dead = undying
living = dying
::quantify//space/heaven/all/any/hell\yfitnauq::
dead = unfeeling
living = efmeoetliionng
—rostam—
thatb oy
had i thought it was going to be like this i may have done something different.
maybe i’d have gone and laid in that creek - touched more rocks - stared more at clear skies - looked at their faces a bit longer.
but. i’ll tell you.
if i went back in time i’d pay a visit to that boy, brush his shoulder and sit down with that young man - and tell him it’s very different - different because of my choices.
not because of the environment like he will think.
i’d pick his brain, on tall things.
and i’d listen to him bc later i will ignore him - in fact, go the other way.
i’d say silently, “young man, it’s all not what you’re thinking”. a ruined dream sooner turned nightmare.
but i’d listen. listen to wise words.
and i’d kiss him on the forehead.
but i would not tell him. i would listen hard, bc he feels i know something he doesn’t.
better.
we’d watch oceans after the long drive - toss the ball around - shoot bee bee guns - wear vinegar and dirt - forgive time - we’d hang the sun above us - sweat angry booze - be bare chested - and burn our skin on that sun - whistle the verve with blades of spring grass - be lost in home - and i swear i would not tell him - not a thing.
i’d listen to him laugh, to remember – i’d listen to him cry, to see what it is to feel.
most of all - i’d beg him to hold on tight - hold on really tight, to his .
and then i’d breathe it in a glass bottle, and set it to sea.
because if it’s one thing that should be lost and never found, it’s that boy.
—rostam—
problem with hawking the 6 o-clock - one simply vulnerafies the front for the back, achieving no effectual difference in self-protection.
life is much more gamble than we believe.
fuck all.
—rostam—
a beggar on the streets of paris. his hat, the collection pot.
i captured five or so worthy street images from across the pond without looking through the viewfinder. camera just off my right thigh, at my belly, or side cocked for enough angle to shoot my subject. shutter releasing only when i felt the moment was right, i guesstimated composition - trading thought/measured execution for feeling, doing. this is one of those images.
side note. ironic how truly me i can be when i get the fuck out of my own way. end side note.
what is it to be disregarded by hundreds or a thousand human beings daily.? the beggar’s experience of invisibility. isn’t that our collective interaction.? pretending he’s not there, as, ‘i do not acknowledge your presence’. invisible, alive, yet un-existing.
what strikes me about this man, he sat there with the hat, actively not begging, indifferent, well acquainted, friendly to and accepting of his own transparency and occupied inconsequentiality.
when were you, at your very most, a beggar - outwardly pleading, invisible, alive yet un-existing? what do you find in that lived experience and feeling?
tech specs
manufacturer - canon 7d
lens model - canon efs 17-55mm f/2.8
f/4.5
s 1/320
iso 400
length 17mm
shooter specs
manufacturer - female / male
model - human
aperture - shallow depth of feel
shutter - freeze speed / sharp understanding
sensitivity - 51,200 one hundred percent noise
main - one day, one wakeup from being invisifyed as always, by a woman i once loved.
—rostam—
