Threshold of Revelation

Sergei Prokofiev, thank you for letting me escape.

2012-01-22T00:49:00.003-05:00

some of us escape to keep sane. lose yourself in Prokofiev's symphony number 5. go on, try it. it's an old habit. turn it up and it will drown out the chaos. i promise. it's as if its screaming through the veins of itemized nonsensical proportions.

prose is suppose to be clean. or so i'm told. emotional is alright, but description is just plain TMI. do i say what i mean? do i mean what i say? do i maintain a semblance of structural patterns that indicate normalcy? why can't we agree to just simply disagree? have the rules changed? did i not receive the memo addressed to me?

these moments of mysterious truths are self-inflicting revelations of the absolute unnecessary. loud will get you heard. bold will make you strong. nice will conceal your truth. this number 5 is torturous. does Prokofiev know that masked paranoia only breeds momentarily lapse in beauty? maybe he was on to something. it's a build up of the future. it's the break point of the past. and yet it calms and soothes. but the only catch is, you have to parade in this masqueraded realm of everything but anything.

and the quiet exit of the keys hitting the tunes of this hieroglyphic bubble that you want to need to long to ... escape the wrestling of arbitrary signs. am i now a being in a EM Foster saga trailing behind the spotlight of resistance and empty grandeur? oh this is surely a nightmare. please, will you wake me?

running low on inspiration...but high on borrowed time.

2012-01-14T23:49:00.000-05:00

It gets so foggy
And goes on and on and on
And the rain stops and the sirens, they turn on.
They tell me it’s misty. I hear them complain.
They tell me it’s not what you see. I hear them explain.
She said a sage came to her in her dreams
And told her of these magnetic schemes.
There is beauty in its breakdown
There is a tire swing on the tree
But the yellow brick road,
Are you real or do I keep pretending?

Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the moment...alive and fresh...without destroying the moment. -anais nin

2012-01-13T10:03:00.004-05:00

You can be Henry Miller and I'll be Anais Nin
Except this time it will be even better
we'll stay together in the end.

***

spirituality without the words. yeah....eh.

2012-01-08T23:39:00.006-05:00

Careless praises and mismanaged sequence of words.
Shortening of the catch-phrase . Oh the people watching.
A trip down memory lane, only it’s not of the past.
Gestures for the people. Tricks for the soul.
These episodes of life for the cleanup.

She says "I've been praying to something as well these past weeks".
It's a promise of a curse, a cry, and a worry.
A race to the end. Will I place first?

They say Southern girls do not need the spring for the waiting.
Will you grab my coat? I will grab the keys.
Let’s just waste away on the dollar coffee and some old cds.

Oh these suitcase friendships are like spirituality without words.

Hard to Explain. Is it?

2011-07-20T23:01:00.001-04:00

Photo: Lahore, Digital Output, Summer 2011

Appearances deceive and emotions misguide.
Actions translate into callousness. And trust is misplaced.
Betrayal surfaces and hurt knocks on the front door.

Miscellaneous necessities seem irrelevant.
The ceiling spins around as my head hits the floor.
The closing makes its début earlier than expected.

The jokes are empty and secrets are far removed.
Alone is the reality and trust is a luxury.
Contentment is not to be owned.
All comes undone, but the moon never fades.
So clear, so rushed, so natural.

Pride injures the prayer.
The guy on the radio says it’s a clear day.
Not a cloud in the sky.
Pain is common, yet a struggle.
But is it meant to be remembered?
And if so, then what's the threshold?

Alas, it’s an ordinary Sunday morning.
And the plastic Jesus leads to salvation.

distance.

2011-07-18T18:39:00.001-04:00

Photo: Lahore on a Bicycle, Digital Output, Summer 2011.

awaaz do.

2011-07-15T14:33:00.001-04:00

Photos: Untitled, Digital Output, Summer 2011

The Lady on the Train.

2011-07-15T14:24:00.001-04:00

Photos: Rails in Lahore, Digital Output, Summer 2011.

Neatly situated and carefully planned. These activities are making me drift. Composed oration and a dictated stance. How can you enjoy this? The lady on the train said it was unfortunate. But I think it's a blessing. Not the elation-revealing, but the trapped-in-your-mind kind.

And in the city I try to get a cab, they only pass by. It's a gamble in the afternoon, you see. The reasons for this heavy heart are here. When did this diabolic paranoia surface? So I think about the simple; oh it was. Even the moon over the silver water smiled. Now only complications weave their intricate web.

It is a routine of conversations. Coffee. News. And side-walked windows of desperate convictions. Sometimes I think of the lady on the train. Her silver hair and that sober skin. She knew it all too well. Yes, I hear you ringing the door bell. Leave the promises at the door. But you, you can come on in.

Painted on a canvas of perplexity, these eyes are black and brown. We are our own best friend. The hands, but yes, they tell a different story. Miles apart. Worlds above. And oceans across. The lady on the train, oh it takes one to know one, you see.

The ease of comfort. An oracular conception of the idea. Yes, it is oh so wonderful and it is oh so tragic to its depth. We are an abandoned epilogue of some torn book. Today, the morning, it feels like evening. Lets pray to the moon.

do not worry. i will not say a word.

2011-07-13T11:49:00.000-04:00

Smooth corners.
Tamed actions.
Responsible manifestations.
Calm demeanor.
Glazed responses.
Subtle consistencies.

This is the plan, for now at least, neatly packaged.

will you ruffle any feathers?

2011-07-11T21:45:00.000-04:00

fill me with raang.

2011-06-26T17:37:00.000-04:00

we all tell the biggest lies...

2011-06-10T21:05:00.000-04:00

let the ocean take you in.
make the roses sing to you.
reach up to the sun.
light the fire.
carry it a bit further.
follow the ideas.
prepare to stay.
carve it out.
reflect the moon.
play untamed.
remember the before.
no more sidelines, please.
******

we share the same sky,
just not at the same time.

When were you going to tell me?

2011-03-24T20:50:00.000-04:00

(hey jessie jean, this one's for you)

Evolve me into a collateral consistency of yourself.
You know I do not belong.
Yet you do not give up.
Your persistency breaks your ideals.

Dreams of mine, they will fade forever.
And I have to find my way to myself.
I want to leave.
But you keep me a hostage.
Life is more.

You say I ruin my life with these ideas of “more”.
Mediocrity was never mine.
I need to run away. I need to find my own truths.

I cannot lose myself to an idea of your perfect-life.

Please know, I need to feel alive.
Please know, I did love you once.
Please know, I believed in us once.

Not all knots are always meant to be tied.

everything that happens has happened before.

2011-02-20T20:49:00.000-05:00

The season has changed. I feel the sun on my skin. Crickets sound in the dull of the night. The sky is clear. Iced cold water in my hand. Logical consistencies are in the air. Soapboxes are available. Let’s preach to the choir. Sounds of train passing in the distance. Flowers blossom and birds chirp. Waking up is a beauty. Unrestrained beauty. And I notice a smile on my face. Deep breaths. There is an excitement in the moment.

An Offer that Could Not be Refused.

2011-02-10T22:04:00.000-05:00

(mera dil, mera life, mera identity, silver gelatin print 2004)

masqueraded desires. fulfilling prophecies. and wildfires. these motorized sentiments. the paranoia of freedom. fabricated consistencies. and logistic needs. a forced transaction. and suspended traditions. this memorized corruption. gut feelings of denial. and appropriations of emotional baggage.

The Story of Pakistan, its struggle and its achievement, is the very story of great human ideals, struggling to survive in the face of odds and difficulties... -Jinnah (Chittagong, March 1948)

May Allah bless Pakistan & its people...

Brought up in a Short Conversation

2011-01-29T23:40:00.000-05:00

It is an image, captured by my senses.

It is you with your conviction, engrossed in anger.

It is me with my child-like manners, drenched in carelessness.

It is the same town, perturbed by the unpleasantness of it all.

"shaam" (evening)

2010-12-11T15:24:00.000-05:00

The sky waits for this spell to be broken,
for history to tear itself from this net,
for Silence to break its chains
so that a symphony of conch shells
may wake up to the statues
and a beautiful, dark goddess,
her anklets echoing, may unveil herself.
-Faiz Ahmad Faiz (translated by Agha Shahid Ali).

Ibid.

2010-12-04T22:06:00.000-05:00

daffodils and silk.

2010-03-23T21:19:00.002-04:00

she catches eternity in a moment.
a breath of crimson skies.
dances with the weathered soul.
oh, a brisk breeze.
she feels the shades of shimmer.
it's a picnic by the river.
a short-cut paired with loveliness.
with hot pink finger paints.
disheveled emotions and a coffee cup.
the dupatta that lingers in the distance.
she can risk it in a shadowy prime.
the tassels of excitement.
oh, the smell of lavender.

she catches eternity in a moment.

a long soliloquy.

2010-02-16T12:10:00.002-05:00

There is a road that goes out to the sea and then to the sky. Perhaps this place is no more than a Pandora's closet. And my mind is missing the trinkets. I have grown out of this place. The rhythms and blues indefinitely trouble the paper dolls and rhinestone days. I count the waves back in my thoughts. A hundred dawns and a cup of tea. Light sugar, please, thank you. Fly a kite up to the antioxidant skies. It all melts like lemon drops. Walk to the river and feel the water. Wait, the flowery dress cannot recite the parting words. Where it all ends is the place where roses and hot chocolate meet. I am not non-existent, I am just changed. So many words can say nothing at all. It is a tweed jacket and a walk down memory lane. I do not want to be the last to leave. Let me have my masquerade and my long soliloquy. Thank you, loves.

****

These are hard times for dreamers.

2010-02-06T21:00:00.002-05:00

The temperature climbs and the birds fly away.
The crowd roars only to the oracular timing.
It is a show of the masses.
Build it to perfection.
Make the shades.
Project the inevitable.
And let it manifest...

the top of your feet.

2010-01-30T20:54:00.002-05:00

indecisive manners. confused contradictions. trembling inconsistencies. uninspired momentum. divine chorus of mindful constraints. false pretenses of it all. sincere and truthful lies. pretty times. just a ghost in the next room. can i borrow a minute?

we live we love we hate

2010-01-29T20:37:00.004-05:00

Just stare and the smoke will linger. Smile at the irony. Cannot collect the wind. It is better than a thought. It is the moment. Stranded and high above it all. Able and in flesh. Let the charade begin. Restrictive paranoia clouds the now. White snow never looked so white snow like. Reaching to the depths of comfort and control. Soul nestles. Hole in the wall joints and the sound of conversations. Dubbed emotions. So loud the want. The piercing eyes and envy. Will the morning light break this entrapped cycle? I have not seen this before. And I wait for the dawn to arrive. And let me walk pass this.

classic.

2010-01-14T15:00:00.001-05:00

Seth Fagan
FOREST PARK
St. Louis, Missouri
January 2010

you write such pretty words, but life's no storybook. -Bright Eyes

2010-01-13T14:56:00.003-05:00

Seth Fagan
Digital
Forest Park, 2010

need.

2009-12-21T02:13:00.000-05:00

An extended journey.
An eager soul.
Wanting to find stability.
A soul in transit.

the bridge that links us to ourselves.

2009-12-09T13:36:00.002-05:00

***

The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense his life. . . . The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds -- how many human aspirations are realized in their free, holiday-lives -- and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song!
-John Burroughs (1837 - 1921), Birds and Poets, 1887

Photo Credits: Zardozi shoot for Libas Magazine.

a trip i wish i wouldn't have declined the invitation to.

2009-12-04T21:16:00.014-05:00

Seth Fagan
Black & White Conversion
November 2009
Missouri

designer jeans and high-heel boots are extremely 2003!

2009-12-01T14:49:00.000-05:00

The delayed deliverance of fashion trends, as necessities, can be accepted at times but PLEASE refrain from combining designer jeans and pointy black high-heel boots. That trend surfaced in a midst of a culturally and socially unstable global environment, and therefore was embraced for a rather short time (thank goodness) due to a distinct desire of humanity for comfort and security. However, that fleeting momentary lapse or acceptance in judgment has passed our souls...yes, it has. Hallelujah! Please accept that.

***

awkward moments.
mistaken identities.
falsified feelings.
uprooted connections.
mustered deliverance.
hesitated words.

oh, the unfairness of life's betrayal.

CHANEL, true to the soul.

Nothing Changes. And Everything Changes.

2009-11-07T23:06:00.004-05:00

dance in the rain.
feel the pain.
enjoy the comfort.
kiss the sun.

believe wholeheartedly.
try desperately.
move impatiently.
talk respectfully.
walk carefully.
sing loudly.
love passionately.
cry genuinely.
think deeply.
forgive quickly.
mend sincerely.

October

2009-11-05T15:05:00.001-05:00

Another glimpse of momentary satisfaction
In the new city
Of ordinary pavement and fall leaves

Arms entangled and footsteps synched
Sleek perfection
Recanting encounters with seasons passed

New experiences surface the agenda
And the familiarity re-stitches
The existence

Taxi cabs and boarding rooms
Smell of classy desperation
Of reasoned expectations
And mustered feelings

A few hours recapture the essence
Of thoughts passed
And it’s a black and white still shot
Reduced to its entirety
In a roll of undeveloped film

That now sits high on the counter
Against the grain.

a delay.

2009-10-31T17:39:00.004-04:00

misguided. misused. misinterpreted. these oracles of so-called nature. a companion to the next level. a flagrant dance around the circle. of consistency. a staged manifestation, only of the present.

and there is this voice inside my conscience. very much like the sound of raindrops on the cold ground.
********************

One must not hold one's self so divine as to be unwilling occasionally to make improvements in one's creations.
- Ludwig van Beethoven

struggling artist. eh. the story of my life.

2009-10-20T15:06:00.009-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen - the show is up. Yes, it's NOT one of my newer works.
Not the greatest venue, no offense.
Yes, I feel like i've sold my soul to commercialism.
But I'm hoping some rich snobs will buy my work.
So I can pay the bills.
Ok or maybe so I can buy a new purse.
(my heart's set on the new YSL nappa clutch...ah, so heavenly).

Series: Raw, Revisited.
Film: 35mm
Processing: Black & White, Silver Gelatin
Year: 2007

Meet me in the parking lot; in that part of town that Jesus forgot…
-the duke and the king

words are good. farewells are better.

2009-10-02T15:43:00.001-04:00

Reflections translate into stale moments
Of times past, and already it’s midnight
And I can sleep for days while the moon is a full.
The caution of the raindrops outside the window
Are silent. Can you make this looming air of
Negligence...nothing but a memory?
It is a habit. And I am tired. I need only ten minutes
Of rest eye. These thoughts are mere coincidence.
Do you believe? Sometimes sleep doesn’t lie. And these pieces do not fit,
And I cannot think about it. The rain keeps falling outside my window.
And I can sleep for days.

Darling.

2009-10-01T20:55:00.000-04:00

"i'm a lover...therefore, i'm always lost"

***

its that stationary glance that does not escape the eyelids. its that smell of the subtle summer breeze through the window. its that feel of the touch. its that comfort of safety. its that satisfaction of the momentary contentment. now, only the days, they pass. and the leaves, they change hues. and the tangible moments, they turn into a distant past. are the dots to be connected? or perhaps they are to be left vulnerable in the winds?

however, there are these four out of six rolls of undeveloped film. pushed to the corner of the shelf. perhaps i will package them away in neatly wrapped memories. untouched. unexposed. untainted.

nothing more. nothing less. later darling.

***

Last night your faded memory came to me
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly, in the desert, moves the breeze,
As, to a sick man, without cause, comes peace.
-faiz ahmad faiz (sufi poet, 1911-1984)

And it all goes away...

2009-09-29T10:50:00.002-04:00

these lights do not need to come on.
something new is here.
nothing changes though.

thinking twice.

i can't think it anymore.
i can't hear it anymore.
i can't see it anymore.

it's alright.

smell of fall.

2009-09-19T23:28:00.001-04:00

Rusty chairs and the glaring glances
Of the moon. These nights are
Turning cold. And the air smells
Of the coming winter. The song plays
On the old radio. Can I get you some tea?

You can sit and enjoy this view
Of the sky. It’s clear and trusting.

Put your feet up. Relax your mind.
There is a change. It is destined
With stories of past and dreams
Of tomorrow.

Familiar thoughts and careless hair
Dance in the wind.
And do not think too deep.
The tea will get cold.

smile, or you will lose it.

2009-09-12T23:27:00.001-04:00

There are no promises.
Oh what a scene this is.
It reminds me of the house with
Pink flamingos in the yard.
The sun warms my mind.
But I could use the rain to start new.
Pride takes its toll.
Many little truths are swimming in the river.
And chances are picked up by strangers.
These passersbys’ with cups of stale coffee,
Hide their front porch philosophies.
There is no catch, except for the
Pink flamingos in the yard.
Oh what a scene this is.

sitting by the Missouri River late at night

2009-09-02T22:16:00.003-04:00

Clear is the sky
Humid is the feel
Suffocating is the air

But the morbid beauty
Of the stale water
Mesmerizes the soul.

Visitations to its doorsteps
Are an addiction of the senses
The untouched solitude
Welcomes the wanderer
The unholy embrace
Detaches the senses.

The uncanny rebellion
comforts reality
And to inhale
Only intoxicates
The experience.

pride. pleasure. confidence. decay. death.

2009-09-01T23:49:00.002-04:00

OZYMANDIAS

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818

Eh.

2009-08-24T00:09:00.003-04:00

... the soul is of no sect, no party: it is, as you say, our passions and our prejudices, which give rise to our religious and political distinctions. -Jane Austen

a pale situation.

2009-08-02T21:56:00.002-04:00

The swollen sky keeps its pride.
And the dreams of climbing into a reality
Are sold on the street corner for a few coins.

And the blues play in the distance.
Rhythm and melody at war.
Perhaps space is only arms length.

Intoxications of the soul only
Project the misery of clouds of smoke.
Who will sing me a song?
Of tonight’s journey on Delmar?

The nights they shine with promises.
The times they are good.
Infinity is handed out by the dozen.
Only to commitments.
The moments they embrace the fragile hours.

eyes too heavy to keep open, and the soul too confident to stray.

2009-07-29T21:31:00.001-04:00

It’s a game a hide and seek.
The soul is living a dream.
Nothing short of a dance and a play.
Walking back and forward
In a circle of summer night.

It’s an active embrace.
A looking glass of senses.
Nothing short of profound laughter.
Exploring the confrontations
Towards questions without meanings.

It’s a night in the summer.
Clear sky and bright stars.
With the witnessing moments of the moon.
Nothing short of a drifting song; a fleeting need.
Fragile as an autumn leaf.

shooting stars...

2009-07-24T01:24:00.003-04:00

and in a flash, they're gone.

early june nights. crickets in the distance. the smell of summer still lingers. sidewalks explored, day after day. a change in scenery.

chances are fostered. conversations mingled. and in a moment, destiny escapes entirely.

these summer days are inescapable. and the fun is unmeasurable.

all smiles.

2009-07-20T14:12:00.002-04:00

Nothing is for sure.
Everything is stolen.
All is a façade.

Carry it on weightlessly.
Fabricate the emotionally paranoid.
And suffocate the anxious truth.

****

There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.
-Anais Nin

Walking on Sunshine with Lilies in my hand.

2009-07-05T23:16:00.002-04:00

It is an inspiration. With dreams and whispers of the new sun and freedom of life. Each chance with a lazy Sunday. A burning desire to hold back the chaotic necessities. And it is the river bank. Just one more. The fun lingers. And the sun goes down. These are the fairytales turned sparks of everything real. The simplicity of the stares. And the feelings of the new. What shall it be?

Life in the Wind.

2009-06-25T14:44:00.001-04:00

Disappear from your hometown
Go and find the people that you know
Show them all your good parts
Leave town when the bad ones start to show
But don’t make any other promises
-Avett Brothers

is it borrowed?

2009-06-11T12:42:00.005-04:00

She kicked off her heels
And said, "Boy let me know, if the devil is real"
–the felice brothers

***

If it is lost, should it be searched for?
Would that lose its significance?
Would it make it unnatural?
Would it change how I feel?
If it is found, should it be neglected?
Would that make it real?
Would it make me care?
Would it make it bearable?
Perhaps some things are better left on their own accounts.

waterfront.

2009-06-09T12:39:00.002-04:00

It is hot. A little sticky to the skin, but they say that is what the weather is like in this part of the country. And the river shines, the moonlight caves, the trees lay still.

The sky is clear tonight. And the grass is wet. And I feel the hot. And I remember that night. Like this night. Oh it took me back to those carefree summer days. The race with confusion, the curiosity, the delight. Oh and the excitement.

The now, the here, the inevitable.

_______________

Meet me in the parking lot; in that part of town that Jesus forgot…
-the duke and the king

ramblings because I feel the need to just ramble.

2009-06-02T12:18:00.003-04:00

The rivers have a charm of their own.
There is something raw about this area.
Perhaps it’s the world I interact with.
I know there’s a certain cruelty to the truth, but it’s always been at a distance...sealed away behind theories and case studies.
And now I see it, I feel it, I live it and I breathe it.
It disheartens my soul.
It makes me nauseous.

And what do I do?
I run to the closest resemblance of my own world.

Why?
Is it because I would like to stay in denial and look through the peep-hole from my safe side of town?

I don’t know how or what I feel.
I know that my soul is not comfortable.
It’s a feeling that hurts.

a white boy toy apparently.

2009-05-27T20:10:00.003-04:00

Oh purity of the Midwest.

The farmland.
The disparity.
South Grand.
Abandoned factories.
Ted Drewes.
I-70.
Mix ethnicities.
“And the cardinals feel like chirping too”.

Owner of Napoli and his white moccasins.
Mississippi River.
Fashion disgrace.
Pretentious aura.

My camera lens captures these subjects. And perhaps one day when I’m back in my comfort zone of Carolina, I’ll pull out the film from canisters and develop the life of St. Louis carefully while reminiscing in my darkroom.

passion. desire. need. want. love. chaos. beauty.

2009-05-04T22:49:00.000-04:00

Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.
-Gabrielle Coco Chanel (1883-1971)

thoughts on Mirza Sauda (1713-1781)

2009-04-26T14:43:00.000-04:00

Sense detached to the conventional loss of the concerned fatal flaw that’s shielding the anonymity of deception, as it reins over you. Perceptional wisdom diminishes concreteness of the blessed, parallel to distortion of conceptualization. You are a broken and dismantled soul; of mortal capacity?

Perhaps it is the initiation of selling yourself to an unconcerned phenomenon. Some would argue the merits of devaluing this precautionary power, which so eloquently degrades the rhythmic illusions of desired perfection. It is the desperate persistency of your essence to fill the void and not to further its extraction from the core. If only you could rummage deeper through the glass surface, just to find that oracular faith of absolute existence and break down the walls of unconscious barriers destined to corrupt the fragile moments. And rise above the plateau of this exemplary morality and establish yourself in the midst of the chaotic revolution.

2009-04-17T21:35:00.003-04:00

I close my eyes for the moment but the brightness penetrates my eyelids. Light peels my skin; the hole in the ozone stares at me. There is nothing more to lose or gain. Empty-handed I climb out of my own hole to some other kind of observation post. Exposure implies vision. Isn't that the point of travel? To stumble, drop one's white cane in a blizzard and learn to see. -Gretel Ehrlich

stand up. because you just don't know.

2009-04-12T15:56:00.003-04:00

***

Nothing is enough. Feelings are transient. Natural is the vision of holy messages. The wind is blowing outside, seems like a tornado might be near. How can wrongs be righted? Barbie pink is what makes the world a lovely place. Colliding manifestations of sorts will make it to the next level. And I want to swim in the creek behind that old house. They say the water will be cold to the bones. I think that is something they make up. I see diamonds in the sun. And it all fades.

Are you on Crack?

2009-04-08T14:58:00.004-04:00

Maybe its not perfect. Perhaps its not suppose to be. Maybe its this idea that keeps everything from just being. Mistakes happen. Situations arise. But chances are necessary for life to go on. For things to maintain some sort of semblance. Why force ourselves to go opposite of the current? Why make it so difficult? Why not just embrace it for its worth? Maybe I'm just an idealist, and a dreamer. And maybe I just like to live in a dream. And don't tell me to wake up. Because my dream is of reality...which I dream when I'm awake.

feet on the floorboard, wind the hair, & tunes on the radia.

2009-04-03T23:15:00.003-04:00

The dark sky is a beauty. The cool air makes me happy. I can hear the crickets in the distance. The smell of tonight is nostalgic. I'm wrapped in thoughts. Memories that give me meaning. The water is clear tonight. I see through the shadows. Wasted space. In the distance is the that old oak tree. Standing in the middle of necessity. Initials are carved deeply into it. Sometimes I wish I was the rain. Words are the unspoken kindness. Drifters will sense it. I only want my half acre. The pavement and the crowds are the future. I dream it sometimes. The songs are catchy. But the music doesn't do it justice. I realize nothing. And I smile. If i open up a philosophy book, the old pages that reek of the past will guide me. And I smile to myself again. Because if only it were that simple.

Eh, what do they know...its care. that's all.

2009-04-02T23:45:00.003-04:00

When it’s good it’s real good. And when it’s bad, it’s not so bad. It’s nothing more than grammatical errors and logical inconsistencies. Paranoid objectifications and fabricated ecstasies. It’s not simple. And it’s not nice. The weather continues to change. It’s an emotional crystallization. It’s a chaotic illusion. It isn't on and it isn't off.

Are these dependent prophecies ready to assist? Perhaps the answer is sought.

8

2009-04-01T23:06:00.000-04:00

There were some things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them and let them hurt me.
-Jonathan Safran Foer

a domino effect, no doubt.

2009-03-28T23:52:00.004-04:00

I give back the expected, the convenient. Court takes back her life. And Jess gives the water a piece of her soul. All within a few weeks. What one does, we all follow. Why? Is it an empowering inspiration? Is it the edge we desperately wait for? Is it the support we secretly desire? Perhaps it’s none of those. And it’s just that our emotional chemistry is intertwined with our destiny. Or that our feelings collide and confirm to our sense of commitments.

It is sewn with intricacy and patched with consistency. This is the path our lives are at the crossroads of…”fabulous freedom” I call it. A domino effect, no doubt.

still a divide.

2009-03-23T16:42:00.003-04:00

Hello.

Thought I would call to say “hi”…”bye” since I’m in your neck of the woods. Pride builds up. It’s a painting of sorts, wrapped in colors of spring. Sometimes bonds seem strong. But then our life moves along, and an effect of replacement takes its due course. Am I to break down these walls and pull through? I look at my watch, it’s past necessity. I walk down the street. It’s a big city. Beautiful ending. These buildings around me crowd me. Is the rain cluttering the steel pipes? Exploring this maturity is empowering. Do these people who walk by me have thoughts of originality? Let’s do this. Embracing mortality for faith. To an extent it’s a meticulous process. I layer out your voice in my head. Still a same old story. My fingers text. A revolution is wanted. And my thoughts are someplace else. Is that acceptable? It‘s a shiny passage. Mysteries unsolved. Breaking chains. My senses are devoted to this air around me. Memories flow together. More addictions of these people who pass me by. “Out of Town”. A message in store for consistency. Where are the stormy skies? A luminous anticipation. I want to meet them. Can I sit by the homeless guy on the corner of the street? Can I ask him his life story? Unfolding roads. Chosen beginnings. It isn’t the easiest measure to take. On the side, you are still. Am I grateful? It is too loud for me here. Scars of happy laughter. It’s a long way to destiny. Believe in the shadows. My eyes open to the sky. Can these people who pass me by fly away with me? Drifting onto shores. Purpose and strengths falter, and it’s only inevitable. A "safe trip" is to be had. Buckle your seat belt, please. An answer it is.

Good bye.

wishing flies fly west for the spring.

2009-03-21T21:29:00.005-04:00

Words sketched on old napkins. Time is asking for the hold of perfection. And I believe it is all a game. Those ideas will perish. Those feelings will fade. And this taxi ride will come to an end. You see the driver is looking through the rear-view mirror. A peep show of sorts. These chills they stay in the air. Perhaps it’s the destined aura of smiles tainted. There is a trust that asks for more. The talk it talks. And the walk it walks. But it’s just another day on this boulevard. And it’s another life misplaced. Are your thoughts all out on the table? It’s another number in the math book. Hey, do you have medicine for this disaster? I think I want to run and catch the wind. You in or are you out?

Now its nothing more than a faith deciphered by bar stool philosophers. It’s another day. It’s another time. It’s another life. I sing and they listen. I finish the song and they clap. Do they like it? Perhaps they are just being polite. I don’t know. And I don’t need to know. They say I should count my blessings and wish upon stars. But what if the stars fade and the sky is empty? Who do I look up to then? These masks of feelings will heal. A goodbye of sorts. A train that runs through town. The distance between one and two. These lights they blind my mind. I have a headache. And my coke with no ice is not here. And days, they go by. I miss a little each day. I stay in this. I do my own thing.

The first day of spring is here. And the window looks through you. Blue and gray. Let’s lose it all. Because they say happiness is a parasol. The empty is a void. And the terms of this agreement are illogical. I have to move it. The local café is no longer crowded. And I stare at the sky. Will the storm wait for me? I want to make my way upstream. Concede your pledge. And I will write you a new song tonight.
Nothing changes. It’s upside down. But not inside out. Glitters are easy. And these roads moan of restitution. And I will not lie. These thoughts enter my mind. And it’s a landslide of paranoia. On your terms you need. Can you run and chase the wind with me? There are these eyes and there is this laughter. Standing faced down will not heal. How should I dispose of these napkins filled with ink? The thoughts rambled in jots. And the sparks, they fly even in the dark.

So I sing. And I write. And I paint. And I think. And I think. And it escapes my soul as I strum the six strings. These eight napkins of sacred memories are what I see, and hear. My favorite song becomes my life. Real life isn't perfect. And i love that about life. So i sing. And i write. And i paint. And i think. And i think.

it's a glare in eyes, and it's no regrets.

2009-03-20T21:27:00.002-04:00

I don’t feel it.
I don’t need it.
I can’t like it.
I can’t make it.
I won’t miss it.
I won’t fake it.

As long as you need to figure it out.
As long as I need to erase it.
As long as the sun will wait for me to wake up.
As long as the moon will wait for you to fall asleep.

More than this.
More than that.
More than nothing.
More than everything.

All I know is that I am here.
All I know is that you are there.

Because of accusations of this being a personal blog, I thought I should add something personal to it...oh what the heck!

2009-03-18T13:31:00.001-04:00

Love. Makeup. Cute Pretty Looking Drinks. Girl Talk. Boys. Chocolate. Girl Power. Late Night Conversations. Music. High Heels. Parties. Laughter. Sleepovers. Junk Food Binge. Protesting to Save the World. Summertime. Silly Times. Road Trips. Forever Friends. Tears. Memories. Nature. Good Books. Jazz. Secrets. Shopping. Good Care. Crazy Days. Mr. Darcy. Stupid Fights. Art. Loyalty. Lola. Elodie. Nemo. Tanner. Kitty Mano. Thunderstorms. Heartbreaks. Cocktail Dresses. Love.

Four Girls. One Friendship.

An old acquaintence asked how we were doing.

I replied, "oh we all are moving on in life...Brit's in Charlotte teaching dance, Court's off to London to be an Au Pair, Jess' doing her thing and is totally happy with Jon, and I am getting ready to move on to Law School".

He asked, "You mean the four of you wont be around anymore, fighting about who has the better shoes?"

That brought back memories and a smile.

I realized that it doesn't matter how far apart in miles we are from each other, or how many days go by before we hear each other's voice, and it definately doesn't matter who else comes into our lives. Why? Because at the end of the day, the four of us are still there in spirit with each other. And that is something amazing. And I am incredibly thankful of that.

Through all the good times and the bad times, we know that we are there for each other...regardless of whether we think we need each other or not.

The four of us are strong women, with well defined personalities and lots of great opportunities ahead of ourselves. I could not imagine our lives without soulful talks at Christy's Euro Pub (without chicken tendors or chicken salad sandwiches, oh and brittany's veggies), without fabulous nights listening to Jazz and loving live, summertime weather and live music shows, excessive shopping and chaotic friendships, teaparties and countless talks.

We have become a family. And for that I am grateful.

FOUR GIRLS. ONE FRIENDSHIP.

***

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. ~Henri Nouwen

a re-arranger of the proverbial bookshelf.

2009-03-17T15:19:00.001-04:00

hazed with ink.
black to the depth.
white to its strength.
personified with precision.

slavery it is.
chaos to define.
momentum splits the moment.
and it collapses out of sight.

DISCLAIMER

2009-03-16T14:29:00.004-04:00

Blog Entries are NOT directed towards anyone in specific, nor are they reflected of incidents in specific. This is not a personal blog. These words are MERE pieces of art: Prose, Song Lyrics, Photography, etc., at attempts to grasp the understanding of the spiritual connection between ourselves and our surroundings.

Concepts of neoliberalism, post-feminism, existentialism, and sufism are explored.
Dostovoysky, Sartre, Bulleh Shah, Proust, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Palahniuk, Wharton, and Niki Giovanni's works are challenged, argued, and explained in these blog entries.

Their purpose is NOT to provid harm to anyone or anything, NOR to offend anyone or anything.

Their purpose is for PURE literally review of samples of pieces for publishers, editors, and agencies.

Thank you for visiting the Threshold of Revelation.

CONSUMERS, in all senses of the word: An attempt to project Edith Wharton as a sufi thinker.

2009-03-13T13:56:00.006-04:00

Everything in life is connected. Politics of the time, Economies of the time, Art of the time, Music of the time...and this blog entry brings together 4 different decades of economic concepts, spiritual movement in the Iran, art movements in Germany and literary movements in the United States...for purposes of understanding the importance of connectivity at large.

***

"Oh man, do not intend harm to others
Or it will cause untold harm to you."

"Do not cry for money,
It will ruin your qualities.
Cry and search for God's qualities,
The qualities that will destroy
The corpse of the karma of your birth
And make your life eternal."

***

Nouveau Riche:

They don't have the experience or grace of knowing how to be rich, of how to act, or how to treat people. There's a lot of measuring up, a ton of greed. They basically eat each other alive. People are terrified of what might happen to them, because things are changing so incredibly fast. Everyone is very guarded about their money and yet they flaunt it shamelessly.

They're consumers, in all senses of the word.

***
"Do not cause hurt to the hearts of others
Dispel the disease in your heart
Which desires to hurt.
Great benefit will come to you
And bring peace into your life."

the gloomy drive. and rain.

2009-03-10T23:21:00.000-04:00

What it was…and what it will become.
The rain water follows the path into the street gutter.
These windows are in tact, but the shutters are broken.
And I see the clouds. And the moments they rain impatiently.
I hear the winds and they tell me a story about the MINT.
When you hear the winds do they tell you a story about the MINT?

A boy and a girl. And faces in between.
What it was…and what it will become.
These chances are all I have. My eyes see past the broken shutters.
It’s a drive to the nearest exist, but I need a saving grace tonight.

The stars will collide. And your hands in my hands. It is so far.
How do I get there? Give me directions. The rest is history.
We come through the cracks, and the rain water drips in.
Let the time savor every kiss
Let the moments wake every flavor.
Let the thoughts feel over and between the touch.

Lets stay awake through the storm.
La la la da da.

A boy and a birl. And faces in between.
What it was…and what it will become.

wall of real bricks.

2009-03-09T23:19:00.000-04:00

Let’s take our chance.
I wrote down all my thoughts.
I didn’t want my thoughts to fog up the sky.

I don’t mind what it says.
I don’t care what they think.
I don’t care what they believe.

No no, you cannot tell me what to do.
No no, you cannot tell me how to live.
No no, you cannot tell me I’m wrong.

I don’t want your rules.
I don’t want to be saved.
I only want to live with a meaning.

I don’t want your fake judgments.
I don’t want your hypocritical reasons.
I only want to live with a meaning.

How do live for something when you don’t let yourself live?

verbalize.

2009-03-08T20:53:00.000-04:00

There is a need that has to be fulfilled.
There is a want that needs to be met.
There is a plea that wishes to be granted.

There is a happiness that lifted my spirits.
There is a desire that invoked your heart.
There is a patch that cries to be mended at the seam.

This will not just disappear into thin air.
This will not leave forever.
This will not be content forever.
Only because this is real.

i love it !

2009-03-06T21:27:00.002-05:00

This is my living faith, an active faith, a faith of verbs: to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, argue, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek. To seek: to embrace the questions, be wary of answers.

-Terry Tempest Williams

the burning.

2009-03-05T23:14:00.000-05:00

"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered." --Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, Act II

***

You call. I talk. You explain. I proclaim. You save. I renounce. You pause. I make a joke. You laugh. I sigh.

And once again, the charade continues...
Wants hold true. Needs reject. Desire feeds on tortured passion.
Love is not enough for life.

And that my friend, is destined.

"You never looked as good as the night I met you...and the day I left you..."

My heart is good. My soul is settled. My feeling is content. My emotion is gathered. And I am smiling.

pink grapefruit and i am home.

2009-03-04T21:22:00.001-05:00

Time with its patience
Looks to a lie
Wanting to feel the purpose of
Nothing more than a dream

You don’t get over it only
You forget it as time with its patience
Looks to a lie

You never will believe
That eyes do not see and
Ears do not hear
And people are with evil and
I want to smell of pink grapefruits.

Its funny how the path you thought was taking you somewhere else, can lead you home again.

images bound for everywhere.

2009-03-03T14:17:00.000-05:00

They tell her this is the time of her life. But she doesn’t feel it. She doesn’t sense it. She just doesn’t buy it.

For her there is still this incessant need to bridge these thoughts of hers to her sleepless nights. Her walls are boarded with restlessness and she has half a million reasons to everything. She has this paranoia in the back of her mind and it will soon manifest itself to her heart. She looks up and sees a flickering light, from the candle that only illuminates memories. She hears distant melodies on the radio. Perhaps these hideaway hymns can be comforting. She only wants to do nothing. She wants to hibernate in her senses. She wants to denounce the day and the night. Please? Only for a little while? She wants all the could haves and might haves and should haves to go away. Please? Only for a little while?

They tell her this is the steady path. But she doesn’t feel it. She doesn’t sense it. She just doesn’t buy it.

For her there is still coldness in the air and dryness in the mouth. There is bitterness all around, and it stings and hurts her to the core. She say, “Excuse me, but will this go away”? She looks up and realizes it is nothing more than a tragic moment. She is haunted with boundless feelings. She says, “Excuse me, but can you make this go away?” She looks up and realizes it is nothing more than a bad stomach ache.

They tell her the only thing that shines is chaos. And she feels it. And she senses it. And she just buys it.

It’s a wild card. your worst impulse. your id.

2009-03-01T22:04:00.003-05:00

A statement. Clarity of priorities. Doubts for security. Minimal modifications. Dedication towards conviction. Destroyed expectations. Honor surrendered. Fertilized predicaments. Copied negotiations. Collided thoughts. Profound delusions. Materialized danger. Aesthetics compromised. Heavy cantonment. Shielded comfort. Reinforced control. Nullified consistencies. And mustered validity. Nothing more than a chance out of thin air.

Perfection planned. And this my dear, is the unifying game.

big hair, black fingernail color, barefoot on the floorboard, and skinny jeans!!

2009-02-28T21:13:00.001-05:00

alive again...

a little soul
a little edge
a little faith
a little mess
and she is smiling at the moon.

those feelings
those thoughts
those memories
those smiles
stay intact. and every time it rains, her soul fills up with tears.

the moments
the laughs
the talks
the care
makes even the stars jealous.

and she feels alive again.

an inconvenient truth.

2009-02-27T12:49:00.000-05:00

you write such pretty words
but life is not a story book.
-bright eyes

*******
Have I been sleeping?
I've been so still, afraid of crumbling...
Have I been careless?
Dismissing all the distant rumblings...

'Cause I need to move on, I need to wake up
I need to change, I need to shake up
I need to speak out, something's got to break up
I've been asleep and I need to wake up now.
-Melissa Etheridge (i need to wake up)

Bulleh Shah's couplet translation.

2009-02-25T21:51:00.000-05:00

Parh parh likh likh laaweyn dheyr
Veyd kitaabaan chaar chafeyr
Girdey chaanan wich anheyr
Apney aap dee khabar naa saar

Parh parh masley roz sunaavey
Khaanaa shak shubey da khaweyn
Daseyn hor te hor kamaaweyn
Ander khot baahir suchyaar

*****

You read and write heaps of books
Sacred books are piled up all around you
Surrounded by light, you carry darkness within you
You have no self knowledge at all

You deliver sermons everyday
You eat the food of suspicion and doubt
You preach something and act inversely
Inwardly you are corrupt but outwardly you are pious

Sufism Explained.

2009-02-24T20:59:00.000-05:00

Oceans shift and the winds roar. Stars collide and the flowers bloom. Welcome to earth, my friend. You shall seek the truth and the purity and the beauty of it all. Remember there is a self and sometimes there is not a self. Virtue will guide your steps, and repentance will sail your ships. Sin will muster your thoughts and evil will guard your needs.

Moon smiles and the roads diverge.

It is you and your strength. It is light and it is the dikhr. It is the essence and the muraquaba. It is the likeness.

And in this moment, my friend, you have lived centuries in a blink of an eye.

thanks, kiddo.

2009-02-22T23:46:00.000-05:00

No doubt very few people understand the purely subjective nature of the phenomenon that we call love, or how it creates, so to speak, as fresh, a third, a supplementary person, distinct from the person whom the world knows by the same name, a person most of those constituent elements are derived from ourself, the lover. And so there are very few who can regard as natural the enormous proportions that a creature comes to assume in our eyes who is not the same as the creature that they see.
-Marcel Proust

♫

Respect the Delicate Ecology of your Delusions

2009-02-22T11:39:00.000-05:00

Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there's a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that's so.
-Angels in America

***

Life is full of horror; nobody escapes, nobody; save yourself. Whatever pulls on you, whatever needs from you, threatens you. Don't be afraid; people are so afraid; don't be afraid to live in the raw wind, naked, alone... Learn at least this: What you are capable of. Let nothing stand in your way.
-Angels in America

****

Thoughts for the soul.

Sentiments of an Idealist.

2009-02-19T22:06:00.000-05:00

There is a need,

Because there is this void.

Sipping on black coffee,

And listening to the winds of yesterday.

Searching the unsearched.

Archiving the motionless moments.

Passing the sentiments for wants.

These chills, they race up the spine.

These aches, they sit on the stomach.

These feelings, they sadden the soul.

Hopes make forgetting a mystery.

And fusion surpasses the scarred emptiness.

It is hard to admit, but the brain matures

Times change but names stay the same.

Moments don’t feel the same.

Suddenly, the light burns and “what ifs” cross the mind.

oh and it continues...

2009-01-09T15:37:00.000-05:00

socialism. the color green. laughing. stone jewelry. sufism. acoustic guitars. horses. pomegranates. high heels. godiva truffles. antiques. magnolia trees. the Economist. dried roses. baseball. sartre’s philosophy. lengthy conversations. coffee beans. meaningless conversations. theology. rainy days. pecan pies. moon. farms. cherries. reading. walking barefoot. good friends. mascara. rivers. orchids. hummas. fishing. anything vintage. photography. farsi. meaningful encounters. writing. mountains. dancing. creating things. mangoes. roadtrips. good hugs. french manicures. politics. sleeping outdoors. my nephew. used bookstores. pink clothes. historical documentaries. traveling with my mommy. home-made lemonade. hiking. firepits in the cold. experiencing emotions. family history.

i like my sweet tea without ice, please.

2009-01-02T15:35:00.002-05:00

dear you,

are you waiting for godot, too?

love, me.

***

Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
-Pozzo, Waiting for Godot

Issues of Social Stigma..finally, Lets talk it out!!

2008-12-18T15:33:00.000-05:00

Sheikh Amer Hassan's murder has opened a Pandora's box of hypocrisy and double standards that are not very palatable. One feels that rather than whitewash the truth, one should let it remain open and deal with the demons that come out.Talking about these issues would be in the best interests of everyone. -Muniba Kamal, InStyle

*although i do not agree or do no believe or pass any sort of judgment on her article, i do feel that this is a step forward for our society to TALK about homosexuality, and to realize that it's there to stay...it does not go away by merely neglecting its culture. it is apparent EVERYWHERE in Muslim countries & societies, yet we conveniently ignore its presence...which makes it a taboo of sort leading us to dabble in hatred, injustice, judgments, and criticism. perhaps, if we can learn to accept, and respect each other...we would all be better Muslims. Eh.

Maybe It Is Fate.

2008-12-11T00:57:00.000-05:00

Image: Absolute, Silver Gelatin 2007

No.

2008-12-01T00:49:00.005-05:00

Image: And Out, Silver Gelatin 2007

Sense are detached... to the conventional loss of flaw that is shielding this anonymity. Of deception. And it reins over you. And it reins over me. Only the perceptional wisdom will diminish its concreteness. And leave us blessed, paralleled, and distorted towards conception.

You are a broken and dismantled. So is your soul. Am I ?

Perhaps it is the initiation of selling yourself to this phenomenon; oh such unconcern.

Let us argue the merits of its power. Let us be precautionary. Oh how it so eloquently degrades the rhythmic illusions of desired perfection.

It is the desperate consistency of your essence to fill the void and... not to further its extraction from the core.

If only you could rummage deeper through the glass surface, just to find that oracular faith of absolute existence and break down the walls of unconscious barriers ... that are only destined to corrupt these fragile moments. Perhaps it is possible to rise above the plateau of this exemplary morality and establish nothingness in the midst of the chaotic revolution.

sketched whispers.

2008-11-28T00:43:00.001-05:00

Whispers are the enemy.

Of a soul deceptive impersonation

Call it a mockery

But let it fly to the senses of devotion.

Unformed alliances.

Sketched territories.

Framed predispositions.

All imply all of nothing.

Feel your heart beat to the rhythm of your spirits

Let your soul fly to the wind of the east

Beauty is sold and emotions are lost

Captivate the fall and reflect on the call

Buried deep within is the feel

Of ecstasy linking my senses

To the everlasting freedom

Calling my name as I fly through the wind

***

Image: Untitled, Silver Gelatin 2008

Love.

2008-11-26T00:39:00.002-05:00

Image: It is Perfection, Toned Silver Gelatin 2008

Phobia of Patriotism.

2008-11-19T00:33:00.002-05:00

Image: Freedom at it's Finest Hour, Silver Gelatin & Paint 2008

let's begin this charade.

2008-11-18T00:28:00.000-05:00

Image: Sealed to Imperfection Diptychs, Digital Output 2007

How do I leave this?

2008-11-01T00:21:00.001-04:00

Image: Simplicity Diptych, Digital Output 2008

my heart is beautiful.

2008-10-28T00:19:00.001-04:00

The elegance, it scares

The monotone, it hovers

The blue blazers, they haunt.

And I see a red bird fly over the pole line.

Image: Mine to Keep, Digital Output 2008

a stranger in heaven.

2008-10-24T00:18:00.001-04:00

Shiny jewels and diamond slippers.

Pretty flowers and caged birds.

Turn our lights out. Lets say goodnight.

Fallen winds. Stirred souls.

Faithless paranoia.

And I play my strings so my

Hands, they bleed.

Turn our lights out. Lets say goodnight.

Tripped dolls and lovely lies.

Strangers smile and you cry.

These skies, they will murder.

And feathers are all gone.

Turn our lights out. Lets say goodnight.

***

Image: Ornate, Digital Output 2008

Make an Apple Pie with the Nothingness.

2008-10-19T00:10:00.001-04:00

the clock ticks, and the horns honk.

The cars they drive past me

And the freeway takes me nowhere.

Take my hand because the preacher says

It will save our souls.

Rest is where she is.

Free from the move.

If you know what I mean.

Change it all and do not

Sit with the devil. Make

Your deficiencies bold.

Create a wave of the

Fake empire.

This is a story that goes nowhere.

Image: No, I do not..., Digital Output 2008

barefoot on the street.

2008-10-13T00:09:00.000-04:00

The ecstasy of memories past

Of a broken Saint in misery.

I should stroll by your house

See the flickering light on the street

And make amends with

The ghosts of tomorrow.

It’s cold and blue

Like an exiled thought.

Perhaps a little fire will

Heal the punctured wound.

Because it is only today

That I call for this war

In terms of reconciliation

And voices betrayed.

No Pleasing Drama.

2008-10-09T22:08:00.002-04:00

October 9, 2008

Dear the-girl-who-wishes-me-ill,

So I’ve been told you have nothing to lose,
And therefore, it is a mistake for me to weave a web of compromise with you.

I wish you would look at yourself in the mirror.
And realize that you are your own beautiful person.
You have yourself that you need to accept, nurture, and care for.

You have this fear which you let consume your brightness.
You have these doubts which you let cloud your actions.
You have this weight which you let drown your soul.

He is not a harbor, nor is he a map that will guide you back home.
Do not allow anyone that power. That is your own sacred right.
You see, your insecurities make me pity you.
They make me sad. They make my senses hurt. They make me weep for all us women.

I wish you would look at yourself in the mirror.
And realize that all the journeys you have to take will be on your own.
Life is a storm, and you must weather it on your own.

I do not know what to say to you.
I do not know how to make you realize that you are worth more than this.
I do not know how to let you know that you are beneath all this.
I do not know how to make you understand that you do have everything to lose.
You have your self respect to lose.
You have your dignity to lose.
You have your soul to lose.

This sea of emotions, regrets, and frustrations does not let you accept the shore in sight.
This night of jealousy, pettiness, and tantrums does not let you welcome the light of day.

I wish I could make you understand that you are hurting not only yourself,
But every woman and girl.
I wish I could make you realize that you are allowing your soul to slowly fade in the distance.

Please just allow your true inner beauty to rise above this chaos of esteem.
Because I believe you DO have something to lose…the bad taste of it all,
Yes, and please realize that it has overstayed its welcome. .

Love,
The-girl-who-wishes-you-well.

Image (Untitled, Silver Gelatin 2007)

perhaps we are all looking for answers under the stars.

2008-09-22T22:03:00.003-04:00

solation. struggle. fragile figure. open spaces. lost. freedom. abandoned hostility. struggle against apathy...lethargy...entropy.

***

Image (not sure of the bond, Digital Output 2008)

"Man -- and man alone -- reduced to a thread -- in the delapidation and misery of the world -- who searches for himself -- starting from nothing.... The pathos of extreme emaciation, the individual reduced to a thread.... Man on a pavement like burning iron; who cannot lift his heavy feet.... They drip around him, his values, his fat; to feed the flames! It is not only that Man has nothing more; but he is nothing more, than this I" -Ponge

No one to Blame, Not Even the Crazy Girl.

2008-09-17T22:00:00.003-04:00

It is falling apart in time.
Yes, the wind it turns but there are no straight lines ahead.
It is a suspicion and it breaks my heart.
It is an intrigue.
It is objectified.
It is a momentary pleasure wrapped in a fabricated story.

*********

it was a beautiful fiction, and she wanted to keep it.

Image: Little Pot, Silver Gelatin 2006

Objectified. Nothing More, Nothing Less.

2008-09-12T21:56:00.000-04:00

Image (Routine of Caravan, Silver Gelatin 2008)

No feelings
No heart
No thoughts
And I smile.
It is anger
It is frustration
It is guilt
And I smile.

I have these stained glass answers.
Only for you.
Let's erase our signatures.
Let's wash these thoughts clean.
Let's fill the sky with fireworks
And smile.