tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15754797843612862352024-03-05T16:43:15.733-05:00conditions uncertainmarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.comBlogger357125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-20006138313558318902013-02-06T12:27:00.000-05:002013-02-06T12:27:08.081-05:00In a razor town, the only thing that matters tends to bring you down <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_eivef98zartaLUVwkK0ZII5jyXokIvEfqjJZFGGNLkc2MEXr7b0yQsIBfFNGApOkF8xuEGsh52vp6AQ_UetMs52tBDAbCiWUDKaWhUDIgY9a-u5yVEVgPwlJMkLIzpd2OfQRQcc0tfNq/s1600/DSC_0055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="283" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_eivef98zartaLUVwkK0ZII5jyXokIvEfqjJZFGGNLkc2MEXr7b0yQsIBfFNGApOkF8xuEGsh52vp6AQ_UetMs52tBDAbCiWUDKaWhUDIgY9a-u5yVEVgPwlJMkLIzpd2OfQRQcc0tfNq/s400/DSC_0055.jpg" /></a></div>OK Barbershop, Pulaski, Virginia, Jan. 2013 <br />
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Current Listening, Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit <i>Live from Alabama</i>: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8sO0KIQD8dw<br />
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markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-45778096905028895092013-02-05T09:55:00.000-05:002013-02-05T09:55:26.595-05:00Before the dam goes up at the foot of the sea/ before the new wing of the prison ribbon ceremony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MshRmCUnV5mEE3hz99mRauAtB_t4h1jCmm93E6WYQVwTmDilkOcj5d-g7ZOCxaNbP8FnwgfQubvyp-IgF4C9SBYWZha2WR6ymlhGIt0t4tSlIWtEhn9LJiJV7Gj_4N26G2gFyf-ujWnh/s1600/304786_4963145730184_636777122_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MshRmCUnV5mEE3hz99mRauAtB_t4h1jCmm93E6WYQVwTmDilkOcj5d-g7ZOCxaNbP8FnwgfQubvyp-IgF4C9SBYWZha2WR6ymlhGIt0t4tSlIWtEhn9LJiJV7Gj_4N26G2gFyf-ujWnh/s400/304786_4963145730184_636777122_n.jpg" /></a></div>Hickory, NC, Dec. 2012 <br />
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"They [William Eggleston's photographs] focus on the mundane world. But no subject is fuller of implications than the mundane world! When you see what the mundane world so openly and multitudinously affirms, there is everything left to say."--from Eudora Welty's Introduction to Eggleston's The Democratic Forest <br />
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"There is nothing as mysterious as a fact clearly described."--Garry Winogrand<br />
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Listening, Father John Misty, "Fun Times In Babylon": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_yUMED9IG0markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-58433737810357164122013-01-27T15:50:00.001-05:002013-01-27T16:15:30.416-05:00What's the winter's cold negative press/ what's the spring with it's air of rebirth / to those felled under wildest duress / trading freedom for a false sense of worth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIS2A9KlT5IGEPkHTulTBCR7upw_vkqHTQHGrSflNHP3CKK_fAxUg3lhUc2tqomJYqxVG0UOZgp7EUFQrHvKkOwpgw9AV9eppBjBz0pNUyU-UjNhwMsNayIqUmMn-Y7LKYpI13Ot60t6t/s1600/DSC_0043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="290" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIS2A9KlT5IGEPkHTulTBCR7upw_vkqHTQHGrSflNHP3CKK_fAxUg3lhUc2tqomJYqxVG0UOZgp7EUFQrHvKkOwpgw9AV9eppBjBz0pNUyU-UjNhwMsNayIqUmMn-Y7LKYpI13Ot60t6t/s400/DSC_0043.jpg" /></a></div>Future Borne in Eyes of the Present, Mouth of Wilson, VA <br />
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After a very long hiatus, I've decided to start updating the photo blog again. I plan to pick up where I left off (a year/ two years ago? I don't even know), mixing photos (mostly photos I've taken around sw virginia or wherever I roam) with poetry, literature, and music. <br />
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The photo above was taken in Mouth of Wilson, Virginia, on a recent drive from Boone, NC. I missed a lot of potentially great photos on the trip--a faded red 1970's RV with a Confederate Flag covering the front window, and, ironically, the words "These colors don't fade" written across the top; two single wide trailers, both painted cornflower blue, aligned perfectly beside one another, one from the 1970's probably, the other more recent; etc.<br />
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I've lost some of the fearlessness or stupidity (maybe just rudeness) that once allowed me to pull over in someone's driveway and snap a shot I felt like I had to have. In any case, I hope to start posting again regularly, especially once spring arrives and I can start walking around and exploring without freezing. I also hope to start on a sort of nature photography project I've thought about doing for a long time but haven't gotten around to. <br />
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Current listening (Jason Isbell), great stuff: <br />
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bA5ad3fU1_8markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-69349282202473476642010-11-11T09:10:00.003-05:002010-11-11T09:13:44.495-05:00tried to fight the creeping sense of dread with temporal things, most of the time I guess I felt alright<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJFEbky_XhUOWIz5V5bBxbU9gvmDTkpREfVwcHZ3dgn6GkD3MkHtP9n7Eih_P1VEFj931KO_hyphenhyphen8UdrWFvyuopwqyZ3HXRs2z8ABq5CwRpDoHJU3k3jEaUdnDmgKfuoEyJEUj3TWq8hpUT/s1600-h/DSC_0047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJFEbky_XhUOWIz5V5bBxbU9gvmDTkpREfVwcHZ3dgn6GkD3MkHtP9n7Eih_P1VEFj931KO_hyphenhyphen8UdrWFvyuopwqyZ3HXRs2z8ABq5CwRpDoHJU3k3jEaUdnDmgKfuoEyJEUj3TWq8hpUT/s400/DSC_0047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374365028368252226" /></a>Brooklyn, New York<br /><br />The Mountain Goats, "The Mess Inside"<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7YRWzxYS_nM?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7YRWzxYS_nM?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-67297128031531902062010-06-15T19:55:00.003-05:002010-06-15T20:12:10.965-05:00Have you lost your faith, have you lost your way, have you lost everything you thought you held yesterday?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9XQ4xQKN-rBfbVV9pxFZFWO82dORIpdln8RP0J3GwkR3lKB1V6573mj0qh7TCcwJHVl6BrqtuujsTVD9qaT1t16lxXhyjKeg-9E9od4dHPR2dHbG3QuVKRDH2I0uHSZNxtFPpeqIph7ny/s1600/DSC_1674.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9XQ4xQKN-rBfbVV9pxFZFWO82dORIpdln8RP0J3GwkR3lKB1V6573mj0qh7TCcwJHVl6BrqtuujsTVD9qaT1t16lxXhyjKeg-9E9od4dHPR2dHbG3QuVKRDH2I0uHSZNxtFPpeqIph7ny/s400/DSC_1674.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483168866569107890" /></a>Do Good, Lion's Club Flea-Market, Dublin, Virginia, 2010<br /><br />the photo is just an excuse to post some old-school soothing Smog (Bill Callahan), "To Be Of Use" from <span style="font-style:italic;">Red Apple Falls</span><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7YBsKm2B2nQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7YBsKm2B2nQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-28854811386051289682010-05-27T10:42:00.007-05:002010-05-27T10:59:50.275-05:00I wish I was in heaven sittin down, I wish the road we were taking wasn't made for breaking down<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwtsObnhs2io_ajvFo0cnu6moV67BFkIKBQvLs6lJw2k_ZgMPwdlienNjnkCNuHVDGdEE0e-HIGZ-HdTs3TfI-u-YI_o7qRyyDMC4ZpRaN7htHO5tFSfNNWqD_R_uj53UPXlHZS2jeCgv/s1600/DSC_1574.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwtsObnhs2io_ajvFo0cnu6moV67BFkIKBQvLs6lJw2k_ZgMPwdlienNjnkCNuHVDGdEE0e-HIGZ-HdTs3TfI-u-YI_o7qRyyDMC4ZpRaN7htHO5tFSfNNWqD_R_uj53UPXlHZS2jeCgv/s400/DSC_1574.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475975921352516562" /></a>Motel Wolves, Cherokee, North Carolina<br /><br />If you're a fan of loose, rambling country rock, Phosphorescent's new album <em>Here's To Taking It Easy</em> is well worth checking out. Along with Bill Callahan's <em>Rough Travel for a Rare Thing</em>, it's been my daily soundtrack lately. "Wolves" is from their previous album, <em>Pride</em>. <br /> <br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jH3C8FyHsIk&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jH3C8FyHsIk&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-76896796537795121742010-05-24T20:20:00.000-05:002010-06-15T20:21:04.640-05:00I still never win, but I'd love to try it<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjp_LtM9VSoixu_W1J839ndXCQwP8GTw6xaAYUccOe9t5OvpD7lHdTtvCZOg0psOFNsEXuIRWNRRDAGLIEtGBV33KaIFO-eRQQSwWUzo71xTNLWyQc0Yy-YMmw5AWg1k3Nk0JLIAeHALnJ/s1600/deerblanket.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjp_LtM9VSoixu_W1J839ndXCQwP8GTw6xaAYUccOe9t5OvpD7lHdTtvCZOg0psOFNsEXuIRWNRRDAGLIEtGBV33KaIFO-eRQQSwWUzo71xTNLWyQc0Yy-YMmw5AWg1k3Nk0JLIAeHALnJ/s400/deerblanket.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476862125074255922" /></a>White-tailed Deer Throw, Cherokee, North Carolinamarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-1962362698816739982010-05-23T16:23:00.006-05:002010-05-27T11:15:17.736-05:00On a day that threatens that the earth might open up, the birds have stopped their singing, the insects have shut up.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Ctv_VH3TPywyn2BmHkrL8U4vdFU73fbPjC4wew2d5CqafJjlwJmbEF4soIv6h4otgvCPGnj7R8eKJe-Y8uxJr1aU6Y4MbYQ23zi2jDEMVBap0Nd5iCvJ8GQ8089NBGuTn_nccN712Cp9/s1600/DSC_1447.NEF.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Ctv_VH3TPywyn2BmHkrL8U4vdFU73fbPjC4wew2d5CqafJjlwJmbEF4soIv6h4otgvCPGnj7R8eKJe-Y8uxJr1aU6Y4MbYQ23zi2jDEMVBap0Nd5iCvJ8GQ8089NBGuTn_nccN712Cp9/s400/DSC_1447.NEF.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474579639441496226" /></a>Repent, Cleveland, Tennessee<br /><br />~<em>from</em> Flannery O'Connor's "Parker's Back" <br /><br /><em>As he circled the field his mind was on a suitable design for his back. The sun, the size of a golf ball, began to switch regularly from in front to behind him, but he appeared to see it in both places as if he had eyes in the back of his head. All at once he saw the tree reaching out to grasp him. A ferocious thud propelled him into the air, and he heard himself yelling in an unbievably loud voice, "GOD ABOVE!"<br /><br />He landed on his back while the tractor crashed upside down into a tree and burst into flame. The first thing Parker saw were his shoes, quickly being eaten by the fire; one was caught under the tractor, the other was some distance away, burning by itself. He was not in them. He could feel the hot breath of the burning tree on his face. He scrambled backwards, still sitting, his eyes cavernous, and if had known how to cross himself he would have done it. <br /><br />His truck was on a dirt road at the edge of the field. He moved toward it, still sitting, still backwards, but faster and faster; halfway he got up and began a kind of forward-bent run from which he collapsed on his knees twice. His legs felt like two old rusted rain gutters. He reached the truck finally and took off in it, zigzagging up the road. He drove past his house on the embankment and straight for the city, fifty miles distant. <br /><br />Parker did not allow himself to think on the way to the city. He only knew that there had been a great change in his life, a leap forward into a worse unknown, and that there was nothing he could do about it.</em>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-91668369487234809892010-05-21T11:01:00.006-05:002010-05-21T11:23:18.782-05:00sometimes father you and I are like dirty ghosts who wear the same sheets every day, as one more piece of us just dies and dies and dies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0fKm3pERSLXaQzKwfcnRz0TonIr2wnvUTRs4V9aYu_2JsCp_fj0tjsMFvXZ6QVdgvjmq32irDxgcoeemW90atS7Z0bkr2qFnGLdQ0ddfH70xCY5_EJwrNf1VLQqj9vx2-8ZWnTlCX_wP/s1600/DSC_1589.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0fKm3pERSLXaQzKwfcnRz0TonIr2wnvUTRs4V9aYu_2JsCp_fj0tjsMFvXZ6QVdgvjmq32irDxgcoeemW90atS7Z0bkr2qFnGLdQ0ddfH70xCY5_EJwrNf1VLQqj9vx2-8ZWnTlCX_wP/s400/DSC_1589.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473754307569079042" /></a>Big Chief and Harrah's Casino, Cherokee, North Carolina<br /><br />Final scene from Werner Herzog's <em>Stroszek</em><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bm3B82Q5vhY&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bm3B82Q5vhY&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-37943913451616044642010-05-06T08:46:00.004-05:002010-05-06T09:41:35.296-05:00with some ballet moves I removed her shoes, and painted my lips to hers, but still she said "I can't believe you own this attitude."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTmujmOKkW2DH8x-LJVIWzJ_C-pOCMR0FxCkbhrxwI45IrMCEY6ZUXmL2zJLJH5na0zwsONtSRjQu-RRJIzXCG2wMUeM_NdvCAvyTfoTAWxwF6rLW1NviVEKv6KAwaBV5e2il7BCBZzmS/s1600/DSC_0448.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTmujmOKkW2DH8x-LJVIWzJ_C-pOCMR0FxCkbhrxwI45IrMCEY6ZUXmL2zJLJH5na0zwsONtSRjQu-RRJIzXCG2wMUeM_NdvCAvyTfoTAWxwF6rLW1NviVEKv6KAwaBV5e2il7BCBZzmS/s400/DSC_0448.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468153105659297666" /></a>Dance Academy, Erwin, TN<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Questions About Angels</span><br />~Billy Collins<br /><br />Of all the questions you might want to ask<br />about angels, the only one you ever hear<br />is how many can dance on the head of a pin.<br /><br />No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time<br />besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin<br />or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth<br />or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.<br /><br />Do they fly through God's body and come out singing?<br />Do they swing like children from the hinges<br />of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?<br />Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors?<br /><br />What about their sleeping habits, the fabric of their robes,<br />their diet of unfiltered divine light?<br />What goes on inside their luminous heads? Is there a wall<br />these tall presences can look over and see hell?<br /><br />If an angel fell off a cloud, would he leave a hole<br />in a river and would the hole float along endlessly<br />filled with the silent letters of every angelic word?<br /><br />If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive<br />in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume<br />the appearance of the regular mailman and<br />whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?<br /><br />No, the medieval theologians control the court.<br />The only question you ever hear is about<br />the little dance floor on the head of a pin<br />where halos are meant to converge and drift invisibly.<br /><br />It is designed to make us think in millions,<br />billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse<br />into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:<br />one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,<br />a small jazz combo working in the background.<br /><br />She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful<br />eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over<br />to glance at his watch because she has been dancing<br />forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Isadora Duncan</span><br />~Vic Chesnutt <br /><br />once I dreamed I was dancing with Isadora Duncan<br />in a silver cafe,<br />it was a cafe that was not at all near here<br />she was planning to diversify<br />and she sang I should do the same<br />so I whistled to her how I loved her the best<br /><br />but she sang "I can't believe you own this attitude",<br />but with some ballet moves,<br />I removed her shoes<br />and I painted my lips to hers<br />and still she sang "I can't believe you own this attitude"<br />she sang "I can't believe you own this, this attitude"<br /><br />she needed her beauty sleep<br />though I didn't want it to sound like that<br />her mind was occupied,<br />her hard coffee was cold by then as snow<br /><br />and she sang "my smile is more than pearly white,<br />and my dreams are more than you",<br />she sang "my yellow eyes are more than mirrors,<br />and my scarf is more, more, more than blue."<br /><br />and she sang "I can't believe you own this attitude"<br />yes i sang "I can't believe you own this, this attitude"<br /><br />she closed her New Directions paperbook<br />and screamed "there is no shelter in the arts"<br />she'd been crying all day<br />but now her eyes they were brighter than the moon<br /><br />and she sang "my smile is more than pearly white,<br />and my dreams are more than you",<br />she sang "my yellow eyes are more than mirrors,<br />and my scarf is more, more, more, more than blue."<br /><br />and she sang "I can't believe you own this attitude"<br />"I can't believe it, I can't believe you own this attitude",<br />"I can't believe it, I can't believe you own this, this attitude".markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-66574711067710775612010-04-29T14:56:00.001-05:002010-04-29T15:08:51.337-05:00I'd be riding horses if they let me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-hq_tqHxDmblnqMIwrbtd-9Tuz2cPmWFLoa8yJbW5ipgAtDEv-montbdLteZsdXdpAY4yk3a80TXr5cwjBGhb3PATODqh62N1nf3sMYZd3bo8aMcj8g3Q7tuQeRu4nvAivlWNlI4vO5O/s1600/DSC_0210.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-hq_tqHxDmblnqMIwrbtd-9Tuz2cPmWFLoa8yJbW5ipgAtDEv-montbdLteZsdXdpAY4yk3a80TXr5cwjBGhb3PATODqh62N1nf3sMYZd3bo8aMcj8g3Q7tuQeRu4nvAivlWNlI4vO5O/s400/DSC_0210.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465649040320199106" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9T4XfJR7O-XFYdkuCyrH5kQksQRB342gla4zA9MFTyQDSxfLbcL3rf5ms8JG3UZIuFVq-NvOtprwJY7ueh4-fTcdudHKISUFj2rFY5sG54t514bY1iPUA9rLMax0rPXYbe-VumrpaJjly/s1600/DSC_0215.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9T4XfJR7O-XFYdkuCyrH5kQksQRB342gla4zA9MFTyQDSxfLbcL3rf5ms8JG3UZIuFVq-NvOtprwJY7ueh4-fTcdudHKISUFj2rFY5sG54t514bY1iPUA9rLMax0rPXYbe-VumrpaJjly/s400/DSC_0215.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465649046790591410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsc1Af8IOC97wtdPjj47nUHIaF7Hfp0DGCOz9oSXYGH5b5Ju8EdG5NqcrXgZBkgVg1Kshi8_66AQTAtUVdwQlz1m9S7emA7DJdmKxfjQPBiORW4TQ6MqXjfrgLnxKELAJ7My93xuLaBl2Y/s1600/DSC_0222.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsc1Af8IOC97wtdPjj47nUHIaF7Hfp0DGCOz9oSXYGH5b5Ju8EdG5NqcrXgZBkgVg1Kshi8_66AQTAtUVdwQlz1m9S7emA7DJdmKxfjQPBiORW4TQ6MqXjfrgLnxKELAJ7My93xuLaBl2Y/s400/DSC_0222.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465649053053909826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUtx0ZDw67F2uvdJmyJgJZFQR0ryZpQvNMxL9pWL6orbJVYuwS9eZCgDT3lGxSGvO_VPrcsmvv-CICdyKJDXzWRfN-KecpPEpk5VfBb1xrrHEj_7rkl6ac0mACNDahLtYLLk6Mf8M6-0_L/s1600/DSC_0264.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUtx0ZDw67F2uvdJmyJgJZFQR0ryZpQvNMxL9pWL6orbJVYuwS9eZCgDT3lGxSGvO_VPrcsmvv-CICdyKJDXzWRfN-KecpPEpk5VfBb1xrrHEj_7rkl6ac0mACNDahLtYLLk6Mf8M6-0_L/s400/DSC_0264.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465650148555544514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5wOaz7BNDO_mgVkPVXpxT-mB_d-akiQTaDw4AQJVgjDlfHG98YOJq0Bzz2NalcvgAY87HXsxx3eKW7iuNluAfMozWXhtI96zembTeJVzVFPtviIaCPLnXJGJ23jt4G173ezAGAmofB8p/s1600/DSC_0239.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8U6lSEDubKVVADp5Ccn4Zfx0WbsQhaYnPFLTVVaX__dk61kR3pU88MZ7LM_U7ONkxkYxeXsU6eguj2umODh45LvoycI99hiaBJW35le4uHvOzTU4GyRSxqmNbw8yfaQrt6gS3rEeX-YW0/s400/DSC_0236.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465650131102465778" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTu6OvdejMLEWQtInsmg5cY5zZgLmLwMWj8NzxZJLAxKNH3DJ3ofYHRGmWXDvWFOonvIrx2LFTlDv3J7JLerEGNK1nwT0fUwHKhhfvJ1nOUt_RXws4fUIWve-yEAp2BcxT4RlSdhuCDb_/s1600/DSC_0266.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTu6OvdejMLEWQtInsmg5cY5zZgLmLwMWj8NzxZJLAxKNH3DJ3ofYHRGmWXDvWFOonvIrx2LFTlDv3J7JLerEGNK1nwT0fUwHKhhfvJ1nOUt_RXws4fUIWve-yEAp2BcxT4RlSdhuCDb_/s400/DSC_0266.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465650153838526882" /></a>Some photos from the 2009 Virginia High-School Rodeo, Dublin, Virgina<br /><br />I've been going through some old stuff recently...I don't think I've posted these before. <br /><br />Will Oldham (Palace), Horses <br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FOyb-jlVp7c&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FOyb-jlVp7c&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-91462791970570451052010-04-28T17:24:00.002-05:002010-04-28T17:42:28.593-05:00Once again in the world of 1,200 feelings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMVYKQ0vCiooktIRarjIayxQnL1VKwgI0XKLS4e_MRgg6Hsr9rdDWuGYCgueXomL43vyRsfay8DiQBrVyfBkuXcvW4ZmTHgcRUqAwEhj_GjAHRx1u2G5O5-1_GmyHJ_u_GZz4UPBEJpwF/s1600/DSC_1454.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMVYKQ0vCiooktIRarjIayxQnL1VKwgI0XKLS4e_MRgg6Hsr9rdDWuGYCgueXomL43vyRsfay8DiQBrVyfBkuXcvW4ZmTHgcRUqAwEhj_GjAHRx1u2G5O5-1_GmyHJ_u_GZz4UPBEJpwF/s400/DSC_1454.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465317868481760834" /></a>Hoop Dreams, Northfork, West Virginia<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Defending Walt Whitman</span><br />--Sherman Alexie <br /><br />Basketball is like this for young Indian boys, all arms and legs<br />and serious stomach muscles. Every body is brown!<br />These are the twentieth-century warriors who will never kill,<br />although a few sat quietly in the deserts of Kuwait,<br />waiting for orders to do something, to do something.<br /><br />God, there is nothing as beautiful as a jumpshot<br />on a reservation summer basketball court<br />where the ball is moist with sweat,<br />and makes a sound when it swishes through the net<br />that causes Walt Whitman to weep because it is so perfect.<br /><br />There are veterans of foreign wars here<br />although their bodies are still dominated<br />by collarbones and knees, although their bodies still respond<br />in the ways that bodies are supposed to respond when we are young.<br />Every body is brown! Look there, that boy can run<br />up and down this court forever. He can leap for a rebound<br />with his back arched like a salmon, all meat and bone<br />synchronized, magnetic, as if the court were a river,<br />as if the rim were a dam, as if the air were a ladder<br />leading the Indian boy toward home.<br /><br />Some of the Indian boys still wear their military hair cuts<br />while a few have let their hair grow back.<br />It will never be the same as it was before!<br />One Indian boy has never cut his hair, not once, and he braids it<br />into wild patterns that do not measure anything.<br />He is just a boy with too much time on his hands.<br />Look at him. He wants to play this game in bare feet.<br /><br />God, the sun is so bright! There is no place like this.<br />Walt Whitman stretches his calf muscles<br />on the sidelines. He has the next game.<br />His huge beard is ridiculous on the reservation.<br />Some body throws a crazy pass and Walt Whitman catches it<br />with quick hands. He brings the ball close to his nose<br />and breathes in all of its smells: leather, brown skin, sweat,<br />black hair, burning oil, twisted ankle, long drink of warm water,<br />gunpowder, pine tree. Walt Whitman squeezes the ball tightly.<br />He wants to run. He hardly has the patience to wait for his turn.<br />"What's the score?" he asks. He asks, "What's the score?"<br /><br />Basketball is like this for Walt Whitman. He watches these Indian boys<br />as if they were the last bodies on earth. Every body is brown!<br />Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.<br />Walt Whitman dreams of the Indian boy who will defend him,<br />trapping him in the corner, all flailing arms and legs<br />and legendary stomach muscles. Walt Whitman shakes<br />because he believes in God. Walt Whitman dreams<br />of the first jumpshot he will take, the ball arcing clumsily<br />from his fingers, striking the rim so hard that it sparks.<br />Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.<br />Walt Whitman closes his eyes. He is a small man and his beard<br />is ludicrous on the reservation, absolutely insane.<br />His beard makes the Indian boys righteously laugh. His beard<br />frightens the smallest Indian boys. His beard tickles the skin<br />of the Indian boys who dribble past him. His beard, his beard!<br /><br />God, there is beauty in every body. Walt Whitman stands<br />at center court while the Indian boys run from basket to basket.<br />Walt Whitman cannot tell the difference between<br />offense and defense. He does not care if he touches the ball.<br />Half of the Indian boys wear t-shirts damp with sweat<br />and the other half are bareback, skin slick and shiny.<br />There is no place like this. Walt Whitman smiles.<br />Walt Whitman shakes. This game belongs to him.markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-68125309680826302292010-04-04T09:57:00.003-05:002010-04-04T10:08:52.007-05:00You've been sittin' on your ass, tryin' to find some grace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfnR4soSd7cCBeODtZo2QchZUsa9F1da1eMuFGrwlC1IVt9qIrL68JsGVYdL8mrtGOSn9CUWtxFUoED1vHRVNCNsI2cQvF0_hHQ9IWSg_0b6DdM4IAowdeJNzCdSGm_MDda5y6TgV2YTC/s1600/DSC_1622.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfnR4soSd7cCBeODtZo2QchZUsa9F1da1eMuFGrwlC1IVt9qIrL68JsGVYdL8mrtGOSn9CUWtxFUoED1vHRVNCNsI2cQvF0_hHQ9IWSg_0b6DdM4IAowdeJNzCdSGm_MDda5y6TgV2YTC/s400/DSC_1622.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453521049457880850" /></a>Flowers in Car Window, Dublin, Virginia<br /><br />--wanted something from Chris Bell's <span style="font-style:italic;">I am the Cosmos</span>, but there's not much on youtube. So...<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fP2t6flTmyY&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fP2t6flTmyY&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-66663587797325329582010-03-30T15:54:00.007-05:002010-03-30T16:14:23.666-05:00It may be crazy, but I'm the closest thing I have to a voice of reason<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEcCPY3mfOdhEmVAeeEDD2eUWz2EcqgwXo8WZieynQi7KARZwMiHw42M8pSGSBx3Vqcalo5oDbebkwcvib7pYA25q4mEjkl3BAM2Obd7Klu91MhOpgYqochtctwRRWIMtLzpjY52AV8K32/s1600/DSC_0865.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEcCPY3mfOdhEmVAeeEDD2eUWz2EcqgwXo8WZieynQi7KARZwMiHw42M8pSGSBx3Vqcalo5oDbebkwcvib7pYA25q4mEjkl3BAM2Obd7Klu91MhOpgYqochtctwRRWIMtLzpjY52AV8K32/s400/DSC_0865.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454533679462589826" /></a>Untitled, near Asheville, NC<br /><br />Gil Scott-Heron covering Smog's "I'm New Here" <br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Y0E9CyEBkA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Y0E9CyEBkA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-60162809678748490212010-03-27T21:00:00.008-05:002010-03-27T22:34:10.595-05:00the only tune I hear is the sound of the wind, as it blows through the town<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjx6ZK3jnbRR0VqX9uf3xNwA5kkDqFhiHt63Ix0pO6NBKZGtvr2Xdbmb5KcmsVnVa7x1l-gdPMxQhLQfFMx08C8cayWOK5Be2ClTawHXPL1VQt-VdOCufjq1eGge1GcQoaIJES4NtPljy/s1600/DSC_1349.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjx6ZK3jnbRR0VqX9uf3xNwA5kkDqFhiHt63Ix0pO6NBKZGtvr2Xdbmb5KcmsVnVa7x1l-gdPMxQhLQfFMx08C8cayWOK5Be2ClTawHXPL1VQt-VdOCufjq1eGge1GcQoaIJES4NtPljy/s400/DSC_1349.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453499598148745522" /></a>Graham's Forge, Virginia<br /><br />The Red Clay Ramblers "Aragon Mill"<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dE0s7vhtmig&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dE0s7vhtmig&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-33362434332989249962010-03-26T10:10:00.009-05:002010-03-27T21:45:05.512-05:00Follow the ocean line, follow the flow, and give me a little time to take what I know<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0wP0ICHNWFD0HX4u9dsg0y7_oLHefYzF3qahttgjhv297r3PqFIoLLfb5Q4v3SxhIBuEfD2NeVbVzQB3cXJSMlh3ejvXFpsGpP9UFurhKxS2CEN4wwTpuZGLS479kXCjcTvKzYfo5eUg/s1600/DSC_0138.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0wP0ICHNWFD0HX4u9dsg0y7_oLHefYzF3qahttgjhv297r3PqFIoLLfb5Q4v3SxhIBuEfD2NeVbVzQB3cXJSMlh3ejvXFpsGpP9UFurhKxS2CEN4wwTpuZGLS479kXCjcTvKzYfo5eUg/s400/DSC_0138.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452960505003596530" /></a>Ocean Bay Seafood, Wytheville, VA <br /><br />--a sentence from Marc Richard's "Happiness of the Garden Variety" (in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Ice At the Bottom of the World</span>) <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">…one thing about Vic, and I say this to show how Steve Willis and I made all this worse, was that Vic not reading or writing seemed to make him not to think about things like they had names that he had to remember by of thinking that needed spelling, but instead Vic seemed to think about things in groups, like here is a group of things that are my humans, here is a group of things that are my animals, here is a group of things I got for free, here is a group of things I got off good deal making, and here is a group of things I should keep a long time because I got them from some people who had kept them a long time, and maybe because of another couple reasons put together, Vic had another group of things painted aquamarine blue because he had gotten a good deal on two fifty-five-gallon barrels of aquamarine blue paint, and everything—even Vic’s humans and animals who could not help but rub against or sit in somewhere because it was everywhere wet—everything was touched the color of aquamarine, though all of us calling it ackerine, because even spelling it out and sounding it out to Vic it still came out of his mouth that way, ackerine, keeping in mind here is a man who can’t read nor write, and Steve Willis and I saying it ackerine like Vic said it, for fun, because it also always seemed like somehow we were always holding a brush of it somewhere putting it on something in change for rent.</span>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-14538053491243326112010-03-25T08:29:00.005-05:002010-03-27T22:09:47.805-05:00All my heroes are in the great beyond, England is old but Atlantis is gone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4j5TsaOKv8_8FxODsps_pZQXOV0SA5i2woMiNZuIOX-t-gC1plzcVG0DVoAxWazG73nbq5oUxvxv6Ft497Oj5w-q51IvoTbsou225Y5VSI1CiiPe8CtVIPZyjWXputyi_jQUhwGwNUHf/s1600/DSC_1186.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4j5TsaOKv8_8FxODsps_pZQXOV0SA5i2woMiNZuIOX-t-gC1plzcVG0DVoAxWazG73nbq5oUxvxv6Ft497Oj5w-q51IvoTbsou225Y5VSI1CiiPe8CtVIPZyjWXputyi_jQUhwGwNUHf/s400/DSC_1186.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453516426682875858" /></a>Artificial Flowers, Gadsden, Alabama<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">One of the Butterflies</span><br />~W.S. Merwin<br /><br />The trouble with pleasure is the timing<br />it can overtake me without warning<br />and be gone before I know it is here<br />it can stand facing me unrecognized<br />while I am remembering somewhere else<br />in another age or someone not seen<br />for years and never to be seen again<br />in this world and it seems that I cherish<br />only now a joy I was not aware of<br />when it was here although it remains<br />out of reach and will not be caught or named<br />or called back and if I could make it stay<br />as I want to it would turn to pain. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Gravity</span><br />~Louis Jenkins <br /><br />It turns out that the drain pipe from the sink is attached to<br />nothing and water just runs right onto the ground in the<br />crawl space underneath the house and then trickles out<br />into the stream that passes through the backyard. It turns<br />out that the house is not really attached to the ground but<br />sits atop a few loose concrete blocks all held in place by<br />gravity, which, as I understand it, means "seriousness." Well,<br />this is serious enough. If you look into it further you will<br />discover that the water is not attached to anything either<br />and that perhaps the rocks and the trees are not all that<br />firmly in place. The world is a stage. But don't try to move<br />anything. You might hurt yourself, besides that's a job for<br />the stagehands and union rules are strict. You are merely a<br />player about to deliver a soliloquy on the septic system to a<br />couple dozen popple trees and a patch of pale blue sky.markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-49000224891394217412010-03-23T14:33:00.004-05:002010-03-23T14:53:17.899-05:00They got a name for the winners in the world, I want a name when I lose<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbnbSPwWHEfQ6hLIQ1nywF96qMM0CkNsAQw5vGD0gknxJ4Kwi1g_nTwMsk7xexXDuqvAkm05_7bidM_JWXtfOITQ2F21C34ooMaQFAKDkXpAFXJOJmiyuyMMOqld7imW9ImrK2OJb9TWwd/s1600-h/DSC_1212.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbnbSPwWHEfQ6hLIQ1nywF96qMM0CkNsAQw5vGD0gknxJ4Kwi1g_nTwMsk7xexXDuqvAkm05_7bidM_JWXtfOITQ2F21C34ooMaQFAKDkXpAFXJOJmiyuyMMOqld7imW9ImrK2OJb9TWwd/s400/DSC_1212.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449365341035141282" /></a>First and Commerce, Bluefield, WV<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">History of Desire</span><br />~Tony Hoagland<br /><br />When you're seventeen, and drunk<br />on the husky, late-night flavor<br />of your first girlfriend's voice<br />along the wires of the telephone<br /><br />what else to do but steal<br />your father's El Dorado from the drive,<br />and cruise out to the park on Driscoll Hill?<br />Then climb the county water tower<br /><br />and aerosol her name in spraycan orange<br />a hundred feet above the town?<br />Because only the letters of that word,<br />DORIS, next door to yours,<br /><br />in yard-high, iridescent script,<br />are amplified enough to tell the world<br />who's playing lead guitar<br />in the rock band of your blood.<br /><br />You don't consider for a moment<br />the shock in store for you in 10 A.D.,<br />a decade after Doris, when,<br />out for a drive on your visit home,<br /><br />you take the Smallville Road, look up<br />and see RON LOVES DORIS<br />still scorched upon the reservoir.<br />This is how history catches up—<br /><br />by holding still until you<br />bump into yourself.<br />What makes you blush, and shove<br />the pedal of the Mustang<br /><br />almost through the floor<br />as if you wanted to spray gravel<br />across the features of the past,<br />or accelerate into oblivion?<br /><br />Are you so out of love that you<br />can't move fast enough away?<br />But if desire is acceleration,<br />experience is circular as any<br /><br />Indianapolis. We keep coming back<br />to what we are—each time older,<br />more freaked out, or less afraid.<br />And you are older now.<br /><br />You should stop today.<br />In the name of Doris, stop.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Falling and Flying</span><br />~Jack Gilbert<br /><br />Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.<br />It's the same when love comes to an end,<br />or the marriage fails and people say<br />they knew it was a mistake, that everybody<br />said it would never work. That she was<br />old enough to know better. But anything<br />worth doing is worth doing badly.<br />Like being there by that summer ocean<br />on the other side of the island while<br />love was fading out of her, the stars<br />burning so extravagantly those nights that<br />anyone could tell you they would never last.<br />Every morning she was asleep in my bed<br />like a visitation, the gentleness in her<br />like antelope standing in the dawn mist.<br />Each afternoon I watched her coming back<br />through the hot stony field after swimming,<br />the sea light behind her and the huge sky<br />on the other side of that. Listened to her<br />while we ate lunch. How can they say<br />the marriage failed? Like the people who<br />came back from Provence (when it was Provence)<br />and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.<br />I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,<br />but just coming to the end of his triumph.markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-3684086198501582012010-03-19T09:41:00.010-05:002010-03-23T14:58:03.243-05:00All words aside, take care<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXy9-dv5JWxUdbcViVU6xWn0zfKoGSVCibKF_m-VM3AsqGDyGS31JiBaIPrl13jo8BG6B11HRLYe1acNVQonWjCxtV9xV7jEtTNdzUWzePEpGtn0y1sB38kRlYuEV61Jlh5kUrsBzq-wum/s1600-h/DSC_1225.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXy9-dv5JWxUdbcViVU6xWn0zfKoGSVCibKF_m-VM3AsqGDyGS31JiBaIPrl13jo8BG6B11HRLYe1acNVQonWjCxtV9xV7jEtTNdzUWzePEpGtn0y1sB38kRlYuEV61Jlh5kUrsBzq-wum/s400/DSC_1225.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450355301902530450" /></a>Untitled, Princeton, WV<br /><br />RIP Alex Chilton (1950-2010)<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CNVSjBRaJss&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CNVSjBRaJss&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Big Star (Alex Chilton)-"Thank You Friends"<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/JC0Wa3P_dO0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/JC0Wa3P_dO0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Paul Westerberg (The Replacements)-"Alex Chilton" <br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/52PPm1fozqU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/52PPm1fozqU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-13261672476462430322010-03-16T17:45:00.006-05:002010-03-16T21:02:47.494-05:00Stupid man, hitchhiking out of the good life, he says "Catch you when..."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCWDGZH5GJx4pOjIT11X5mFDDKs2Mwdb_YqQcOQzjatRYL_MkrNlaakoUX4pZx1stX1N4lpIl-_drEXGDXoyDOcaCcYLduHRO9VNcEkC09JIDTBIriTskydTbBMRHqwCByX6498z2dVEH/s1600-h/DSC_1251.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCWDGZH5GJx4pOjIT11X5mFDDKs2Mwdb_YqQcOQzjatRYL_MkrNlaakoUX4pZx1stX1N4lpIl-_drEXGDXoyDOcaCcYLduHRO9VNcEkC09JIDTBIriTskydTbBMRHqwCByX6498z2dVEH/s400/DSC_1251.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449417116547234402" /></a>Wheby's Van, Princeton, WV<br /><br />Rolling Stones (Keith Richards) "Coming Down Again"<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UG7WIrHtLUQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UG7WIrHtLUQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-33561963074350977032010-03-14T10:21:00.006-05:002010-03-16T21:08:55.099-05:00All that profit taking was a beautiful awakening.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX23oYaLn8VF2hHKvEe6CP-2oRK-6XlwuabwPEkXiF4rHu6nF3o8ahNe_5DkAz35RW5CBbKRTbi7y7SxHXI4BDnkDUA126Yqrf6C4i3rF7j8HrgQA_dss14qeM4VXDTPjW-5YqTC8yYC0B/s1600-h/DSC_1043.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX23oYaLn8VF2hHKvEe6CP-2oRK-6XlwuabwPEkXiF4rHu6nF3o8ahNe_5DkAz35RW5CBbKRTbi7y7SxHXI4BDnkDUA126Yqrf6C4i3rF7j8HrgQA_dss14qeM4VXDTPjW-5YqTC8yYC0B/s400/DSC_1043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446664779379155778" /></a>Flag in Window, Bluefield, WV<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">America</span><br />~Robert Creeley<br /><br />America, you ode for reality!<br />Give back the people you took.<br /><br />Let the sun shine again<br />on the four corners of the world<br /><br />you thought of first but do not<br />own, or keep like a convenience.<br /><br />People are your own word, you<br />invented that locus and term.<br /><br />Here, you said and say, is<br />where we are. Give back<br /><br />what we are, these people you made,<br />us, and nowhere but you to be. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />A Supermarket in California</span><br />~Allen Ginsberg<br /><br />What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for<br />I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache<br />self-conscious looking at the full moon.<br /> In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went<br />into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!<br /> What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families<br />shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the<br />avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what<br />were you doing down by the watermelons?<br /><br /> I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,<br />poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery<br />boys.<br /> I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the<br />pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?<br /> I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans<br />following you, and followed in my imagination by the store<br />detective.<br /> We strode down the open corridors together in our<br />solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen<br />delicacy, and never passing the cashier.<br /><br /> Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in<br />an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?<br /> (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the<br />supermarket and feel absurd.)<br /> Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The<br />trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be<br />lonely.<br /><br /> Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love<br />past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?<br /> Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,<br />what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and<br />you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat<br />disappear on the black waters of Lethe?markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-66504349307594221572010-03-12T14:10:00.005-05:002010-03-14T14:36:24.220-05:00What do you do with your pragmatic passions, with your classically neurotic style?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RLxZ9K_QniUOuTWGHnoIUljdIHi9KTkv9nrKRgzg5zf45z9kxZkvPY63CXCPpK8Z5rtGQXtrfFjBBEXniLF1bpqU_tJiuuj8Iz-PdyzBmX4jWK1ICCqMMOuAtHQrFhvK9NfnVPRPIan5/s1600-h/DSC_1236.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RLxZ9K_QniUOuTWGHnoIUljdIHi9KTkv9nrKRgzg5zf45z9kxZkvPY63CXCPpK8Z5rtGQXtrfFjBBEXniLF1bpqU_tJiuuj8Iz-PdyzBmX4jWK1ICCqMMOuAtHQrFhvK9NfnVPRPIan5/s400/DSC_1236.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446664786904261970" /></a>Jiffy Lube, Princeton, WV<br /><br /><strong>Of Memory and Distance</strong><br />~Russell Edson<br /><br />It’s a scientific fact that anyone entering the distance will grow smaller. Eventually becoming so small he might only be found with a telescope, or, for more intimacy, with a microscope…<br /><br /> But there’s a vanishing point, where anyone having penetrated the distance must disappear entirely without hope of his ever returning, leaving only a memory of his ever having been.<br /><br /> But then there is fiction, so that one is never really sure if it was someone who vanished into the end of seeing, or someone made of paper and ink…<br /><br /><strong>Antimatter </strong><br />~Russell Edson <br /> On the other side of a mirror there’s an inverse world, where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love.<br /><br /> And in the evening the sun is just rising.<br /><br /> Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon childhood robs them of their pleasure.<br /><br /> In such a world there is much sadness which, of course, is joy . . .markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-43031320426370402422010-03-11T10:36:00.006-05:002010-03-14T14:36:04.630-05:00'Cause we've got our recruits, and our green mohair suits, so please leave your i.d. at the door.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSjGIJFiil3dD4UenF86ItQ01uFnSgNUTZCJlfhNJHGu7YYsiBCrF-x7erm8s_gSK6O9akENwU0hThSgnwAJUmDZUQ_A_Ehh6R0I2Bn5FKO3vP3hT0x99utohaAmGsmpuAcKXnRYyukNG/s1600-h/DSC_1120.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSjGIJFiil3dD4UenF86ItQ01uFnSgNUTZCJlfhNJHGu7YYsiBCrF-x7erm8s_gSK6O9akENwU0hThSgnwAJUmDZUQ_A_Ehh6R0I2Bn5FKO3vP3hT0x99utohaAmGsmpuAcKXnRYyukNG/s400/DSC_1120.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446664782758014050" /></a>$3, $7, $5, Bluefield, WV<br /><br /><strong>Weariness of Men</strong><br />~Frank Stanford <br /><br />My grandmother said when she was young<br />The grass was so wild and high<br />You couldn’t see a man on horseback.<br /><br />In the fields she made out<br />Three barns,<br />Dark and blown down from the weather<br />Like her husbands.<br /><br />She remembers them in the dark,<br />Cursing the beasts,<br />And how they would leave the bed<br />In the morning,<br />The dead grass of their eyes<br />Stacked against her. <br /><br /><strong>Riverlight</strong><br />~Frank Stanford <br /><br />My father and I lie down together.<br />He is dead.<br /><br />We look up at the stars, the steady sound<br />Of the wind turning the night like a ceiling fan.<br />This is our home.<br /><br />I remember the work in him<br />Like bitterness in persimmons before a frost.<br />And I imagine the way he had fear,<br />The ground turning dark in a rain.<br /><br />Now he gets up.<br /><br />And I dream he looks down in my eyes<br />And watches me die. <br /><br /><strong>The Intruder</strong><br />~Frank Stanford <br /><br /><em>after Jean Follain</em><br /><br />In the evenings they listen to the same<br />tunes nobody could call happy<br />somebody turns up at the edge of town<br />the roses bloom<br />and an old dinner bell rings once more<br />under the thunder clouds<br />In front of the porch posts of the store<br />a man seated on a soda water case<br />turns around and spits and says<br />to everybody<br />in his new set of clothes<br />holding up his hands<br />as long as I live nobody<br />touches my dogs my friendsmarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-12692735637991629582010-03-10T10:33:00.003-05:002010-03-10T10:37:22.493-05:00The scientists say it will all wash away, but we don't believe anymore.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj25BxFgbBAxgNjeMIGwd0c0uVMQmRYSSauSCte06fr3AdbnRtadUpw2oTPNUBH4qd5RK7VJSWU-cPu0Q7bSJIIySSuAD48ZBz8byWifI4dNdV2DTwaHeDFDJLzR03FHJ0pNPo5XS35ZXdK/s1600-h/DSC_1279.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj25BxFgbBAxgNjeMIGwd0c0uVMQmRYSSauSCte06fr3AdbnRtadUpw2oTPNUBH4qd5RK7VJSWU-cPu0Q7bSJIIySSuAD48ZBz8byWifI4dNdV2DTwaHeDFDJLzR03FHJ0pNPo5XS35ZXdK/s400/DSC_1279.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446778156275042514" /></a>Iron Ore, Foster Falls, Virginia <br /><br />Henry Flynt--Hillbilly Tape Music<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dd3ChQ3XjVE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dd3ChQ3XjVE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1575479784361286235.post-49909928100125773112010-03-09T10:58:00.009-05:002010-03-09T11:56:06.316-05:00If you're tired and you're sick of the city, remember it's just a flower made out of clay<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCKm5sHnCkXhc2QAj1wjnZQUNjtjZlLjUY1BHZKLj-EhNmCOpwbkbLM8q_RNXuPZcXcybmhsp34jfQ-zxm7bXtf9Yp-r5ZhHg5OYx45_3OdlnvZfhJGJMiJV-M7vlsMkGbAnRPB_fhdCR/s1600-h/DSC_1232.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCKm5sHnCkXhc2QAj1wjnZQUNjtjZlLjUY1BHZKLj-EhNmCOpwbkbLM8q_RNXuPZcXcybmhsp34jfQ-zxm7bXtf9Yp-r5ZhHg5OYx45_3OdlnvZfhJGJMiJV-M7vlsMkGbAnRPB_fhdCR/s400/DSC_1232.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446664797161170434" /></a>White Doors, Princeton, WV <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Belly</span><br />~David Brooks<br /><br />This belly is not mine,<br />not the one I imagined<br />when I was younger and thought<br />about how it would be<br />when I got married.<br />This belly is a rude intrusion<br />into those dreams, it bumps<br />into my wife, who also differs<br />from that golden vision.<br />She is grander in ways<br />I never suspected: like my house,<br />she is bolder and kinder in dimension:<br />I used to think I would marry<br />a blonde and live in a shack,<br />both of us perpetually, pathetically thin.<br />I push my belly up against my wife<br />and admire the warmth of the<br />afternoon soaking into it.<br />The sun shines in on us<br />the way I like it, the sun is<br />the way I always thought<br />the sun should be.markhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11089622659436375942noreply@blogger.com0