Another Night

April 12, 2017

The dust of the earth
Settles in the horizons;
Atmospheric window-pane
Becomes unclouded.

The tarnished moon,
Cleans as its edge may seem,
Suffers eons.

It seems the stars
Sing muted melodies,
Forlorn in their age.

Consumed by time,
Separated by time,
This universe.

Traced by my tired eyes–
Is there a story
In entropy?

And I wonder
what the ancients saw at night.



August 15, 2013

Of late I’ve felt the need to have a camera to keep on myself in expectation of the visual experiences that happen when one isn’t expecting it. For I only realized the value of photography when I realized that certain art is not something done but something seen. Just as moments of accidental genius bring about brilliant poetics, like heat sponsoring the creation of metalwork, moments of seeing are the result of the given capacity to experience. What remains is to exercise one’s ability to notice.

And yet on a more fundamental level, maybe all art is the act of seeing–visually, verbally, musically, conceptually. Observing two people from underneath a staircase in such a way that blocks the upper half of their body and results in an image potentially laden with meaning, an event of seeing which comes upon a person unexpectedly, is not something achieved but something accidental. Many of the surrealists seem to know this, but it might only seem more obvious because they praise the accident of images bubbling from the unconscious and slamming together in consciousness. And in the same way, seeing a connection between two concepts is something received, not chosen. A surge of ideas may come when I ask for it, it may not–but what thoughts will come I do not know. It is even a logical absurdity to anticipate a particular idea before it arrives.

If there’s a difference between the kind of photography I’m talking about and the act of digging out a written or drawn work, it may be that the latter is more like mining. A miner cannot choose to find copper, but he can direct his efforts toward a choice location. In fact, this analogy is fitting for all the Arts. A writer, a painter, a sculptor cannot choose to achieve a moment of insight, but she can aim her contemplation toward a particular subject.

The glory of an artist is supposed to be his creation, but at times I think his work is journeying and observing, not making.

Rhetoric and Aesthetics

December 8, 2012

Speak less or speak not at all.
How to forget:
Compelling ignorance
In company or isolation?
All within the mind
Aesthetics hardly happen
Minus mindful poets
For the existentialist
And other such stock characters.
Who would bleed for money
Like an accident
To work off inspiration
For appearance’s sake
Except the longing author
Posed main character
Seeming so honest.

Hearts could be free without framework.
Forsake your format.