A day, a day, a day
when distance meant the world
and time meant the
slow
drip
of
silent
rain.
slumberslumberslumbers
Deed
In deed,
The dive did dove the dying dark,
but did the budding dream of dedicated desire deserve the disastrous demons so dastardly dogging the damned?
You did divulge the death of our dearest darling
:: ::
:: ::
In err, we saw the blinking lights of day dreams.
To me it is no mystery that we can only photograph effectively what we are truly interested in or — maybe more importantly — are grappling with. This is often an unconscious process. Otherwise the photographs are merely about an idea or a concept; that stuff eventually falls flat for me. There must be something more, some emotional hook for it to really work for me. I tend to photograph things I’ve had problems with or I have struggled with, stuff that used to keep me up at night. It’s the same process with my photographs of houses — they are about recognizing some mysterious element of my childhood.
—Todd Hido interviewed by Darius Himes, 2007
draw (in progress)
Two hands clenched, knuckles white.
The lines matched in the wrestling war
Interweave and twine together.
The contenders tease the lives drawn,
Turning love lines and heart strings,
Seeking something unsound and unheard.
But blatant fates date the [stale]mates.
Dying digits linger for a moment.
Movement melts the melding.
The hands withdraw.
Pockets are filled with idyll hands.
Two tender purple bruises
Bare the broken bones.
A hard wind came,
Not a leaf was stirred.
My lungs were filled,
and I was carried.
Two swollen blue cheeks
Struggle to keep the last gasp;
But, the only thing left: to sigh…
only children hold their breath.
Notebook from the December 2012
a fan blade casts a moving shadow longer than it is
::
a town is the rising sun at midnight in a flat land
::
to strive is to strife as to dream is to sleep
and a heart never rests
but the soul takes its slumbers in the monotonous beat.
between in and out
it inhales and exhales
creating the face of inconsistency.
::
there seems to exist an appreciation for the honest
but also an appreciation for the future, which is the gamble bigger than what it is
::
tension
I’ve forgotten the words to all songs.
pull, pull, pull with the curve
cast yourself or resist
whimper will
I dared the willow, “What turns you so down?”
He all but replied, ” Why the sun and the rain, you fool.
Neither is consistent and I long for the contemporary two.”
work in progress
Subservience is a silent, sinister tool of the subversive.
Subtly subtitled, we observe the simple tenacity of submission.
Surreptitious and sly, the salient scoundrel succumbs,
Serving several and suffering none
For he knows, the knots that noose his neck
Are naught but noble gnawings that need his kneading.
His inadvertent invasions, though thorough yet thin,
Indebt the inactive through the thick.
this one’s for the kids
The twitch comes with a twinge, an ache, a quake as you fake the tension that holds these lips taut.
A mere grimace, a blemish, a finish to the start.
“Grin and fear it, rear it, bare it. Care for it.”
You tear at it, stare at it, and it gets you near it,
But, jaws clenched, no bite.
A girl closes her heart when she closes her legs,
What’s fire without a little air?
