On Photography: XVI

I wonder when people will bore of contemporary tintypes?
when the newness has worn away, and creativity is recognized,
or better yet the lack thereof…

Mt. Whitney

I went to challenge my personhood

To remind myself what it is to be human
To lack breath and move with uncertainty
To fear falling and taste the sweat

I went to be human…
just for a day

Here

Why are we here?
To what end do amass,
this all

For each other?

A Man: III

Does the rattlesnake walk around like the badass?
Or does he defend himself in fear?

Do we not fear then,
the rattlesnakes fear?

On Sculpture: II

With sculptures,
I feel more ALIVE!

A Man: II

I ran 8 miles today,
to keep my muscles strong

Then
When I was done, I came back
and I bathed the little guy,

My muscles were still sore

A Man: I

What does it mean,
to be a man?

I sleep with a sheet only,
I wake at night easily,
I eat the most

So that they may feel warmth with the blanket,
So no one can sneak up on them,
So I may have my strength all the time for when it is needed

What is wrong with being a man?

On sculpture: I

I feel like I’m leaving myself,
To tread water with no hands,
It’s a young man’s game you know

And i,
I can see gray hairs,
many, many gray hairs

As a point of fact, I hate photography. It’s made up.
“What’s more important, what the photo is, or the photo itself?”
I don’t know. I don’t care. Photography is a means to an end for me.

But sculpture, ah, now THERE is a true art! Made completely from imagination and the material world. It flexes with internal and external influences. The artist is a victim to it.
I never make too many sculptures. They are sacred to me.
And when i am asked, “so where are your sculptures? I’ve never seen them”
I slyly reply, “oh they’re around”
And never show them.

Each breath

Why do we breathe,
each breath as if there were a guaranteed next

Why is the air heavy,
with proud and entitlement

I ponder this,
as my son wrestles in the ocean of his bath

Distilled Soldier

I am a soldier

Distilled by,
Advertisements and sweeping stocks

A shadow,
of a shadow of myself

As I march on,
and on
and on