Some kinds of love are mistaken for vision
[Cover: A Ship, Three masted, sailing; wind full;]
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. – Mark Twain
Josh . .
TIME IS A FUNNY THING, AND HAVING JUST READ A BIOGRAPHY OF EINSTEIN, I’M ENCHANTED BY THE NOTION OF SPACE AND TIME CURVING BACK ON ITSELF, SO THAT IF YOU GO FORWARD FAR ENOUGH, YOU RETURN TO WHERE YOU STARTED. MEMORY IS THE SHORTER WAY AROUND, AND I REMEMBER AS IF I AM THERE MY HOLDING YOU ON A GLORIOUS
LATE SPRING FIRST-OF-SUMMER DAY AND SEEING THE ARC OF MY LIFE, PERHAPS CLEARLY FOR THE FIRST TIME, BENDING TOWARD GOOD & HOPE & LOVE, BECAUSE OF YOU.
You are deeply loved, Josh.
When you were just a wish and a hope; when you were a little “fish” that I carried with me and we played our little game – you pushing against my hand from the inside – a promise of the sense of humor you have always had ; when you were born & I looked into your eyes & knew that I had known you for eternity ; the baby who clung to me so ferociously ; the little boy who needed to play alone to fully realize the stories he needed to tell ; the big boy ; the young man ; the man you are today . . . having you as a son has been one of my most valued blessings. →
I have always loved you and always, always will.
Kerouac’s On the Road >>
Dean Moriarty = Don Quixote
Sal Paradise = Sancho Panza
via Josh Boyette
Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing.
The early artist’s essential dilemma is at once both inevitable and tragic:
Specifically, his¹ desire is to seize the very atomae of being, which dance their dances erratic and haphazard in the fullness of their innate wild, inscribing against the carbon of his mind their rising and falling circuits (who helplessly misses the changes of shifting instantaneous velocities that continuously confound the hapless observer’s already-too-late attempts to record their movements), his desire is to seize them and stop their dancing to study their beauty —
The writer sees the world, in all its gushing, flowing, and wishes to command it to stop, and array itself in a simple stillness he wants to take for beauty — but in fact, is just an artificial stasis that helps him to see –
So too the scientists who must kill the specimen to examine their structures –
The mature artist moves past that, and takes life in situ, realizes that these are moving pictures he is made to dance with, realizes that life cannot be stopped, corralled, realizes that the tranquil reflection he longed to realize is not life, or anything like it, but merely its report —
And thus, learning to craft, not mirrored still waters that portrait being, but great torrential flows of the very matter of living, the thoughts and feelings that swim and orbit beside those great dark pockets of being — himself, and other minds, like great sea creatures upon the waters – and provides those attendants to other unknown minds, to give the others a momentary taste, not of quiet, but of Life, in all its incalculable Fire.
1. Because, yes, it is always, archetypically, a He, a Narcissus, seedlayer, even when the He wears paps and a womb.
Teach me about apertures. Teach me about focal length. Teach me about the way the light hits and bends and burns-
Teach me about the way a photograph will steal your soul. Teach me about the way a photograph will pin you to the page like a lepidopterist.
Teach me about color. Teach me about framing. Teach me about structure.
Teach me about dark rooms. Teach me about digital. Teach me about film.
Teach me about the albums, twenty seven albums sitting in my parents house. Teach me about flipping through them backwards, looking at faces that aren’t there anymore.
Teach me about horses. Teach me about riders. Teach me about life in the age of mechanical production.
Teach me about Benjamin. Teach me about Annie.
Teach me about black and white. Teach me about color. Teach me about moments. Teach me about time.
Teach me about photography.