March 30, 2015

Waiting on the room

Waiting on the room
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March 29, 2015

View provided by ownership

View provided by ownership
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March 28, 2015

8th Avenue, looking south

At 44th.
8th avenue, looking south
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March 27, 2015

Nothing to photograph, NYC

Friday feeling like a Monday
Plane crashed by its pilot
Something radical and new
Nothing new under the sun
I forced myself to ignore Times Square
Nothing to photograph in New York City
Nothing to photograph in NYC
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March 27, 2015

Winter’s slow demise

Several days into spring, 30 degrees the high, only one tree has escaped.
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March 24, 2015

Hotel block, NYC

I’m not very fond of hotels. They seem to stand against everything it means to be in a place, but if you want to visit they’re your lifeline. Big and vapid, they offer just enough to support life, but never enough for a full one. Even when luxurious I find them culturally bleak, artistically flawed. In their dry-eyed, 24-hour spin they present a microcosm of extremes: wasteful opulence against the squeaky wheels of myriad laundry carts. A view through a dirty window.
Hotel block, NYC
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March 5, 2015

Drawn and quartered

Bull market; passive fist.
Drawn and quartered
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March 4, 2015

Winter’s dust

We are the hard sounds:
crushing, crashing, breaking stuff
You are a soft sound,
puffed apart as dust
p ff d p rt s d st
The hard of winter
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January 23, 2015

Left on a mountain

It doesn’t seem like a normal thing to do, but when asked I couldn’t refuse. She wanted to know if I’d like to be dropped off on the side of the mountain while she went to fetch others. You could never expect that to be the next question you’re going to be asked, so, after letting it sink in for a few seconds, of course I said yes. They left me in a field of scrub with a sharp drop off about a quarter of a mile out. Cars were whipping by up above on the ridge. I don’t think this is a South African tradition, but there I was on a mountainside for 45 minutes. We all kind of laughed when I was picked up.
Left on a mountain
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January 22, 2015

Backlands gate

This was along the route at the edge of the farms where they crashed into reclaimed tribal lands. All of the roads were dirt and most of the people walking with things on their heads painted their faces. Riding in the back of the truck you could make brief eye contact and then watch them wrap backward around the bend. The red dust kicks up so much that when you stop you have to wait a while for it to settle, if you want to take it how it was.
Backlands gate
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