Yep, that’s a deliriously happy face graffiti’d onto the side of a dumpster.
Now, you can call that irony, or juxtaposition, and maybe the person who painted it there was thinking that way too.
But…
Author: Patrick Jennings
I travel, when I can. Write, when inspired. Photograph, where there's beauty. Make films, for a living.
Oh, and I play a decent didjiridu.
Be made of iron
Steel
Be made of steel
Be made of steel
Or iron
Yes, even better
Be made of iron
Iron ages
Rusts
Like the lines etched
In an old man’s face
Post no ills
It wasn’t a completely conscious process, but the world and everything in it has grown increasingly beautiful since April Fool’s Day, 1994 — the last day of my Microsoft tenure and the first day of… I’m still not sure what. Amazing what happens when you stop seeking the ugliness, stop cleverly attacking it and the people it attracts, stop praising yourself for your cleverness.
Point Imperial
We measure time in movement
A trickle of water
Becomes a rivulet
Becomes a stream
Becomes a river
All the while eating the rock
Over which it travels
Cutting a cleft
A channel
A chasm
A canyon
Shadow in the Singing Sands
Dragging my feet along the dune’s crest I notice the shadow falling away in the sand. Stopped, I am a willowy figure, impossibly tall, in a cloudless, windless expanse of sand beyond my cinematic imagination. A lone — lonely — silhouette for whom the Mountains of Singing Sands do not offer a whisper. Isolation. Solitude.
Framing the picture is easy, but the figure… the figure lacks form. A couple of poses make no improvement, until I hold my left arm out and the camera strap falls from my shoulder.
Love stays still
We measure time in movement
The trickle of water
Becomes a torrent
Becomes a stream
Becomes a river
All the while eating the rock
Over which it travels
Cleaving a rivulet
A channel
A chasm
A canyon
Can I Function Without It?
Sometimes I wonder, which parts are me and which have been bestowed upon me by some arbitrary process or event, parts which are momentarily useful but, in the long term, become a distraction, or potentially lethal, like the appendix surgeons removed when I was five, moments before it killed me.
Cool on White-Washed Plywood
Cool
It said.
It said.
Cool
On a white-washed sheet of rough plywood
In a back alley
Beside railroad tracks
On the Vancouver waterfront.
Seeking ~ Being
There comes a time
In every pilgrim’s journey
When the path transforms
In every pilgrim’s journey
When the path transforms
From seeking
To being
Pix to Words 