Dabble.

Sometimes we capture the world through a dusty lens, hoping to create a small reminder of what it was to be alive at the moment. I find photographs rarely do justice to the greatest moments of our lives. The photo does not capture the way the breeze felt across your bare legs, or how the bowl of chicken noodle soup sounded as it splattered across the kitchen floor. And yet I love to take photographs. Photographs of friends, trinkets, statues, scenery, whatever. It's something I've sadly let go in the bustle of my life. I'd like to begin again.


Whimsical whispers sent forth from quivering lips. Reciting words like they're a lifeline, dancing only in the dark or behind closed doors. You are a miracle in my mind, enticing delicate etchings into solid forms. Carving statues from concepts and constructs. Where are you from to begin with. Do you know the mother of men that I have come to know? We met on the day I was born, fresh into this world. She kissed my forehead, told me everything is ok. Said the pretty little things of my mind will amount to more than we'd ever known. She is in the fluid voice of the driven musician, traveling on notes to the ears of mankind. She is the sunset across the mountains, throwing spectrums across the sky. She is the strength all men seek in moments of trouble, grasping for further endurance. She is the beauty of every child, she blesses us like prisms touching lips of the forbidden. The crystals refract the light and reveal. her existence.
Just look. You will find her.



http://thekidwasalright.deviantart.com/art/crystal-ball-93265126


Seizing the thoughts that drift distantly through my mind.
We never know where we will be led.

Simple

Sometimes we Smile
for the
lens
poised and waiting

sequence of memories
Captured
yet remembered?

I saw the photographs on your wall. And I wondered, were these some of the greatest moments of your life, created and captured with a simple contraption that has become the icon of memories? Do you see beyond the lens, and acquire the understanding of a new kind of beauty, forever your own? Each image tells a story. Moments we missed, cherished, shared, forgot. There's something so personal about photography, and the universe exposes itself to the hands of the practiced eye. Inconsequentially captured, these are the images that rot under our beds and fill our hard-drives. We try desperately to package that feeling and store it in our banks forever, to be called upon on days distant and unknown. Will it matter if we smiled?
I saw the photograph on my wall, and realized it was pouring that day.




Chicago, ice rink in Millenium Park, a few years ago.


flakes accumulate on sleeves
crunching footsteps
fall in
Ineffable silences

Repairable
The Cuff
of the sleeve
torn long ago

And so is true
for the heart
found in the
chill
of night


पास
Mandy