And as quickly as it began, it ended. You don't have to make sense of it all. It was a crack in time where we went to get lost, and we did, in eachother. And it was enough.
Looking for You
Heavy breathing from our shadows dancing against the walls.
Every secret delight with you leaves evidence–teethmarks on your neck.
Your lips against the moon.
My grip around the sun.
I've been looking for you.
Pseudo
Pseudo-thoughts traversing into the ether of the unknown–that’s what “art” is.
It’s like a dream. You can try as you may to interpret it, but in the end, it doesn’t reveal to you what it’s all about, or it’s deep-rooted significance.
That’s the soft face we caress, and try to hold onto.
Enigmatic. Elusive. Indulgent.
Nothing Lasts Forever
On nights like these, with nowhere to go, or nobody to go to, I can’t help but to think of lovers past, and mourn our unlived futures. But I have solace in knowing there’ll be others, with their own delicacies to snack on, albeit temporarily, because nothing lasts forever.
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.”
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.
Pectus Porcus
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.