Submitted by spaceadams on Sun, 04/06/2014 - 18:14
Jokers in the tribune, chronicles, salutation of them to the god/goddess (and this person, whom we hold in our hand) - thousands of rites upon rites and articulations - most overcome sensory deprivation, chain-gang fortitude and the knowledge that grew from it - and saw with sweet delineations the growth and decline of mountainous minds - free-stroke thought climbers, dirigible engulfing mountaineers! when recorded history has moved beyond the footsteps of these clowns and dog-citizens, flowing antebellum stories for hundreds of generations - past tense! that which was always will be! overcome all odds and be long-historical-conqueror!
"I dove into the shallow end, the pool of relinquishing, mind-harpoon spearing me, the giant blue demon of my dream that I am, this gargantuan mantlepiece of drowning breath"
Sadness drowns the eyes of shadow-play, whittled-light tunnels are for reading of texts, of passing times and times over with rounding wheel similarity, the likeness of each from the next.
Sergent Achilles send me motions and archer wondering blister-flows of their thoughts or messages from pigeons antiquated and dying, simple logic flaxen and stretched until the breaking point/charred realization
Submitted by spaceadams on Fri, 04/04/2014 - 13:19
The most delicate thought I'd had in months, perhaps years, slowly crept upon my mind. While I was sitting, ankles crossed under the chair, some strewn books before me on the table, three men chatting across the room: the tumbling nature of their words made the conversation incoherent to me, but I watched, without looking, just occasionally glancing at them to pair the movement of their lips to the words I could make out. In doses, I felt the fresh air waves across my face, and I felt the few hairs below my knuckles flutter in the breeze. I had noticed that the window was shut, but somehow the waves of air could be sensed upon the windowpane, and I only wished to open the window and allow the flow to be completed - a cycle of circular air movements from the doorway, around to the right past the table I sit at, between myself and the three men across the room, and out through the window to my right - only to circle back around the outside to the doorway, and continue this oval-like cyclical wave. It was in this moment a thought crossed my mind unlike one in a very long time. The question of morality - a concept I'd long since abandoned as the respite for immobile thinkers - that is, those who must find ways to justify bad choices, or give themselves a path that creates security in good choices, and the calming presence of some natural law that we exist within - an order, so to speak. But while I'd casually dismissed order for the sake of chaos long ago, this thought of manner and matter and how they are intertwined came into play. For perhaps just a moment, but a monumental moment at that - so stringent and intense was the thought that the moment could have stretched out over days without my witness of days passing. I believed in such things, for this moment, that I had never before - the wandering eyes I'd been giving to these three men - was it rightful for me? Could I intertwine my being with theirs in such a callous way? I wondered if there way not a standard for such things - and now my mind has and had formulated a set of its own enigmatic codes - but only for this minute moment, and as soon as it passed, I became re-acquainted with the space I was in, that I am in, and will be in for an undefined length hence.
Holding onto codes as fast as my mind can generate them is impossible - but it is also inadvisable - for each moment that creates them is stretched infinitely onwards within itself (the self of the moment, the time-self, innumerable, unquantifiable). I cannot be what I am at any given moment, in the witness of any other moment of my self (the moment of the self, the self-time, innumerable, unquantifiable). Had I given thought to a new standard to live by? I understood that perhaps it is one that exists pre-determined, almost as an unconscious human evolution pattern - that morality is imprinted on our beings from before awareness, and lasts far after awareness recedes - but it becomes limited, a time-stamp that creates buzz in my head - like all humans abound - like the three men across the room, their muttering syllabic mysteries the only thing that keeps me seeking, listening, deserting codes generated at random (or with evolutionary imperative).
mystical sensible time-feel, the monuments erected in conscious patterns as I see them,
Submitted by spaceadams on Thu, 03/20/2014 - 19:51
Enchanted with the sudden ringing of funeral bells,I could not move from my seat or accomplish any small movements,
not much more than the flickering of my eyelashes and the slow heaving of my chest in steady breath.
The bells continued, chiming a song-like soliloquy out over white-stone crypts: echo flattering the expanse with a vibratory gloss -
a jewel-arousal of sights and scents coalesced with the continued ringing.
Anterior lines of cross-woven steel, punctured into wood beams before laboriously carved tombstones and their shade-lines.
The day's sunlight spills just beyond the inch-edge of the cross-hatch fence,
its shadow narrow and angling inwards as the sunlight reaches its highest point above -
the hard edge of shadow reciprocal, bending and curving until its many layers sink and meld into one,
and are absorbed by all shadow, where the sun does not shine directly, under blue-teal carved ceilings and rock-slate dense and muddied, where only the eye's refraction carves light.
Here's a corporate video I did for Jim Roumell and his team. I'm really proud of this. It's educational without a lecture. Showing that you can manage money with reason without greed. The interviews are solid. Discovered some great work with Premiere's sharpening filter. The DSLRs shoot so soft that adding the sharpening filter to the interviews really made the image pop without any real lighting equipment. I think it's really hard to do a good corporate video, but Jim and his team really gave the time and attention to detail to make the piece work. As always please play fullscreen.
Submitted by spaceadams on Tue, 02/04/2014 - 14:13
and I'm sorry about the trees. The rubber trees. It was only in a dream that I knew they were dead. The cold day had stretched itself to a week and every lingering leaf was doomed to fall - all crackled like cold fingers; collapsing stone monoliths in a sand-world. Like all my dreams this was the 3rd of the night (though by suggesting every dream is the 3rd leaves no imagination of the 1st, 2nd, 4th dreams and so on... its as if a buzzard call in my head rings me into the 3rd dream, and despite the dreams before and after, I only know this 3rd, and yet, I know it, insolubly, is the 3rd in some mystical series) and as it arrived I knew I was placed in a livid space - stars were scattered thin, the sooty humid of the sky hustling downward into clouds, mist, and trickling veins of wind that I could feel on my skin. I could hear the highway in the distance and stumbled to remember the road it was - if this was the interstate or some foggy resolution of various hybrid roads across time. But the rubber tree that had grown in other enigmas was now small, yet vivacious, internalizing its greatness as the leaves fell and the green-gold branches dried to crumbling bark. The effervescence of it disrupted - I could not smell the glimpses from past dreams.
Submitted by spaceadams on Sun, 01/26/2014 - 12:25
This man from Uruguay, so used to being seen with a glass of wine in his hand - he had given his art to the wine shop - now for me to carry a piece on for him... The mysterious figures; always enchanting, somehow, and his presence and stained coffee lips were a joy for a brief while.