I would paint for you a portrait of North America, as a beautiful woman, when she was young and untamed, untrammelled upon and unshamed.
Her discipline was natural, her modesty overwhelming. And in the morning she would wash the burning face of the sun with her loving mist and comb his auburn hair with balsam fur: and he would smile upon her, and the day would begin and she would spread her apron for all to gather round her and she would feed the deer and the birds and share her loving heart with all creation.
And with breakfast done, she would take her waterjar across her shoulders and off to the fields she would go; the seeds of corn and squash to sow, and she would raise her head to watch the forests weave their silent singing o’er the wind; and she would tickle the streams with magic fingers and feel the water’s flow and know the humor of their coursing. And up, up into the afternoon she would saunter, the sweat upon her brow, and past the jagged rocks, and past the balsam boughs , and in the shade of cedar she would stop to rest perchance to pray.
Could she forget the warmth of sun against her eyes at night, and sight has fallen slowly into sleep and keep: and awake! and shake! and clear! and down and deep she wonders with the deer, and suppertime is drawing near; and dear it is the broth of sky she drinks and sweet the taste of buttered sun before he sinks (beyond the horizon),…..and twilight winks his way into her watchful heart, and start the song. For in the evening she would sing oh so sweetly that entire earth would turn on its side the better to hear her:and moon would place his palm against his cheek and weep with deep emotion for he was an old fellow with white hair, and she made him forget the distance of eons and eons and neutrons and protons. And of course this happened a long time ago before the age of tempered steel and ruffled lace, and outer space. But one can still hear her singing in the high countries of the heart and in the vast canyons of constant memory where the life of a single being is not forgotten nor forsworn and somewhere a child is born, and nowhere is the blanket torn between thee and me and shining sea and God knows
loloma, loloma, loloma kwak kwai
'A day in the life of North America'-Robbie Basho
Inside the scary warehouse (too dark):
Oh my god I swear to god no photoshop or anything I took a picture of the darkness and when I got my film developed this appeared!!!!!!!!!!!! Please if you are pregnant or have children please do not look at this image:
ANDREW BAR + ZAATARS:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ISA:
The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68,
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe
I like to bike (Also: formatting changes on the blog. Pictures will be bigger now, but everything older than this set looks smaller. Zoom in or view in fullscreen or whatever):
Part II to include underexposed images of scary-ass abandoned factory including ghosts, ambient noises, a noose and people throwing rocks at us:
AND FUCKING ANDREW BAR
Who knew numbers could be so loud?
So warm and thick and breathing, always breathing
In tens, in hundreds
Intense and hungry
Instants of absence and
Nonsense--sometimes just nonsense
Who'd know we borrowed time and thirst and love from you, Tomorrow?
It fades like a snake then back again
Fades like a snake then back again
Was it in you? It was in me
Trickling down my back, down my throat, down to the door where it was light again but I didn't know it