Train from New York to Boston
Illicit dreams beamed brightly:
Port of Jackson sharks smiled gently:
Some feared their smiles:
A child imagined an auto’s bonnet, a glistening grill:
The conical teeth ground and grinned: Brutality graced beauty, brutality it became:
The real and unfamiliar lived in fresh flesh:
Port of call came to mind: The voyage reminded me of Coleridge: “… Ancient Mariner” interplay could be heard then and now: The life among the seas might be me:
Renzo Piano London’s Central Saint Giles
Traveled and engaged I prefer the strength abound in industrial transport: Traveling has become a story that fades from my past and holds some truths for what is near to be: I dream:
My city block may be an entire nation:
I extend my lens from continent to continent: May that be a city block: Is that a nation:
Torrent rivers calm as a summer day may be another block another city: Is that a nation:
Mountain ranges in between separate where we have been what may become:
If I could remember: What am I to remember, if I might remember.
A funny thing about living in between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: How do you choose to not live and see anew: My camera dreams ahead for me: It sees what may be my reality: My camera sees the reality of others: Oscar Niemeyer, Zaha Hadid, Ma Yansong dream beyond our known brick and mortar: I begin to imagine a bit more:
I imagine the comforts living between the amorphous and the crystalline: I imagine journeys aside the straight line: The direction is neither a perfect line nor the impossible absolute: I yearn to discover the undeniable: Too many variables live in our tomorrows to know what may be:
Wilkinson Eyre London Cable Car ( Emirates Air Line)
I am traveling between continents without complete knowledge of what will be:
The Concorde of yore flew atop the skies: The air balloon floated into unfathomable beauty:
The ground is my home: My metropolises are of unknown and not yet experienced: My imaginations devour what industrial strength transportations might be: The rumble feels me, feels my angst: I feel the rumble: The quantum leaps along history’s trails are my psychological ebb and flow: I am alone: Societies’ nations of generations might feel my same: Mankind comes to life because history unfolds like multiple avalanches of Chinese/Japanese scrolls: Native American burials and discoveries of untold fictions and non fictions rumble below: History of our past and future is where my mind lives like a frequent dreamer among passengers: One million Morpho butterflies ruminate about next: Theyappear like Freud puzzles in various analytical stages of sanity:
My favorite photograph is not a beauty: My favorite photograph, The Queen’s Target:
It is not brilliant: It is what has been left behind: Roger Fenton did not make art, he made history:
He left a staggering pose of a moment past: I have spent a lifetime looking for a target with my own bull’s eye attached: It is out there: It is my “A raison…” seems appropriate:
My sensory perceptions are triggered like fireflies alighting in heroinism: the slow dance of lights and movement never dance but absorb :The rush of the light streams take hold and fade to never: There is nothingness until you dream:
I embark on a dream of slow moving realities that speed faster than I will know: Names become never commonplace but touchstones: My senses are alighted with the captures: China, Russia and fifty countries are storied environments: Niemeyer, Gehry, Hadid, Miro and Noguchi are enlightenments fermented beyond my own expiration dates:
Every place I visit along the earths’ path are not mere steps: Imagine a chess boards sixteen pawns: Imagine the sixteen multiplied by seven billion: Imagine how I can see them all before my captures are no more: Three hundred years of celluloid is what I see in my mirror: Tomorrow is merely a guess.
Rafael Vinoly’ London 20 Fenchurch Street (The Walkie-Talkie)