sleepy

sleepy
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

she was hip and classy. she wore an embroidered silk cap along with headphones and an ipod. she carried a fold-up scooter in a clear vinyl tote bag for that last stretch home.

she was trying to remember her lines from the script. it was supposed to be funny; a comedy and musical, Grease. but it was no match for the drone and rhythm of the train and the warmth of a summer afternoon...

lucid wanderdreams

sunday night's dreams:

i dreamed of being in france. there was a small house. well maybe not so small, more like an old house converted into three units. it was on a large field sort of property. no trees to be seen...

i dreamed of going into a bank with the intent of robbing it but the pretty teller only laughed at the idea and cashed a check for $14.23 instead. but why did she give me dollars when i was in france? i'm such a pushover for a pretty woman. or maybe it was because she was a redhead.

it is now tuesday morning at 4am and i find myself sleepless yet relaxed. i have turned into a vampire, being active at night in these last weeks. my mind is so much more alert when the rest of the world is asleep. peaceful. i leave the cacophony of diurnal life to others.

i've been dreaming of france a lot. the homeland calls to me. the other night, i had a dream that i was there but trying to order sushi in french and it was not going well then thought, what the hell am i doing trying to order sushi while in france? bring on the foie gras!

over there

over there
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

something for Magda...

Greater Than (2006)

In the last stretches of abuse,
she searches for sources of good and evil.
a long journey across the world
looking for clues of something bigger.

“Greater than you, that will save you,”
they said with insistence.

“You will find comfort in His presence...”
She makes it to the eastern peak,
trudges up Dong Shan, stands on granite shingles
atop the roof of the world.

She looked for something greater,
searched in earnest for something to fix her,
save her, comfort her like the scent
of a familiar bed, a familiar nest.

Conversations on a mountain peak
with a God she can’t see. Months pass;
fatefully, the only presence on the lonely shrine
is an expression, culmination of all she is.

The only God that exists has been on the inside.
All the good, evil, actions and
consequences in her existence were simply
results of her mind, thought and consciousness.

She lights the match, touches the paper
for moments she is reminded of a passage
by Bradbury and then she frees the book;
lit pages flutter away finding new freedom.

You

you
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

You are the whole building on fire.
You are the voice of sirens. You are
the dumb crowd milling, the capture
of Weegee’s lens. You are flames
licking up the escape. You're the hovering
of a mother at the cliff of her window ledge.
You are the choice to drop her baby.
You're the chance of a beckoning crowd,
six hands gripping a sooty raincoat. You
are the only option. You're a simple drop.
Ten stories below they pray you're like a cloud,
soft floating. You are like a cloud. Grey
and you don't hold anything. You are
that moment before a falling, the falling,
a whir of falling, wail of falling, the sweet
thud. You are black blood flaring
across the concrete. You are a needle
to the groove of a very sad song.
The whole building burns with you.

– Sandra Beasley

moi

moi
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

is that the look of innocence or intent?!

c. 1967. i started scanning in some old photos that my nanny sent to her grand-daughter from vietnam. more to come...

in the eye of his spit

or the spit in his eye...

this afternoon, i had a rather interesting observation of behaviour. while sitting at a bench waiting for my bus to arrive, there was a 15-16 kid (male) sitting next to me dressed in passé below the crotch baggy jeans, three times oversized t-shirt, white sneakers, etc...but it wasn't that. really it was not the dumb uniform that got my attention.

it was his spitting behaviour. being someone who watches animal behaviour, i wondered how often he spits for no reason because quite clearly he was no archer fish. he was too fat anyway, would have sunk and got stuck in the mangrove roots but i digress. in a span of 90 seconds, he managed to spit over seven times in slightly different locations. it made a rough arc. now it wasn't like he was chewing tobacco or anything, it was just a thing to do. who knows, in his mind, it might even have been cool. anyway, i tried very hard to watch and not interact. i even turned up the volume of my ipod to some rather menacing tune by the black angels. and there were three moments where i looked at the thick saddle leather shoulder strap of my filson bag and visualized how nice of a cravat i could make around his neck to stop the disgusting behaviour...but i didn't. it was only a passing fantasy. something i wouldn't ever actually do [?] hahahah...

anyway, i looked up at the changing of the sky and decided that it was going to be a nice sunset. and there was no latent agression. i was just looking forward to getting home and having dinner...

heaven's cloth

heaven's cloth
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

something for Kelley...

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

–William Butler Yeats

pomodoro

sometimes i go looking for a new siren to occupy the vacant space of the warehouses of my heart. i'm looking for that new voice. the siren that will call the monsters back to sea, the muse that will make a song olympian and a verse that would make proust turn.

sometimes you have to think grand, not the grand of louis but the grand of elvis. and so sometimes you end up with gazpacho when you meant marinara; on either of the wrong end of the pomme d'amour spectrum.

oh well, sometimes it is just sauce...

(daphne) blue girl

(daphne) blue girl
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

she is blue today.

daphne blue, because that was the color of ink i reached for of the selection sitting on my desk in front of me.

today, she is simplified.

she needs no cross hatching or strands of hair delineated.
today she is a verse of a poem, distilled and condensed.

and the depths of her need go any deeper than her hue...

Crush in the Ghetto

I'm floating with the birds
I'm talking to the weeds
Look what you've done to me

I'm still dressed up from the night before
Silken hose and an old Parisian coat
And I feel like a queen at the bus stop on the street
Look what you've done to me

It's a beautiful morning in the ghetto
Finer than the day before
The ants are crawling over my pants as if to say
They know where the honey is

There's really old roses blooming in the ghetto
Birds of paradise are taller than me
The weeds grow high, the birds flicker by
Children are walking to school

In the midst of all of this profusion
The bus pulls up to take me back home
The bus driver looks like an African prince
The babies have tears in their eyes

And I feel like a queen
On this sunny city bus
Look what you've done to me

– Jolie Holland

from the outside

from the outside
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes the view is from the outside. an outward station looking for a perspective; a perspective of the inside. but how often can one illustrate from the skin what goes on beneath the epidermis, beneath the vascular tissue, below the lipids and smooth muscle what we imagine to feel that is our insides experiencing emotions where we thought we didn't have any nerve cells?

we are creatures designed to explore the outside, the external environment. when we are aimed inward, most of the time we lose our way. who makes a GPS device to tell us where we are and how the map the cities of the interior? can those places, those feeling be put on any map, really?

perhaps we only get glimpses, like what was once a beautiful plant on the window sill that is now withering. can we tell from the outside that it has been dried out, left to die by mistake or on or with purpose? and if so, what does that mean? self induced atrophy? is that the bars on the outside that is meant to protect? is it?

spidery arms

spidery arms
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

it had been a very long time since i'd visited these trees. probably at least 20 years or so.

yea, a long time between visits for people. but for the trees, it must have been afternoon tea. it makes you look at things differently. i looked at the cross section of one sequoia that is around 2000+ years old. it is interesting to see milestones in terms of human history against its rings. while we were figuring out the printing press, the tree was in its adolescence...

yea, perspective...

to float

so you go on and on and on

that is the point, you don't lose the path
you don't lose the river,
it is the path of least resistance

are you floating?
are you drifting?

what if you are just a solar flare
one of those things that sparkle
in my eyes and in the half moment

in the universe
the dream of the
GUT scientist

drifts away...
melds away...

then you look back
then you see the eyes
the dark in midst of light

then the mirror breaks.

doubt and curiosity

doubt and curiosity
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

or is it curiosity and then, doubt?

ROUGH GUIDE
by George Szirtes

"Your image destroys itself, remakes itself, and is never weary."
– Octavio Paz, The Prisoner

Impossible to look directly into
another’s eyes. Impossible to look
into your own. You read the dense book
of being like a document you flick through.

Eyes, even an inch apart, are blurs,
clouds, like the concept of yesterday
which has an entity you sometimes stray
into beyond the limits of his and hers,

The unknown: the roughest of the rough guides,
and all it says is: you’re here, you’d better make
the best of it. You entered by mistake
and so you’ll leave. It’s what the route map hides

and languages obscure, the magnetic pull
of all you ever see of the beautiful.

-----

But I have seen the beautiful. I know
its contours and the rough guide it provides
is blissfully specific: the hand that rides
the ridge of the collarbone or moves along the brow,

the perfect form of momentary light
in this line or another. It’s what Blake
saw at the top of the stair, the terrible earthquake
at the root of the flesh we think of as delight.

It’s what you see when you shut your eyes and see,
the angel with the whip or a flaming sword
that burns your eyes down to the spinal cord,
the shit, blood, semen smell of mortality

you get used to because it follows you
everywhere and is both beautiful and true.

medusa as a young girl

medusa as a young girl
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

i love this poem. just haven't had a fitting image to go with it til now.

she sprouted from my head like the serpents in her mind...

Arms of the Snake

Because she has no arms,
she embraces him with her body,
crawls the distance of his flesh
like a light-starved vine.

Because she has no legs,
she coils through his thoughts,
like a root or a shadow
growing wild in his mind.

Because she has no words,
her tongue splits in anger.
She hisses in the dark,
shakes a rattle in his face.

Because he has no choice,
he bears both fang and kiss,
comes to crave her silver tourniquet,
savor venom in his veins.

Because she has no heart,
she sheds her skin to depart.
She exits through his fingers,
leaving only her empty sleeve.

– CHRISTINE BOYKA KLUGE

twilight

twilight
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

The Grasp

There are moments of twilight
Between wakefulness and slumber

A space and time which neither
Reality nor Reverie truly reign

That comes the most relevant objects
Of origin that shapes what the mind

Thinks and what the soul senses
And being in a hollow shell

One can only wonder
In the expanse of experience

And memory why one hangs onto
One thing and releases another

(2003)

repose

repose
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

THE WASTELAND. TS ELIOT.

Part One: The Burial of the Dead.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for n hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
                          Frisch weht der Wind
                               Der Heimat zu
                             Mein Irisch Kind,
                             Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl,’
-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence,
Oed’und leer das Meer.

Madam Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal city,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sigh, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where St Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying” ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
O keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
You! Hypocrite lecteur!- mon semblable, -mon frere!’

In Sepia

in sepia
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

I have dark eyes.

I know I'm looking into the sun when these irises look brown, washed out, becoming more transparent than the imaginary walls that have taken years to build.

Walls you can't see but are more stout than the ones crossing China...

the kitchen entrance

the kitchen entrance
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

well don't just stand there staring. open the door and see what you find...

objects

objects
we spend our lives in dark places,
in storage, in waiting
for special moments
christmas day or an anniversary

we come into view,
proud of what we are
endeared with enough care
to be passed among hands
a gift, a souvenir

in bright times
we leave impressions
lasting generations
a chance at transcendence
to new hands, new hearts

but in the lay of time
we are mostly just things
untouched, unheld,
staying inanimate, cold
not a velveteen rabbit
not a warm hobby horse

yet we have moments
when with velvet and wood
blood is caused to stir
giving pulse and rhythm

Matias I (2004)

Black as black is the night
Dark in a manner that stays without fright

He only betrays his colour when in sunlight
Even I show my red under those rays

Though unlike him I find no peace
When I slumber curled like a nautilus

soundtrack (2005)

fallen bells from jacaranda
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

previously posted without image

the soundtrack of my life
is found among
the littered remains of fallen angels

there is a melody out there
that i will recognize among
the dirty feathers of the flightless

there are images on a silver screen
the film that tries to graph a life
seems somehow awkward and familiar

there are faces i’ve seen before
only on ghostly backlit screens
their lips move in sync without meaning

the score is made of melodies to remember
but i have problems matching it
to the right scenarios

the music has a voice i know
i just can’t seem to place the face
the correct association
seems lost among the broken notes

experience

this is something i posted as a comment on someone else's blog. in reading it, i decided i wanted to keep it. thanks to lostinscotland for being the inspiration...

"half of experience are the things we have comed to get used to, take for granted and sometimes over-cherish.

the other half of experience are the things that are sometimes difficult or impossible to communicate, give form to and keep in your field or vision or circle of mind easily.

but the latter, being difficult to point to in the moment are ever present in memory. they are never lost. they might be called intangible. they might be called transrational.

whatever the label, they are real and won't ever be lost..."

words over your eyes

words over your eyes
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes we hide behind words.

sometimes we hide behind words we don't even fully understand, they are in another language but we stay in their shade and peer out into the vastness between us and the other person, the rest of the outside.

it is the nature of ambiguity.

it is the double entendre of the voyeur and the exhibitionist.

what she was trying to tell me

what she was trying to tell me
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

i was in an unfamiliar place.

she was a stranger.

she was telling me things.

i didn't understand her words but they felt like quills being pushed into my skin.

she was telling me something important.

she was someone important.

humans don't keep their tears on the tips of feathers.

weight

weight
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

because there is anger in the tears in my eyes
because the color of my anger is somewhere
between the crimson of blood and the scarlet

of the imaginary letter on my chest
because in this moment the hollow in my
breast burns. it's the sensation of going

to ashes but not yet sprouting new feathers
because i know the origin of my suffering
because i can accept that from the inside

is the start of the only road out of myself
and the only real pain that is my own
is the weight of others carrying my burden

The Message

heels at the stanford theatre
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

Which way is she going?

I think, it is called

An ellipse. An imperfect circle,

A wobbling ovoid,

A drunken bee's dance.

the varsity

the varsity
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

it had been a while since i've strolled down university avenue in the evening.

my friend dan and i walked around last night and i kept having flashes in my mind and memory of what the street was like when i was a kid. i had visions of the promenade when it was still crowded with little boutiques, restaurants and mom 'n pop shops before the zip code 94301 became "the place to be" in the mid to late 80's.

slowly but inavoidably it seems, the quaint downtown strip bit by bit mutated into a ripe petri dish for franchises.

by the dotcom era, many of the little eateries and other small businesses went in the way of the snowy egret. today, restoration hardware, apple, borders moved in.

anyway, my original thought for this photo was to photoshop something underneath the borders sign to make a funny commentary but haven't decided on something sufficiently irreverant yet. perhaps leaving it the way it is for those who remember what it previously was like and triggering some sort of reflection is enough of a commentary as it is.

however, suggestions are welcomed. it is always fun to see photoshop employed for something other than bad, distasteful, and inaccurate manipulation of reflections on poorly designed automobile ads. ;-p but that is another post...

crusade (2003)

the painless smile
she wears as a flower

bears its petals,
displays the softness

of a rose
hiding sharp thorns.

the notes of laughter
leaving her throat

waltzes across the room
like a river's mist
coming to shore.

one might not imagine
the sharpness of the irises

in her eyes nor
the cutting intentions
resting in her crusade.

a glance in one direction,
a glimpse at another's station
reveal the losses,

cruelty that gave birth
to the most unkind of
human intention.

cleat and stowage

cleat and stowage
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

knots and rope and a place to hide. hardened stainless steel and chrome plated brass. low lying light and long shadows. softened edges on a hard form and then the desaturated look of something dead or dying. how strangely such a combination can come to life when you twist your point of view, tweak your mind from its usual habits.

the future ex-princess

so i cam home from a wonderful weekend hanging out with family and boating and it was very warm so i dug out some clothes i had not worn in a while...

and i found another object that had been (previously unknown) sprayed by my old housemate's cat named princess.

now i am a bonafide cat lover but this was one cat who always had issues with me and i with her. i was warned that she isn't friendly, etc. she even batted at me and hissed at me when i tried to pet her after feeding her and taking care of her while her mom was gone.

anyway, one day i discovered that she had sprayed a number of my things. clothes and such i could care less, they are washable. but then i discovered she had peed on one of my favorite journals...

it was a good thing i had already moved out upon this discovery because i, like any good fire blooded scorpio...well you know what that means and for those of you who don't, consider yourself fortunate.

so back to today, i found that a pair of shorts i picked out had her scent on it. not good. now i have to see what other items have been polluted. and it reminded me of what i thought when i found the journal, soiled. i said to myself if i ever see that cat again in person it is likely to make a really nice ebony...PELT. and with all the felines i dissected in biology classes back then and the wonderful collection of custom made skinning blades i own, the thought to GET that PELT suddenly came back in full swing...

oh i wouldn't stuff her or anything like that. more like curing the pelt and cutting up in little pieces and selling them to the high end fly fishing shops for fly tying material. i can market it as KARMA-PELT. use cat hair from a cat that has killed her fair share of fish and other little creatures to catch your next big idaho trout. whaddaya think???

therefore: the future ex-princess

Artifacts (2003)

Remnants of our past lie
Beneath consciousness

When solstice and equinox pass,
They reveal themselves in

A manner that shifting dunes
Present ancient ruins

Stasis beneath sand,
Away from light, air and

Heaven’s attention
Preserve the integrity of souvenirs

Like the unchanged nature of water
Locked in glaciers

Glow (2005)

There is something awkward in her smile
Yet the shimmer on her lips
Can't be avoided like
Light can't divorce shadow

When she says "yes" to a query
My heart can't help to rethink the question
It is the timbre of her "y" that seduces
She looks up and left when pondering

And in that minute flicker of a gaze
Universal matter that sees her expression
Is rearranged into filaments of light
Forming an undeniable mandala

the balcony at 14D Cong Ly Street

The Balcony At 14D Cong Ly Street
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

at my childhood home. when i was a child, i'd play on this balcony. i even remember setting a train set on it once. it used to look out over the sideyard lawn where i played. in that garden yard, i once saw a snake coiled on a branch, i was fascinated.

on this balcony at certain times of the moon cycle, i would help my great grandma put out trays of candles in offering to deities. they were little red candles. i would sit inside and come out to check them frequently to make sure the breeze didn't blow them out. i would relight them.

in front of my eyes, my mind's eyes when i looked at this balcony again years later the candles were still there sitting in a perfect grid, held to the tin tray by melted butts and stuck down.

i remember the moon on those nights, or was that another memory?

Siesta In Sanctuary – 22 June 2005

siesta in sanctuary
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

I was sorting through a couple thousand images of my trip last year in Vietnam and came across this one of Ivy taking a quick nap.

It was taken after a long lunch at a Buddhist temple with some friends who were hosting us when we arrived in Saigon. We all took catnaps before heading back to the airport to fly up to Hue for a big event the next day.

Seeing this image brought a sense of calm, a respite from all that surrounds us, all the noise, all the traffic and all the craziness of the outside world...

The Circle (2005)

I could not rest in the chill of Winter’s past
So I rose to seek warmth in memories fled
After our last conversation my head kept
Spinning for two disoriented days

I’d always joked that her sense of timing was poor
So she expertly proved my conviction once more
A half past midnight call with earnestness and calm
Intent with a dialogue of enchanting words

An unexpected message misplaced in time
The words came across the wires like whispers in ether
Brimming with affection and strangely meditated
“It wasn’t you, it was about me you must know that,
You were a good husband, you always supported me.”

“You always provided, I couldn’t have asked for more.
You are still my best friend as you have always been.”
Clichés are cold to the point like the nature of snow
But snow can also hold warmth, keep you alive.

I once lived in an ancient building made of stone.
Its massive granite walls were cold inside and out
And its stout halls were cold inside and out,
They were no barrier to the seeping persistent cold.

Solid walls lack empty voids of shifting snow drifts.
They lack the ironic ability of snow to hold warmth
In the same manner a cliché can offer ephemeral comfort,
Displacing guilt and regret for brief moments before the thaw

And leaving nothing left but bemoaned droplets of hope
That yearns for fullfilment at the coming of Spring.
There is also irony in the passing midnight conversation
That closes a circle opened with vows and a pair of rings.

In between (2006)

In between silence and clamor
There must be a peace behind each face
In between words of hope and despair
There must be stories that are factual

The young man sits in a wizened body
A shell of youth, pawn of ancient memory
The young artist paints a neolithic symbol
A mark of extinct civilizations in acrylic

In between songs of angels and tears of mortals
There is the humming of trillions enslaved
In between the allemande and the dirge
There have been rises and falls of a thousand cultures

When in the night and all is silent,
The attention of past and present sit in stillness
When in the place that is within and so without
The past is a passing shadow, the future a bud unfurled

Agnieszka

The whispery light hangs
On her shoulder,
Barely visible.

Alabaster sheen
Lives in the hollow
Of a collarbone,

Beaming a paleness
That attracts honey bees,
Imagining that something

Worldly could be so sweet.
The restfulness
Of her chin,

Leading up to lips
At a word's edge
Toward a restrained sentiment,

Hinting what the eyes
Might be saying,
Leaving Mona Lisa's smile
Much to be desired.

If (2005)

If I can empty my mind and heart of the past burdens
I might see the true color of her eyes.

If I can accept my role in the wreckage,
I might comprehend the true nature of her character.

If I can shed this reptilian skin of guilt and shame,
I might one day sense the warmth of her heart.

I stand on a glassy ridge of an emotional divide,
To my left there are reflections of faces, events and places;

The foundation of all that has led me to my position.
To my right is an infinite chasm for the detritus of my life.

I stand frozen, praying for the courage to let it all go
For in holding attachment in place of clarity,
I shall never in a thousand years know who she is.

promenade (2005)

one word forward
and a pause

a breath, a moment
of calm

three words forward
half a moment back

a smile, a glance
into a stare

another smile
contact and exchange

stumbling feelings
wobbly statements

committed hesitation
hesitant willingness

Amanda (2004)

Amanda with the spirited smile
I see her eyes and face in the soul of another.

Her prance belies the fragile connection,
Between heart and spine, love and honesty.

(Americus, Georgia)

stranger in my dream

Malika
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

There are moments she comes to me through a shared piece of music. I am moved but then I am left to ask what happened to the person who moved me so? I am asked where are the people who stirred these emotions in me? Where and why aren’t they here now? I was a silent, still pool. They came and stirred the water and have left me to watch the ripples. Sometimes the ripples reverberate my own sorrow, my own loss of their continuing presence.

Rose River, Vietnam (2005)

This is the color of the river,
They call it red,
They call it pink

But it is the color of mud,

The hue of the toil of a million peasants,
A thousand year’s worth of tears
Pigmenting clay with the color of pain.

Firefly (2005)

for Jane

so i spoke to you
briefly
and it was a little strange.

you were distracted.
it was not like
one of our conversations.

but its fleetiness was nice,
it reminds me of
your evasive nature.

and even now,
i don't understand
why i put forth
so much effort

towards you.

Monk Initiate, Thien Mu Pagoda

Monk Initiate, Thien Mu Pagoda
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

Thien Mu (Heavenly Mist)

Facing North, river view
Realms cross in a muted fog
Still moments eternal

--

Cerulean prows wait
Silky waters lapping hull
Poised at will to leave

--

Monk initiate crouches
Washing leaves with mindful calm
Making tea for thought

Silence

The silence that is in his life
Is not a calm residing beneath.

The pillar that stands in sandstorms
Shows only pitted flesh on the inside.

The serenity that others sense
Are only moments at the end of

Contemplation and before self admonition.
There is a hollow work of faith

Still bound to an inherited hope and
Dearly afraid of eventual abandonment.

Hue (Vietnam)

Violet dusk descends
Last sundrops, faint mandala
smile still luminous

--

In summer splendor
Spring essence still lingers on
Cooling nights, calm water

--

Ming Mang’s other home
Moved earth for celestial pond
Faded visions in fog

(2005)

Fluid

From languid to fluid are her motions
From shoulder to spine she resettles
Herself like a sage feline in quiet repose

I’m in full acquiescence when she turns to me
Her eyes blink with the movement of butterfly wings
Revealing smoky eyes shivering like a rising moon

She gives an abrupt yawn, coming into alertness
She draws my attention, commanding my gaze
Into a timeless place where my self dissolves

With the expression of her eyes she takes from me
All that is not truly my own—feinted memories,
Misplaced doubts and unfounded fears

Her Botticelli smile shears away all illusions
She in my heart shows to me the difference
Between frail human desire and universal intent

Waiting

Dogwood blossoms
Or early spring snowflakes
I can’t tell the difference
Between the two sets of eyes

I try to hold so much hope
From that other verdant place
To this removed suburban hell

She always has the same eyes
I can’t find someone to teach
Me the difference between the two

I try to wait
I try to wait for changes
These tissues are strained
These tissues are tired

Six thousand years is long enough
They spread rumours of being a sage
But I just find broken bits
Torn and shredded, left along the riverbank

crossed fingers (2003)

for Amy

crossed fingers, long with
nails of velvety quartz

held at breath's touch,
hiding a smile

yet not fully covered,
not fully sheltered.

because the eyes speak a language
the mind can't ignore.

cameras can't capture it
artists can't render the likeness

all the poems of the world
have yet to describe

blue beyond the sky’s
ringed with night

quietly stirring,
almost imperceptibly

the life behind irises foresee
secrets that have yet to be

Paths*

The measure of the distance between a sunflower's petals
To the hive is written in the spin of a a bee's dance.

He has seen the dance and now searches
With finding the combs of sweetness.

It is a journey between realms, the distance between where he is
And where she resides is a pilgrimmage
Into forests and foliage unfamiliar and confusing.

He is timid about the sarabandes in his chest.

She darts boldly between trunks of arboreal giants.
A faerie she might me, her image is more a feeling,
Her form often escapes depiction.

It is more important that she trashes the air
In an equine manner that he might expect.

Unlikely but precious behavior for a whistling firefly
Carefree as an eagle feather floating beneath a verdant canopy

In another incarnation, they must have patterned each other’s courses.
Such unlikely crossing of paths don't happen in random.

*(Originally posted as prose in 2005)

Best Intentions (2006)

We think, we think
And in all we mean
It in the best of hearts

Yet we think and speak
Of places we’ve never been
Emotions we’ve never known

Mourn and be fake
Be real in the watcher’s eye
Cemetery daffodils always see truth

Conflicting Desires (2003)

Conflicting desires
For refuge and exposure

Like a frond in the breeze
Gently swaying

Not enough force
To push back on

Yet moving enough
To sense motion

It is the manner
Of an ambiguous heart

Choosing whether
To stay or flee

Remembering recent history
Yet not quite learning the lesson

the in betweens (2003)

between the last
words spoken

and the now
a space lingers

it's empty canvas
awaiting an image

a dotted line
without signature

between cornea
and retina

there are images
fleetingly held

emotional gems
in color

projected thoughts
wait for a screen

in a moment
urgency waits

what the eyes see
the heart learns

what the heart feels
paint the canvas

leaving forever
pigment engrained

for all the in betweens
of past and present

somewhere in a box (2003)

somewhere in a box
within a box
there are seashells
far away from their origin.

they lay in anticipation.
inside their hardness,
live the sound of seas

yet the blue sky
and salty water
are far from their lips.

these vessels, stolen
from their place
it seems, so long ago.

emotional milestones
of events unfolded.

now the sea's stones
are folded away
tightly from the light,

lying dormant until
new tides whisper intimacies
into their emptiness.

Soldiers (2004)

Shed tears for those who no longer can,
Their eyes still open,

Their bodies torn apart
By a war that should not be,

By a war that can't be won
These soldiers go to battle

Not to become heroes but victims
Dog pawns for a misled leader

Lifting his brows in reverie,
Bonded in thought at his ineptness.

Sedona (2006)

Grains of sand stirred up
Aguile wings leaving red earth
Spirit world waiting

--

Red feathers descend
Quest for spirit child unborn
In arms of old sage

--

Old pine, child of stone
Holds to cliff, watching time pass
Old world sadly fades

Vestiges I

The green sea and the blue sky
Stare at me with intent.
They mean to remind me of the difference
Between caring and loving.

The sliver of the horizon
Displays a thin contrast
But without explanation.

Perhaps the difference is us;
The turmoil and the tears
That we think are so important.

On land they are only dust,
At sea they are only swells,
Both vestiges of things abandoned.

Circles (2003)

there is a band wrapped around that finger
made of silver
it holds a life in waiting

there is a band wrapped around this finger
the color of pale skin
shaded from sunlight

longing passed between two
are like points in space
forsaken by time

two places in time
two places in space
seeking common ground

yet a band is a band
and while it can be a circle
circles rarely have lines that coincide

so what is to come and what has been
is often incomplete volition

Switzerland (2005)

Fall leaves underfoot
Roasted chestnuts, cold lake view
Swans on still water

--

Fondue and white wine
Laughter and friends long ago
My heart still holds close

--

Arcs of cobblestone
Narrow passageways in fog
Vacant marketplace

--

Old woman, seated
Leeks, carrots and fresh rabbit
Saturday market

--

Sleepy eyes, you have
Rise to smell of fresh coffee
Thoughts of bread and cheese

--

Leaving Montreux, late
You curled into me, night train
Come dawn, Venezia

Manhattan Beach (2004)

She sits crossed legged in front of her admirer
Friend, friend and even better, best friend
Practicing lines thinking of stage lights

It may be, it may be one day
We’re certain the pretty face will take her places
Hopefully places she wants to go
Hopefully places she wants to be
And in company she doesn’t despise

She sits straight faced in front of her audience
Attention, focus, boredom, three smiles
Playing the part comedic with dramatic intent

They can’t all be stars but there is light
They can’t all have light but they have money
It is a tinsel town and most of the lights
Are from reflections

Mainline

(after Deborah Christian)

He stirs in the stillness of his focus,
Not wanting to define the object of his attention

This strange connection, a wispy liaison
Between two pasts, main line and parallel

Sometimes it is like a leaf tensioned on water
One reflects and the other avoids rippling

From a distance there are not two
But one and its mirror image

Reflections themselves never lie
Unlike hearsay and emotions
Contemplating potentiality

Rumor isn't always disinformation
It is perception tied at the ankle to hope

In the plane between object and reflection
Is a sliver of truth infrequently acknowledged

Venezia

Empty vessel scorned
Forlorn heartbeat keeping faith
Seeking inner calm

--

Moon lights dark lagoon
Eight lost bronze horses watching
Lone cloaked muse passing

--

Vacant dim calle
Warm bare hands clasped tight
Some hands wanting flight

--

Bridge of sighs, above
Your scent, your warmth, grasping mine
This moment, none else

The Phone Call

You sounded tired
In the brief exchange of words

I can almost remember the expression
Of your eyes when you are that way

Miles of land are between us
Wrapped by a neverending ocean

Promise of future contact
Leaves me graced and hesitant

Without contact there is no resolution
Without resolution possibilities breathe on

Like a wandering albatross with an invisible leash
Like a freed spirit too afraid to vacate its haunt

Watering Hole (2006)

Her lips glow in just the right light.
Her mouth looks at you
Though her eyes follow something else.

A shadow in the midday sun.
Heat rays rising from the baked sandstone,
An artifact of your own desire.

There is no touch.
It’s a sense traveling by smell,
Something you don't understand.

Aromas of the savannah,
In this heat and later, below the stars,
You are as vulnerable as she wills.

You know it will kill you
Yet you come back to this watering hole,
Moon after sickle moon.

Buffalo Grass (1997)

Waves of silent green
Flows beneath our gaze

Sounds of the Dakota breeze
Shimmers through slivers of grass

Moment sensed
Moment kept

Time and distance later
Murmurs still pass through me

Like intimate whispers
Lingering in the mind's ears

Americus Spring (2004)

When I left town
The air tasted of frost

I have returned to
daffodils and narcissuses

Only three days have passed
Even Mother Nature

Can change as quickly
As the heart’s tide

Winter

Midway through this strange journey
I have found a new mistress guiding my desires.
Winter lays by my side like a
Slab of cold meat against a purple bruise.

She came to me without request.
She came to me undressed.
She stays in my presence with a siren’s will, deep as the ocean,
sensual and fluid, clandestine as a floe of ice.

She slows my pulse,
she chills my breath,
I yearn for warmth but
my pain fears abandonment.

She temps my lust,
she soothes my skin,
I yearn for freedom but
afraid of solitude.

Winter draws my will,
Shows me visions.
Winter fills my cup
with blood—the water of life.

She holds me in the dreams,
fearing Dawn might be my bride.
She keeps me in drunkenness,
Convinced the wakeful will destroy me.

The midnight can’t last forever.
The journey continues even as I lie
here staring into her cool eyes.
Snowflake irises perplex and fascinate.

Their grey shades of frost stretching to forever,
enclosed by almonds of white.
She expresses her purpose, weaves them
into my existence.

Her company is intrinsic,
as diamonds are made under pressure.
She thinks me as grains of charcoal,
ignoring that sometimes carbon is just dust.

Equine behaviour

Jane of the long dark hair turns away jesting
But searching equine eyes stay fixed on mine
She conjures on my face an unprecedented smile
Then changes direction again on a filly’s whim

Jane trots by my side, listens to my words
Nods, and says “I did!” in affirmation with a glee
She remains attentive while dodging lapping surf
And tossing her wild mane in the ocean breeze

Jane’s constant canter seem forever split
She offers an open hand while her toes dip in damp sand
She tempts my solitude with her affection
While the chanting that her allegiance is untrustworthy

Jane leaps and turns in a final gesture
In her signature fluid motion, in her hazy red aura
She leaves me interrupted, staring at the sun
I joltingly see that we two are a fractured trinity
Two of three parts remain in each others’ hearts
And the third, an equine spirit belong to none

Saigon

Saigon
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

Candy hued ponchos
Whirring spokes passing in view
One thought; rice and home

--

Light gleams on wet path
Sitting close, night eatery
Food, drink, smiles, laughter

--

Courteous smile glows
One root, two apparent worlds
Shyness? No, candor

orange woman (2003)

today i left the painting of the orange woman,
the one you called the elf queen,
to the care of our hairdresser, barbara.

she recognized it as your favorite painting.
i thought back and wondered
when had she seen it?
during one of our parties?
another time that i am not aware of?

perhaps,

that painting has been an icon for us
in some sort of way
for a long time.

now it faces a different space,
now neither of us are in its possession,
i will miss it
as perhaps you may have missed it,
the way that i missed you.

on the inside

from the candlelight
darkness wavered,
momentarily.

amber at the horizon
and deep blue high above.

i have left and perhaps
have come back, but to what
i have no conviction.

if this is a chance of change,
do i have the courage?

i could not have let this
sleeping dream waiting.

nothing keeps me from
the images as these points are
drawing futures of now.

memories keep themselves.
pain keeps their own,
but it is always on the inside.

Falcon and Dove

Morning comes as a falcon finds a fluttering dove.
Morning hungers for the feast of the day’s harvest.
She gives upon the chanting songbirds so enveloped

In their self directed sermon and convicts herself
To the choice of not desiring nor feeding on those
Beings who cannot see themselves.

Though their songs sound bright and glorious,
They are less than empty echos in their recitation
Of the litanies of a forlorn god.

Combustion

So his big mind
and godlike attitude
refuses the danger of his ego
and rolls into his own folly.

He curls up like a millipede,
affording himself protection
from the outside world but
incinerates from within.

Matias

Matias comes to me in my sadness
He purrs to the dropping of my tears

He knows and understands of things
Ican only begin to imagine

WhileI hold him the horizon exists
Yet he is the package and I am the bearer

Holding this heart that exists
In another creature

Failing to live simultaneously
De coeur et de corp

Marlene

White, amber and grey
Sculpted eaggs, rocky seashore
Crusty brine on stones

--

Cove within seacliff
Safe shelter of long ago
Her smile in my mind

--

So young, she was then
My best friend’s little sister
Now shows me wisdom

Siren and Phoenix

Originally uploaded by equusignis.

In Defiance of Fortune

Never think you fortune can bear the sway
Where virtue's force can cause her to obey.

– Elizabeth I (1533-1603)

sections

the hair clip
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

She sits crouched in the corner
on the floor down below,
in the first aisle of the bookstore.

Coal black hair trying to stray from
a baby plastic clip the color of green antifreeze
catching stray sunlight.

Alice Munro doesn’t quite do it for her.
She stands, shifts right, twists left hip forward
and stares at a Palakniuk cover.

Still unsatisfied, turning from the neck,
shoulders following, she flees the aisle
and glides over to non-fiction.

She lingers in my vision
for three sedate breaths and
disappears into classics.

The moment turns inside out
when she leaves my sight.
She is likely trading verses with
Beatrice in one of Dante's cantos.

ink

sometimes we look in reflections
to see what has passed behind us,
to see what in our past still remains
imprinted into the film that
separates present and past,
the molecular region where
we end and the outside begins

sometimes we look in reflections
in search of a mirrored essence,
hoping that real, drawn expressions
comes at least close to emotional sketches

sometimes we pray that the brilliance
of the lush hue of blood's crimson ink
has not given up life to a dried peat brown

In Difference

this one is dedicated to George W. Bush

Between midnight and twilight,
Somewhere here
Strange sounds emanate.
Voices of cultures we don’t acknowledge.

Somewhere here
In the darkness of prejudices
There is music we’ve yet learn to hear.

Frayed ends start with whipped lines,
Conscience in the guise of compliance.
Past is not past, it just is,
When faces remain in the shadow hungry
We learn to let the voices remain silent.

Denying infants milk is a learned behavior,
Giving a stump as aid is a learned behavior.

After all we are a learned culture
We know how to twist our backs,
Eyes looking at the television,
Fingers changing channels.

Hummingbirds

Heartbreaks never come as a convenience.

They roll through like hummingbirds
that decide the night is too long.

Too much energy, not enough nourishment.

They strain to stay awake as long as they can,
holding for dawn and risking the fall
frail fluttering wings that would blemish angels.

Heartbreak’s mortal beauty stirring.

The beauty of broken organs,
mortality make angels nothing less than God’s
personal, unwilling janitors of His perfect world.

the full sun

hi no moto
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

don't walk into the full sun

wait until there is cloud cover
wait until the air is moist
with the tears of a watchful god

be patient and watch for compassion
gently rising in the mist

cursive

cursive
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes it takes a real feather quill, sharpened with a blade in your own hands for true sentiments, true emotions unphased by reflection, the first thoughts of an unclouded, ignorant mind to come out...

vapors

oh father,
the water is wide and the fog lays low.
for so long now it seems,
i’ve been trying to find a way home
across desert plains and windy steppes,
over sharp peaks and through tree thick valleys.
now i’ve come to this last crossing
but there is no ferryman to give safe passage
and i’ve no coins to pay for my way.

oh father,
the water is wide and the fog seeps into my flesh
like a slow poison but it is so calming.
is this the end of a journey or the beginning of a new one?
i can’t tell where i end and life starts.
the guiding angels left a long time ago.

i’ve only an occasional abandoned feather to mark the path.
the feathers become quills which are the points
with which i scribble this story
this story will have more life than i.
the feathers pen letters constituting words,
bringing to life tales that i won’t be able
to take with me in this crossing.

on the other side, words don’t exist and
they tell me there is no pain.
the fog is so cold but so calming.
something this tranquil can’t be damning;
something this beautiful can’t be an end;
for a while perhaps, i’ll lie in life’s vapors.

doubt

doubt
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes you can't the expression for what you feel in yourself. sometimes the expression of that fleeting emotion exists in a face that is not real, scratches of a steel quill with other worldly ink, cross hatching that is reminiscent of terrible contradictions that live inside but are ever present and real enough, real enough for you to want to express. on the page and in that other world, the wind blows. you can't see the needles of snow in horizontal cascade but the inside of your skin feels it. so in that way, it is real.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

Sometimes the words of another, the words of an artist best speak the countenance that sits quietly within one's own heart. This is by Sylvia Plath:

The Moon and the Yew Tree

"This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."

– Sylvia Plath

muse, flora, fauna

muse, flora, fauna
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

all these things live in mind at the moment, in the light of tides of those around me, those in confusion, those in fear. in that chaos, archetypes appear in my mind to help ease the spikiness and sharpness in the realities of others that encroach into my space...

of course

of course i hurt. how can one not hurt after being slapped in the face by those who were thought to be pillars of support for you? how can one not hurt when one is misjudged because of fear and misinformation? but that is the reality. reality is now, in this moment. in this moment this body still has breath and this heart and mind still feels, pain is just a reminder that you are still alive. sometimes it is a good thing.

Moving forward

"I can't go back into the past and change it, but I have noticed that the future changes the past. What I call the past is my memory of it and my memory of it is conditioned by who I am now. Who I will be. The only way for me to handle what is happening is to move myself forward into someone who has handled it." – from Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson

Georgia

Four A.M., no sleep
Candles die in predawn light
No dreams, daylight soon

--

Unknown birds call out
Dogwood blooms in violet dawn
Waxing into light

--

Early summer stroll
Doused in crepe myrtle petals
Snow flurry in June

Grandpa

My life lost its breath
He slipped from me
Even after all those years

The man who showed me
Camelia from azalea
Magenta from cyan

He holds his feet firm
At the base of mountains
With head onward to the blue

Taste of fuschia
And smell of cut grass
Life has its smells
Love has its scents

Gloom

“gloom,” she said
not gloom as in bloom
nor spacious as in a room

not the space we keep private
not the face we avoid to show

grey and maybe dark
lacking the face of the moon
that is the kind of gloom she meant

i think

but in darkness of such a place
there is no sense in a big room
no buds in haste for spring

“in dark spaces we keep things
close and safe, protected.”
that’s what she said

i’m sure


after Sarah Arvio

Canyonlands II

A journey to fix us
After the deaths,
The breakdown and alcohol
The suspicion of a fairy tale’s end

In desperation
We became pilgrims
Not knowing emptiness
Has no material destination

In search of feelings misplaced
Hoping to find them intact
In fear of damage and mutilation
White knuckles on emotions
Looking for porcelain hearts,
Shapes that held affection

Among the trails,
Among deep red sandstone canyons
Once reliable organs became strangers
Sky, sand and thousand year old
Chips in ancient stone walls cast more beauty
Than our identities and how we came
To see one another

Love once held still held but hands
Once held each other lost their clasps
As romantic idealists, we held
That no obstacle could divide the bond

I held confusion, I held fear
I held for the last time
Faith that vows were real
And the rings would always
Remain in each other’s company

One person’s understanding
Can’t ever be another’s faith
It is a self reflective possession
Affecting and benefiting the beholder
Its power and paradox,
Non-transferrable even when floating
On an endless ocean of love

smiles to make you smile

eric and sara
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

little cousins

energy, boundless, tireless energy...

Blind

Because I do not turn

Cold winter day.
Grey skies wishing for desert winds.
These come from the seas, warm,
and arrive on cold shores.

Outside is the
The universe manifesting.
In here are hungry,
Slack shells of souls looking,
wanting, praying for the promises
of a negligent god.

Desperate,
Empty of awareness,
They seek salvation.
Blind to the usefulness
Of empty space, inside,
they carry on in faith.

Like their Maker,
Blind to their own jewel.

Bangkok

Recling Buddha
Gilded in gold, lies watching
Truth immutable

--

Chao Praya dawn
Your smile effervescent
Lychee on your lips

--

Sea of coal black heads
My stupa in blond locks here
Far, I will follow

Bamboo

I refuse to be out of faith
I don't care what they old wise men say.
If I were their wives,
I would whip them out of their double skin.

I am a product of something without balance
And so now I am out of balance
But that is all going to change.

I am going to learn the lessons
Passed from the little women
In our history

I'm going lose that shell.
I am going to lose that fragile thick shell.
I am going to lose that manly man stance.
I am going to stand like the way the bamboo would.

I am going to stand the way my mother

Stands

The way she stands in a cyclone
And kisses the wind of heaven.

Birthday

28 October 2001...

Kirala was one of our favorite sushi places
The hostess remembered us even after the long absence
As we ducked into the lobby, out of the chill

On the drive there, I wondered what would make
The evening a nice experience—it was my birthday
It had been the longest span since that

February in New York that we had been apart
You looked wonderfully glowing but hesitant
Like a moth choosing between light and flame

The steaming miso warmed me inside
But we never got past agedashi tofu
In the rhythm of our conversation

The space between our sentences was
As fresh and cold as that night’s otoro;
Precious and tasteful but seeming misplaced

The aesthetic presence of the meal; a metaphor
Four our odd situation but as yet unaware
The attraction and nourishment for heart and soul

Was in the paradox of sushi’s delicate beauty—
The sensual contact on the palate of uncooked, raw fish

song

it is another song
that brings gone people back.
i can barely listen
to the melody and rhythm.

they are traces,
beats of something
i've tried to banish
without success.

memory is a thing
that brings something
which does not exist
right now into reality.

it changes your countenance
into things you have
never imagined possible.

even darkness and
closed eyes do not help.
even in the night
the sights are there
behind reluctant eyelids.

even in the darkness
the voices still stir
something inside of you.

silicon valley fashion accessory #37, part 2

So it has been about a year since I posted about the bluetooth wireless headset thing. Specifically, how silly it seemed for people to go around with this funny looking thing hanging on the side of their head even when they aren't on the phone. Moreover, how incredible silly it is when people use the product as a symbol of prestige or wealth or in some cases, astronomical and almost superlative attraction to geeky gadgets that potentially put them ahead of the social-techno elite...or something like that.

In any case, after much observation I have found that in almost 9 out of 10 ten cases it is always men who wear these headsets as a fashion accessory. It makes me want to do a field trip to say, Milan or Paris to see if this is in fact a male thing or if it is an American male thing (like the big chrome wheels with spinners. The person who invented that should be duct taped to a windmill in Northern Netherlands facing the North Sea).

However, in a moment of epiphany a great idea came to me that could be a rather interesting book and/or documentary...the subject could be:

"The Evolution of Product Design: the evolution of a product from basic utility to vanity support in case studies."

I've got a thesis idea for grad school!!!! Hah, the irony of it leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. Or is that blood?!

living in memory

Scene:
Sitting in a cafe sipping tea. Woman walking out the door, talking to person behind counter, "I'm so sick of this rain. It won't stop."

observation:
People so easily fall into the habit of complaining about the gloomy, rainy weather that they turn their behavior shallow and transparent. They fail to see the beauty of the swirling droplets of moisture in the light breeze, backlit by the early morning sun. They fail to see the gorgeous, soft hints of violet at the edges of the not too distant clouds and how they look against the luminous white and silver strata of suspended water. It is a subjective reality and they limit themselves to the perceptive lens of other people's misplaced and misfounded expectations of how they should see the world. They are living in the reactions of someone else's memory. C'est dommage...