Quietos Fratris


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.

Quietos Fratris: Roll #1, Frame #8.

I uploaded this a little while ago, but realized shortly afterward that I had jumped the gun and forgotten to retouch the dust marks off the film. So here it is again, sans distracting dust marks.

But while I was doing this it got me thinking about process, and the myriad of things we do as image makers to achieve a final image that satiates our thirsty mind's eye, that go unnoticed to the end viewer.

I think of all the untold secrets that my photographs have contained in them, that I don't care to ever discuss, and in this way I achieve a sense of intimacy with each and every one of them. Photography is a graceful relationship.

Strange Times

We are living through strange times–a time where people care more about their social currency than the caliber of their character.

Intelligence is discarded in exchange for "influence".

But what is needed is more love, empathy, and art–not likes, followers, and personal brands. We are not personal brands, we are people, people with legacies that need not be corporatized, but actualized.

These are strange times, strange times indeed.

The Boy Who Breathed Fear Into His Lungs

The cruelty of summer had vacated the abiding night's temperament, and he was ready to enjoy the healthy air–finally.

It had been quite some time since he breathed with ease. His chest expanded with satisfaction, without the normal crackle that had plagued him during the heatwaves. That is, until a sinister breeze perverted his lungs with its hellborn gossamer.

Strands of spiderweb draped themselves upon his bronchi, and moments later, the hatchlings bursted open.

Baby spiders instinctively spun their web on the branches of his alveoli with industrious velocity, and his wheezes bore into the tranquility of the night.

He was afraid of spiders, and now his breaths were a breeding ground for his fears.