Seasons

20140721-134655-49615835.jpgI’ve been on a Roy Orbison kick lately, which makes me think about the end of summer. And it’s July. His music does this to me in the way Tom Waits does and some jazz does, Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue,” for instance. I once listened to that album through earphones on the El, the Blue Line coming out of Chicago and heading towards the northwest and it was raining and it may have been one of the most cinematic things I’ve ever done, looking out the window, on a train, in lonely weather. Some music doesn’t have linear peaks and valleys so much as it has folds and that’s the music that braids with you in filaments of twine and you feel swallowed, sort of how winter swallows you and you bob there, waiting, existing, anticipating life while alive. continue reading…

September 11, 2013

smoke 8Any of us who were sentient remember what we were doing that Tuesday morning. I was in my car, eastbound, halfway to work and it was sunny, which caused traffic, and I had the windows down and was listening to the radio. In between songs the DJ reported that a plane crashed into one of the towers. We weren’t informed on which building, what type of plane–though many, me included, assumed it was something small–or that this was an early portion of a greater impact. Who knew? Nobody’s mind could go that far in that direction. More news was reported about it, some things false, some things that sounded like they couldn’t continue reading…

Arc

Soldier 8I was in the library looking for a magazine on Biblical archeology when I passed an image on the shelf that stopped me. There was a cover of a military journal that showed a photograph of the moment before the execution of an Australian, Leonard Siffleet, in 1943 by Japanese officer Yasuno Chikao, who ordered a photo be taken of Siffleet’s murder. I took a picture of that image and haven’t forgotten it in the way you sometimes forget pictures, as if in the taking of them you allow substitution of your memory to keep them. You save them elsewhere and then can forget.

What this soldier thinks of, what others continue reading…

Another

Sunrise 8Remember what I was going to be?  Remember the first time you saw the hitch post at the old west town?  It was in Phoenix in the fall, though the air said summer; in Phoenix there didn’t seem that there’d ever be a different season.  You tried alligator for the first time, the only time, and tried to throw knives into a wooden target ten feet ahead of you – for a prize? – and figured that you’d be able to do it if you visualized a camera watching you do it, following the knife as it left your hand, tumbling, orderly, on a path to the scarred wood circle, cinematic, the camera on a dolly, no, fixed, but pivoting, like a head watching a tennis match from when that throwing knife left your hand until it stuck, in the board, ten feet away.  But it was me, seeing continue reading…