And the salmon sings in the street

Sunday afternoon in Gambetta

I did not feel the surreal magic expected of Paris, only a sort of reality that could never be found elsewhere and that is something impossible to describe, much more magnificent

Ritaðar

Here's making something from nothing
in a forest so dense I've carefully chosen shelter
Living is a walk in the woods within which are no manmade paths
You hit a vast field, you enter the density you seek in the distance. 
You reach water, you cross this, into territory without expectation. 
Every decision you make leads you into depths you'd struggle to predict.
Go blindly but prepared and you will not find what is meant to come into being- it will find you.
It is written.

Severed hands on the porch

There were 4 or 5, and they were proportionate though a tenth of the size you'd consider normal. There was a little mess of blood and I was worried I needed to sweep them away into the bush, a neighbor was walking up the steps toward me.

I walked around the corner in the right place at the right time to see a news reporter speaking into a camera. A small crowd had gathered and I went into the street to see from a clearer path... 10 or 12 young women, all dressed similar, were laid on the street in a circle almost as the rays of the sun. Each had a gun in her hand and a hole in her stomach. One or two were being taken away on gurneys, a few were still breathing or struggling to speak, most were clearly drained of life. It was evident they did this to themselves though I instinctually felt they were influenced by something or someone, an idea or possession they couldn't evade that had led to this cult-like organized suicide. I think the man who owned the house where I found the hands was involved.

I come home one night to an apartment where I live alone, I've been there a long time but it was new to me in the dream. High ceilings, spacious, and a comfortably personal tone to the color throughout. There is a wall behind the dining table that had been pushed back, opening to these mysteriously lit halls lined with shelves, and on these all sorts of trinkets, antiques, mostly glass items. Every time I try to get back there someone comes to the front door, people I don't recognize but I know somehow that I have business to take care of. After some time it has become a party and I become impatient but accept that, as the host, I need to loosen up... I go to the kitchen for something, probably to get a drink, and there are three girls in the doorway talking with beers in hand. As I approach they turn my direction and the face of the girl in the center starts to morph subtly, three extra eyes form on her face, and as she looks at me they blink but not all at once.

Photo by Chema Madoz

All I want

Fourth floor

Crying over coffee

I find myself uncomfortably often wondering what the fuck are words trying to do? And who do they impress or fool?
It seems everything imaginable has been overdone and desensitized and I'm feeling more unsettled than ever, forgive the rant but it's hard to create anything new.
It's alright to at least have something to look forward to, but what to do for now, I'll find something, maybe I'm capable

Caught by the saxophone in the street

Thank you Charles, we appreciate this encounter and your lovely work! You can see through his lens here.

 

I carry myself

When I get down I'll remember all of the ignorant or discouraging remarks I'd hear regarding plans for my future when I was young and remind myself that none ever hindered a venture

Edinburgh, Scotland