emo human

I followed the back of your white t-shirt through the Old City that afternoon in early November, past ancient tunnels of brick and stone, flush with the scent of coffee and ta’china , where elderly men with white beards and head coverings would say hello beside tables of golden jewelry; the echoing sounds of distant bells, of coins in a leather purse. This was your beat, your territory, you told me. And though you were being difficult, you were my guide.  So I followed you. Not wanting to give you the pleasure that I detected you derived from walking next to me, I always hung back about twelve paces behind. The narrow streets were quiet that day and it was easy to keep you in my sight. Plus, you were a good guide. Every now and then you would turn around to make sure I was keeping up. And if I had stopped to marvel at something beautiful—a dark wooden chair with ornate brass trimmings and cloudy glass shards of mother of pearl, pieced together as a mosaic and inlaid into the seat;

       I once read an interview with photographer Lee Friedlander that said he used to think very often about  why  he was a photographer, and why he made images. These were the questions that constantly confronted his work, until he got older and realized that “why” didn’t really matter.        I sometimes compare myself and my process to such great artists as Lee Friedlander, and wonder about the connections that have yet to be made in my mind about my own work. For I often think about words. How they shape our experience of ourselves and of the world. How I have come to have such a fascination with them, and why that matters.        I do not consciously lead myself to cross examine why  I pay so much mind to words. The inquiry comes up naturally. Like yesterday evening, listening to a song that reminded me of a tender moment from my past. Words fell away then, yesterday evening. Perhaps because the memory was more feeling than thinking. I was recalling a moment when simply being i

      Last night I dreamed that I was walking on a beach. The ocean, to my left. The white dunes, to my right. The sun was hidden and the whole sky was grey. The horizon was imperceptible. The sand was deep and soft. Every footstep sunk into a hole, but I didn’t look down. I just kept walking, not sure where to, and yet I was determined to continue. Then I saw you. Blurred, at first. Like looking through a camera lens that needs to be adjusted. You were wearing a white shirt with buttons. The wind was blowing and you blended in with the dunes. Even though you seemed a great distance away, I was approaching you, suddenly. You lifted me into your arms and spun me around, my arms clasping tightly around your shoulders. You spun me so well that my feet left the ground, and the wind began to blow. We were spinning in the wind, by the white dunes and the grey sea, and we became invisible. You set me down on the sand again, but I didn’t let go. The grey and white had twisted all around us lik

       I spend hours in front of my computer, trying to tell you stuff, all sorts of stuff, as if my heart was a great big coal mine and every day I go in there with my pick axe in search of jewels. It’s really hard work, and it hurts a lot. But every morning, I wake up more excited than the day before to grab my pick axe and get back to work. And what really boggles my mind is that I feel like I’m growing less wise as I age. The more jewels that I uncover, the more out of reach the concept of completion seems to me, because every jewel is more complex, more dazzling than the last. Sometimes I think, “What’s the point?! Who can keep this going, when the fruits of my labor will tomorrow run like sand through my fingers?” But that’s the thing. The deeper I dig, the more free I become, because what I thought was absolute and finite, is actually fluid and dynamic. The cavern is always expanding.        This work is hard, but there is no other work that could ensnare me like sitting here n