photos

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glimpses

one photo, one story

BRICK LORD | 

A summer's work
Mud burned into brick
Soil fruit in his hand
Blocks growing from the ground, layer by layer
His blood in them, his scrapes their scrapes
All colors earthy in this dirt rainbow
A son's son and a father's father
Glass bead cataract eyes with a vision
Youth in his age, warmth in his strength
Always helper
A giver this builder
Building more than just a building
Giving more than just hope
Giving love 
To those children in his care
Packed like sardines in the old dorm
School principal, custodian angel
The first step always the right step
A long time coming, a long ways away
Brick kingdom lying dormant underneath the drapes
Large shirt, but he larger, larger than life
Few know his name
Mud hero

 

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glimpses

  Sometimes it only takes one photo to tell a story. You can find more of these dispersed throughout the photos and countries sections as well as on social media and in the archive below:

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STORIES | Every story has a different story and each single one is interlaced with at least one other, from the first to the last. Complex and tall do they pile, warm and cold, bright and dark to be unraveled step by step by those with the curiosity and courage to keep climbing up and down.

 

JOURNEY | In the end, the journey wasn't all that much about traveling.

 

LIFESAVER | A lifesaver. Keeping people afloat. Never letting you down, let alone letting you drown. Always there for you. Loyal, no questions asked. A lightweight, but robust. A true helper and a giver, taking in the punches of your desperately flailing arms, taking care of the ones in need without patronizing. A hero. One of the best people I know.

 

PRIDE  | Who better to judge whom not to judge than those who don’t judge, who see what is, not what ought to be in the eyes of those who judge?

WHEN WE ARE | Come graze with us on this silky autumn air, feed off its slowly cooling warmth, sinking late tonight with all the colors making out. Now that the night leaks into the valley, it flushes shivering chills and atomic pulp down the marrow, beautifully, and we slingshot our dreams into the firmament to never land, and we, too, never land while a flock of feelings soars deep inside our selves. We’re nimble, lean but full with a full filling of passion for passion.  Drowsy drifters slashing their own sails, we wake up to a dream life, the world our living room, an entire universe for a ceiling, our jest fest uninterrupted on this phantom stage. When we are, everything is.

TEXTURE OF THE NIGHT | Tantalizing texture of the night, surrender to dark promises we don’t mean, we don’t mean to keep. Plans biting into ripe potentials, swallowing us whole. Sweet stimuli countdown shoves and pulls and tears. Soon our solace soles will dance away in the sonic smoke. Straight line saboteurs devouring neon nibbles until the oxygen outage, vandalism vanguard on a scavenger spree, utterly unafraid of these angry afterdays with their stale smells. None of that can touch us now.  The now is us, the midnight all young and daring.

 

OPEN || DOOR

the door that leads in

always open for one alone

black gate to a blacker beyond

hollowed by gnawing questions

darkened from answers unknown

deep rabbit hole to the underneath

neath the white surface you scratched for so long, long, long

where silent truth sleeps buried softly

a keepsake blanketed by ocean floor

shiny nacre pearl, finders keepers

to live not in but with you now

beaconing the way back to it

the door that leads out

 

NOT LOST | We thought we were absurdly lost that day. And on paper we were. But we were paperless, left to our own devices. No map, no guidebook, no being lost so long as you keep walking. Reaching for the blue heart of Lake Titicaca, the right ridge towards the north of Isla del Sol was far from us. But we were far from lost and we had the vista to back it up. 

 

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