naked for photographs on the beach/rock pools.
11. Went to the theatre with a (Meet Up) group of strangers (I usually go alone)
12. Sat in a spa pool under the stars.
13. Started to re-evaluate my life: where I'm at, where/who/what I want to be.
Of all the shots I took for this one, only the one with the top of my head cut off was otherwise 'good' (ie, not blurred, not with a hideous expression on my face). So I'm going to pretend that it is deliberate, an 'arty' statement of this list being 'off the top of my head' or maybe that I'm losing my head, or that I'm taking the lid off and looking inside.
The last time I played 'Thirteen Things was 30th December 2007 .
A year ago today I was able to eat again.
All Saints, Alburgh, Norfolk
It was one of those intensely hot days at the start of August 2018, and the cool shade of the over-bowering trees along the narrow lanes was a blessing. You don't have to get far from the Waveney and the busy A137 taking the traffic through to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth to find peace. Here in the folding ridges to the north are secret villages linked by lonely, jinking roads. I had just come from Denton, its church hidden in the trees in a dip and reached only by a bridge and a track through the grounds of the Hall. And now it was a short distance from there to the larger village of Alburgh, and I caught my first sight of the curiously narrow top of Alburgh church tower appearing above the trees and the barley-stubbled rises. Soon, I came down into civilisation, and there was the church, its tower towards the road.
Not a spectacular church at all, but it has a special connection for me as someone I was very fond of came from here. I was back after twelve years away, but that visit was still clear in my mind, not least because of what I had felt about it then. When I'd got home, I had written: 'Coming down Norfolk by a different road, I came out into a landscape that I knew. It was early spring, and five years before I had explored the Suffolk side of the Waveney valley at the same time of year. Here in Norfolk were the same rolling, secretive meadows, the copses that seeped and spread between the fields, the quiet, scattered parishes with mere hints of village centres. Introspective hamlets, not talking to each other, the narrow lanes that connected them veering and dipping as if trying to shake them off.
At a crossroads, an old Methodist chapel sulked under the indignity of conversion. And there were wide pig farms and ancient silage heaps and faded bottle banks outside the village hall. No commuters here, no holiday cottages or weekend homes. Everyone except me was here because they had to be. This was where they lived, where they worked. They were the modern equivalents of the blacksmith, the carter, the wheelwright. The Waveney valley is the heart of rural East Anglia, perhaps the last truly insular place in the south-east of England. I was glad to be here.
Alburgh is not a place I have ever thought of often. But now, in the crisp air, I stood in the graveyard and looked across the country at the scattered village and its setting. Beyond the houses was the ancient field pattern, the beech trees on the ridge and the rooks wheeling above them. I thought of a song of the early eighties, Pete Wylie's Story of the Blues, and his declaiming, towards the end, the words of Kerouac's Sal Paradise: the city intellectuals of the world are divorced from the folk-body blood of the land, and are just rootless fools. I had been born in a place like this, tiny and remote in the Cambridgeshire fens, a world away from now in the 1960s. But we moved to Cambridge when I was two, and I had lived in urban areas ever since. I was a city intellectual, and I stood now and looked around at the land, a rootless fool.
I first heard of Alburgh more than twenty years ago. I was living unhappily in Brighton at the time, learning to teach, finding out how little I actually knew about anything. I would cycle out to the University through the stinking traffic on the Lewes road, and often arrive cold, wet and battered by the wind from the downs. At first, I knew nobody, and I spent most evenings in my attic room listening to music and feeling sorry for myself. In the bitter-sweet autumn sunshine of the weekends I would cycle around the downs, searching for old churches, repopulating the hamlets and lanes of East Sussex with characters from Hardy and Trollope.
I hardly went into town at all. Everybody seems to love Brighton, and they can't understand it when I say that I don't, but perhaps I was too often miserable there. In my memory I still associate Brighton with debt, and with the transience of being a student. And then, extraordinarily, a brief, doomed relationship, a love affair, became the one vivid thing, a brief, sweet memory of my year in that brash town.
She came from Alburgh, and at first I thought she meant Aldeburgh in Suffolk, and she said it again, Ar-brer, and showed me on a map. How narrow was the single bed we shared, how intense those brief few weeks. And she loved me more than I could possibly have loved her, for I had already met the woman who would become my wife. And so it was messy, and then it ended. But Alburgh still existed, of course, and so coming here I remembered.
If that had been all there was, then I wouldn't have thought it worth mentioning, but there was also the Kerouac quote, and I had recently gone back to the village where I was born. It was a tiny hamlet, off of the Cambridge to Ely road. My mother had been born there, my parents married in the Church there. I was baptised there, and so were my brothers.
At one time there had been three farms, a shop, a railway halt, a pub, a school, a church and a chapel. I'm not looking this up in some mid-19th century White's Directory, I remember them from the 1960s and 1970s. Now, they were nearly all gone. The farms had been built over, the pub, shop and chapel converted to houses. To stand beside the railway line, you'd need a vivid imagination to guess that the halt had even existed, as the expresses screamed through at over a hundred miles an hour.
The church and the school survived, but only because this was now a commuter village. Every morning, hundreds and hundreds of white-collar workers left their identical modern houses and piled up the A10 to Cambridge and Ely. I knew nobody there any more - my grandmother was dead, and all my relatives had left, or were lying under the frozen turf of the little cemetery. It made me sad. I thought that perhaps this was what growing old was, seeing change and resenting it. And so I liked Alburgh because it appeased my sense of loss, as if something might survive after all.'
All this then, gentle reader, was in my mind as I returned to Alburgh after twelve years away. The tower I had seen from Denston churchyard, and which bobbed its head above the copses and the rolling fields as I approached it, stands tall and proud, four-square to the road, the aisleless nave and chancel disappearing into the narrowing churchyard beyond. An imposing sight, though not a huge tower, merely large in proportion. The bulk of it is probably 14th century, but the bell stage with its enormous bell windows is later, a late medieval addition. It looks awkward, because the new building technology no longer required that the buttresses should continue up the bell stage. But the effect is unfortunate, I think, like the unnaturally small head of a large man. The buttressed pinnacles on the four corners are a more recent confection, for the very top of the tower collapsed in 1895, and what we see at the top now dates from the dawn of the new century.
The west front must have been rather grand once, with large niches flanking the window, but the canopies of the niches have gone, either vandalised by protestants or more likely worn away by the passing of the centuries. In proportion with the nave, the south porch seems bigger than it is. A 1463 bequest for the porch by the Wright family is recorded, but it now looks all of its Victorian restoration.
And so, I am afraid, does the inside of the church, a big 19th century barn with a lot of the anonymity you'd expect of this date. And yet, there are neat, local, rustic touches, and the pride of the early 20th Century parish in the boys who went off to war and never came back is still evident, great lists of names rather haunting in their context. Surprisingly, the roof is old, and it spreads impressively across the wide nave. A beautiful gilded rood screen dado is almost defiant in the face of all the restoration. There are pretty little gilded gesso saints in niches on the buttresses along the front, but I think the colour is wholly modern.
Echoing it, perhaps inspired by it, insipid apostles flank the altar and its simple reredos, a William Morris-style hanging. Turning back, the tower arch lifts tall and dreamily, light from the west window flooding the reset font below, the space becoming an echo of the wide chancel arch at the other end of the great roof. There's a pleasing harmony to the whole piece, and perhaps the Victorians should not be blamed for too much.
And so, that was all, my return to Alburgh. Just another church, and yet, like all medieval parish churches, a place full of stories, and memories, hopes, fears, regrets, embarrassments, delights, hungers, desires, agonies, beginnings and endings. Here, I sensed around me a building that was a touchstone down the long generations, and a beacon across miles and oceans. Just another church, but always and everywhere and forever. Think of the millions of people who can trace atoms of their being back to this place! Think of the lives touched by people who stepped out from this parish! And that's true of anywhere of course.
I went back outside and pottered around the graveyard. The heat was stifling after the coolness inside the church. A large dragonfly buzzed around my head and then veered away on the currents rising from the long grass. I sat down on a bench facing towards the newer headstones, and placed on the arm of the bench I found to my surprise a painted flintstone.
It had a message painted and lacquered onto it. On one side was a pink heart, and the words 'I ♥ Norfolk'. On the other side, the artist had painstakingly lettered in tiny writing 'congratulations on finding a Norfolk Rock', and asked the finder to 'either take me or rehide me'. It was extraordinary.
I slipped it into my pocket, not sure if this counted as taking it or rehiding it, possibly both, and thinking to myself that it felt like the goal of a pilgrimage. I wandered over to take a look at the more recent graves, which included a number in the last twenty years with her surname on. It is a common one in this village, but I wondered if any of them could have been her parents, who I had not known. I thought that she had probably been married in this place, if she had ever married, and so I said a silent prayer for all the people I have ever known and lost touch with, wherever they may be in the world, whether or not they remember me, or think of me, or are even reading this now.
I stood for a while, thinking of the years, and then got back in the saddle, shaking off a maudlin veil which was beginning to settle over me. I kicked off into a rush of heat lifted by the sudden breeze of my movement. A long stretch lay ahead of me now through delicious rolling back lanes with melting tarmac, zigzagging down into Harleston.
www.messersmith.name/wordpress/2010/11/29/walking-the-ten...
After my last post, all cheery and grateful, I'm ahead far enough on happy credits to grow all sombre and introspective again. Today I took delivery of a lonely, stormy Sunday. Last night I attended the annual Country Women's Association Quiz night, a sort of mega-Trivial Pursuit distraction which provides the folk of Madang with an evening of aimless and good natured competition.
Since this is going to be yet another soul-searching ramble through the back alleys of my cranium, let me first demonstrate that I am not in a bad mood at all. These are among the finest bananas I have ever had the pleasure of smushing up in my still toothy gob. Somebody brought them up to the beach at Blueblood a couple of weeks ago. I must have eaten about six of them. As you can see they are rather small. They are incredibly sweet and the flavour is slightly reminiscent of green apples:
See, that's a happy thing. You may find little flakes of freeze-dried happiness elsewhere on this page. Let's see what happens. I'm winging it.
As I plan to intersperse scenes from last night's frivolities here and there as I plod along, I may as well get started. This is our intrepid QuizMaster, Shane McCarthy overseeing the presentation of the craft projects. Each table of six participants was required, on pain of merciless ridicule, to create an object d'art from the miscellaneous contents of a cardboard box. Imaginations ran rampant on the theme of "Christmas Carol":
Once again I found myself facing a dilemma, the magnitude of which might seem trivial when seen from some remote location outside my skull. Over and over again, because of my life situation, smack dab in the middle of everything which meant anything to us, I have to decide if I'm going to do this or that and wonder what my reaction is going to be. The problem is that there is no more us. There is just me. The range of effects which I have experienced has fallen between the extremes of euphoria and despair. I honestly don't know beforehand what is going to happen. I'm just along for the ride.
This is a tender minefield. While that expression may seem an oxymoronic, it is not. All that is happening here is that my community is allowing me the freedom to find a new normality. People are treating me as if everything is business as usual. This is exactly what they ought to do. The minefield is of my own device.
I had waited for an invitation to a table at Quiz Night until I felt that I had to take some active part in my life once more. Two days before the event I called two friends asking, in a not-so-transparent manner, if they had a table and if it was filled. Later that day, I did receive an invitation, after I mentioned it, from another friend. So, committed as I am to allowing life to carry me where it will with as little interference from me as is prudent, I accepted with a mixture of gratitude and foreboding. I'm such a drama queen. Everything has to be a big production. Nothing is easy. Truthfully, I blame my mother, but don't tell her.
It is a minefield, but it bears me no malice. It is simply there, inert until provoked. If I stay in place, I won't get anywhere. I'll stand and take root in this miserable existence. I can walk gingerly, experimentally, but I know that the odds are against me. I've already stepped on a few and I have big chunks missing here and there. The wounds are painful, but they heal rapidly, some more rapidly than others.
There is fun aplenty at every Quiz Night. Ridiculous, giggly fun. Here three teams compete to determine which can most rapidly expend an entire roll of toilet paper by wrapping a team-mate in it:
Following the analogy of the minefield, I'll tell you a true story (really) about a related metaphor, The Point of No Return.
When you note that you have reached the geometrical centre of the minefield and you count your injuries, it dawns on you that you are only half-way home. Injury-wise it might make more sense to retrace your steps and return to GO, not collecting $200. Yet that way lies the madness of arriving back at the beginning and realising that the only reasonably safe option is to once again retrace your footsteps back to the point at which you turned around and proceed from there. You could have done that without wasting energy. Rational decisions at this point are extremely difficult to reach.
Late one Sunday afternoon in the early '70s, I roared away from Chicago Midway Airport in a US Army UH-1 "Huey" helicopter with my crew of four en-route to Decatur Illinois, our home airfield. It was a late departure and each of us had a severe case of "get-home-itis"; families and jobs awaited us. I was Pilot in Command, as sorry a situation as you could want. I was neither much of a pilot nor much of a commander. Deeming that we had sufficient fuel, we lifted off post-haste.
Shortly after passing Kankakee, we could see a massive line of thunderstorms ahead of us. This is my no means unusual for a summer evening in Illinois and it seemed that there were plenty of non-flashing holes through which we could safely pass. We fluttered on, listening to AM radio rock-n-roll through our helmet speakers. After a while it was becoming more and more obvious that we were going to be doing some ducking and weaving. I tapped my finger on the fuel gauge. My co-pilot nodded and frowned. I considered a hop back to Kankakee and a miserable night with a grumbling crew in a motel and rejected it.
We dodged thunderheads visible only by their fireworks and suffered some moderate turbulence which reminded us how long it had been since lunch - just long enough. Nobody wants to barf into his helmet bag. With all of that dodging and searching for holes, I could see that fuel was going to be a teensy-weensy problem. The chatter on the intercom went significantly silent. Everybody knew that we had just passed the Point of No Return. I was wondering precisely how many Army Regs and Flight Rules I had already busted. I was about to bust a few more.
Well, I see that it's time to shorten this long story. We passed safely, if unsteadily through the flashy Texas Line Dance of cumulonimbus incus aircraft washers and into the still, star-studded air of central Illinois about twenty-five minutes from Decatur when the Twenty Minute Fuel Warning light began excitedly to advertise its presence. Uh-oh. As pilots are wont to put it rather indelicately, the pucker factor increased by an order of magnitude.
Let me take a break from that breathless and somewhat pointless reminiscence to show you our creation: (and then I'll try to explain the inexplicable)
I sincerely hope that you can see that it is a manger scene, complete with a tiny, fuzzy Baby Jesus. I contributed, somewhat distractedly, the snowflake and the exclamatory Moo from the spotted cow.
So, was there any point at all to the helicopter story? Probably not. But, if I had to guess, I guess it would be that we are sometimes so distracted by what we so desperately want that we are unable to recognise what we so desperately need. Now, connecting this somewhat tenuously back to the minefield thing, a few of those mines might capriciously explode into bouquets of roses, unlikely as that might seem. Others will blow a leg off. Some might be duds. The problem is that I must keep moving and the only way I know the intent of a mine is to step on it. You know, my situation is not a bit different from yours, now that I think of it. Humpf! And I thought I was special.
Some things which I fervently desire now are not yet available to me. Someday some of them might be. Time will tell. Time will also tell whether they were things which I actually needed. Other things, things which I do not currently yearn for, may turn out to be the things which I need. It would have been such a senseless tragedy if I had killed my crew and myself in a flame-out crash because I did not want to spend a night in a motel in Kankakee. That is what I needed. I realised that most certainly when that warning light came on.
I'm striving quite earnestly to keep my eyes peeled for the warning lights. Right now, I know that I can't trust my desires to be in my best interest. Though some, with that fearful symmetry, burn as bright as William Blake's tiger in the forest, I can never forget the minefield. It is not just a figure of speech. I must move forward. Carefully.
So, with that hopeful thought, I will give you a happy, pretty face. No, not mine. Though I have now made myself happier than I was a couple of hours ago I am still no prettier. Writing does that for me.
This is the lovely smiling face of Michaela of Vienna, who rescued me from an evening of solitary regret:
Saved again by a sensible and loving friend.
Final days of:
GEE VAUCHER: INTROSPECTIVE
EXHIBITIONS END ON SATURDAY MAY 3RD
GALLERY HOURS 11A - 6P
Track 16 Gallery
2525 Michigan Ave., C1
Santa Monica, CA 90404
310.264.4678
new installation at Westlake Park...26 life-sized figures by Icelandic sculptor Steinunn Thórarinsdóttir
Forgive me for getting a bit introspective, but I think these pics of me on the stairs serve as a metaphor. I am heading somewhere (upwards, I believe), with a bit of trepidation, but also with a profound sense of excitement and adventure. I couldn't tell you exaxctly what lies ahead, but that is what makes life interesting. The difference is that these stairs lead up to a level, uniform area; I hope my life never levels out--I always want change :)
Acrylic,alkyd paint,plain wood, used corrugated cardboard
Kitajima Hirofumi ___contemporary art Contemporary Art CONTEMPORARY ART Cool Japan Mountain
This photo is supposed to be an introspective look at what has been done - self harm, drug or alcohol abuse of some kind, or just and pain and emotional problems felt. Basically about regret... Well, this is another one in my new project! It's all about verbal abuse, and how it can lead to possible self harm and suicide - a heavy topic and one of today's leading social issues among teens and young adults. Let us ALL stand up and speak out! Learn to be comfortable in yourself and not let others bring you down. Only surround yourself by those who will push you forward, not backward. Stay strong, because I know you are!
It took me lots of time and work to be comfortable with myself and my body and my mind. I think differently than others, and I am never very good at expressing myself, but I grew and I learned through experience. It was hard, and there were times I wanted to end it all, but look at me now! I am slowing learning to love again, and soon I will be off to Germany and off to college and it will be amazing! And along my way, I found those who helped me, I hope you do too. "We are called to help each other along. Today, find a way to encourage someone to be a better person/Christian/sibling/lover/etc. because we make each other better."