In a Blink of an Eye

Working with models is always a little slippery. Inevitably, they’ll bring with them expectations for the outcome of a shoot that almost never coaligns with my creative desires. Most of the time, they're looking for a beautiful and flattering image, but what I'm looking to capture is something more interesting, something visually arresting. What good is a photograph if it doesn't compel the viewer to to look at it, and resists being forgotten?

For instance, occasionally I'll "accidentally" press the shutter as they're blinking–this is actually a lot harder to time than you'd think. Try doing that with another person without saying a word–it's tough.

A regular black and white portrait turns into a shifting moment of quiet delirium.

Methods for Demonic Extraction: A Urinary Approach

10:32 am: I got up, made My bed, and inspected the foul container pervading the air in My shadow lair–it was ready.

Over the past 2 weeks, I’d been fermenting a batch of urine. There was a demoness residing in a particular camellia flower in My gardens, and this was unacceptable. After consulting with a slew of elders, I learned about an ancient method the Dragn gnostics would use for such matters of exorcism.

Although I wasn’t a zealot of the Church, desperate times called for desperate measures. I was experiencing a demon infestation in My life that was driving Me to the brink of insanity–they were like baby roaches that would come out during the night, and The Most High was My insecticide.

Closer

I haven't been shooting or writing as much as I'd like lately, or making anything of creative worth really. If you want to know the truth, I've been cleaning, deep cleaning. I started with my bedroom a few weeks ago, afterall, your living space is an extension of you–messy room, messy life. So, I've committed myself to straightening out both, and that impulse has spread to my bathroom. Mold, mildew, and grime have been the evil dwarfs pissing on my leg, and I’m bent on scorning them with a sadistic malcontent–so far I've been successful.

Contrary to what inaccurate and distorted impressions about me I may bait people to suck on, I value structure, discipline, and a work ethic that keeps me hostile toward mediocrity. The more disorder I've compelled into submission, the closer I feel toward breaking through. Through what exactly, I don't know yet, but I'm close–I can feel it.

Reminder to Self

Some people, no doubt, are born, and destined, to be common, to live out their lives to no significant purpose, but that is relatively rare...Most people have the power to be creative, and some have it in a god-like degree...But many people–perhaps even most–are content with the passing pleasures and satisfactions of the animal side of our nature. Indeed, many people will account their lives to be successful if they get through them with only minimal pain, with pleasant divergence from moment to moment and day-to-day, and the general approval of those around them. And this, notwithstanding that they often have within them the ability to do something which perhaps no other human being has ever done. Merely to do what others have done is often safe, and comfortable; but to do something truly original, and do it well, whether it is appreciated by others or not–that is what being human is really all about, and it is alone what justifies the self-love that is pride.
— Richard Taylor, Restoring Pride

Aranea Flos

My Favorite Photographs

My favorite photographs are ones that have an element of quiet violence–ones that aren’t thrusted upon your face (those are too obvious), but that rest easily within the boundaries of the frame, with brazen guile.

We’re all domesticated savages acting on this grand stage with a modicum of decency and propriety, but under the hot lights, within us exists the sinister desire to conquer others, to exert our will over circumstances. The thirst for power, not the quench of love, surges through our veins, and that instinct prevails.

Wading Through the Hebel

All of life is a mist, like an early morning fog that burns away at the first daylight of death. Yet, in its wake, left behind is the necessary moisture that hydrates the earth.

For the ones not in the knowledge, their perception will remain hindered by its obscurity, lamenting their existence fleeting and meaningless. They curse The Most High–a miasma of irreverence that softly and quietly steals the breath from their lungs as they sleep.

Ssssssh. Keep sleeping.

Ssssssh. Keep sleeping.

Ssssssh. Keep sleeping.

The Coy Dance in the Garden of Sin

After a certain length of time without hearing from her, I was convinced she had opted for the fish option, so I set out to find the answer.

Yes, I know. Let Me explain.

The young girls in that town were given the choice to remain terrestrial, or aquatic. If they chose the latter, there were secret methods the elders employed to bludgeon them into coy fish. No, not coi fish, coy fish. After metamorphosis, the eagerest of fishlings were hired by local botanical gardens to lure lonely men during the slow season–artfully exploiting their primordial inclinations toward conquest.

Personally, I chose not to frequent those places. As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly, and I had learned from My past experiences. Besides, there always seemed to be a malodorous current of bodily secretion and sin, and I had sensitive skin, so I would watch from afar. I have to admit though, it was fascinating to see how the fishlings and men would interact.

She understood that morality were oscillations–echos that rattled from facade to facade within the gothic cathedral of Self, and sometimes, I would rest nearby to be her gargoyle.

Burning in Knowledge, Drowning in Faith

I walked along neglected trails, following a foreign light that led into a dreary forest that clutched tomblike secrets. Step by step I could feel restless bodies stir below My feet, their decomposed limbs entangled within the roots of the earth, and as they groaned for redemption the ground convulsed like a mother holding her stillborn baby for the first time.

Every so often the canopy loosened its bony grip over Me, revealing cannibalistic skies that consumed everything within it, except for the slew of winged serpents that possessed an unexplainable immunity. I stopped for a moment to rest, and admired their grace and beauty as they soared without end–they breathed not fire, but ancient knowledge.

In those days the great serpent was said to be bad, but as I forged ahead, I inhaled the naked understanding that bad is the siamese head of good, and both are protruding atop our torso, looking at eachother, for we are the great serpent, and we are eating ourselves alive. In His infinite wisdom, The Lord, our God, is voyeur to the devouring of flesh and spirit of His children, and that is neither good, nor bad, but necessary.

But only the illuminated will master that unavoidable fate, and find refuge in the bottomless skies above, far removed from the legion that murmur below.

Hot Tea

She gave Me a potion, so I drank it.

I spent the waning hours of the night wandering the streets of Downtown, noticing things–mildly disoriented, mildly curious. I was approached by 2 hookers (on separate occasions), a drug dealer, and later Pepe who asked for a lighter, but I don’t smoke. I asked him where I could meet a beautiful woman, jokingly, and he told Me about his cousin’s friend, Concepción, who was also a hooker. I just wanted to be touched, but I only had $39.82 in My bank account, and I hadn’t paid My electrical bill yet.

I noticed a sexy girl walk inside a 7-Eleven, so I went inside to accidentally bump into her. We were both waiting in line, and I saw that she was leaving behind a faint trace of beach sand. I asked her if she had gone to the beach, but she looked at Me in a peculiar fashion. She was holding a Four Loko and a banana; and I, a stale hot dog. It was one of those kind of nights.

Pustule

I itch. I scratch. I now bleed.

I look down, and feel the warm ooze of sanguine fluid as I rub my middle finger and thumb together, mixing inconspicuous amounts of pimple pus into the crimson stain drying before My curious eyes.

I look up–she's looking back at Me.

I'm devoid of shame, and she doesn't gag.

We've both had our fair share of pimple pus grace our blemished lives, and we're stronger for it when people stare.

Greys, Gloom, and Gas

Verily, I say unto you, you will know them by their feculent underwear, and stinking tastes–tastes that are sullied from their malcontent.

Their idiocy glistens in the midmorning sunshine as hurried pedestrians shield their somnambulant gaze with their unoccupied hand, phone in other–greys and gloom emanating from their glowing screens.

I watch, as the colors intermingle with the perverse stench of a Guatemalan woman's flatulence next to Me on the bus. I start to feel that familiar feeling of animosity toward them–I need a horse blanket to wrap Myself with, to mask the suffocating reek of stupidity, mediocrity, and silent stranger fart.

Fortunately, the world doesn't function to serve herd animals and their little joys, and occasionally, plagues eradicate the weak.