Prodigal Son Is Dead

I get asked once in a while:

Why photography?

Honestly.

My answer.

I don’t know.

(Working on it.)

—————–

I do think about it a lot.

The construction of a moment.

Seems to.

Always transcend.

The destructive march of time.

Or.

To slice something thin.

Can reveal more about its nature.

Than.

Taking it as whole.

—————

I take a lot away.

(More than I ever admit)

From.

Each of these moments.

Even though.

They have an uncanny way.

Of leaving.

More quickly.

Than they came.

————–

So another year is upon me.

(Us)

I’ll be honest.

I’m glad its here.

More chances to.

Construct.

Slice it thin.

Think.

And.

Most importantly.

Kill the weekend.

Wow.

Almost another year.

I made it.

We made it.

In many ways. It has forced me to realize.

How small we are.

Individually.

Collectively.

————–

This journey.

(This risk.)

I continue to take.

Forces me to.

Expose the weakness’ of my own Self.

To forget the victories.

And (forgive) the losses.

————-

Lately.

It feels closer.

This battle for relevance.

Or.

Remembrance.

————

Next year.

I dream.

The light will fall easier.

The frames will demand.

I recognize them.

And the shutter will trip itself.

Automatic.

And I will be along for the ride.

It sounds so nice.

(Doesn’t it?)

————-

Yet.

My own personal fight against obscurity.

Is just that.

A fight.

And next year.

(And years after)

A fight it will be.

And when I pause.

I will realize.

I’d have it no other way.

—————

Kill the weekend.

All of you.

I always come back to Kafka.

Reading his diaries.

This must be the 5th time.

‘The terrible uncertainty of our inner existence.’

Yes.

He was right.

Always right.

————-

But this time.

It isn’t the uncertainty.

I find terrible.

More. So.

Its the certainty.

The predictable nature.

Of my personality.

Oh. So. Boring.

Nothing is more terrifying.

—————-

Yet.

It is my tendency.

Our tendency.

To fight against uncertainty.

To practice.

The Predictable.

To struggle.

And struggle.

Life.

Always.

On Repeat.

—————

It is now time.

Long overdue.

For me to embrace the uncertainty.

‘Of my inner existence.’

And.

(With camera in hand.)

See where it leads.

Kill the weekend.

Every time.

G

There is something oddly satisfying.

With the process.

Of finding beauty.

Where others don’t.

Or.

Can’t.

———–

I’ve always been singularly interested.

In this endeavor.

This search.

I know there are others.

Out there.

With me.

Searching.

————-

I used to think.

If we could just find one another.

We could help each other.

Now.

I’m not so convinced.

————

Unlike so many things in life.

This journey.

This search.

Feels like.

It’s.

Best taken.

Alone.

————-

Kill the weekend. All of you. Friends on this journey.

G

Its different for all of us.

What breaks it up.

Causes us to pause.

More often than not.

It comes.

From.

Memory.

————–

To recall that one thing.

To disrupt my open-eyed slumber.

On command.

Is something I wish i did better.

At least with greater efficiency.

—————

But when I do.

It is so humbling.

Because it reminds me.

To be human.

And sometimes.

Lately.

I feel a little less human.

And more.

Metal. Glass. And Light.

—————

So in this long awkward silence.

We call life.

I engage in an ongoing conversation.

That once in a while.

Is punctuated with accents.

Of joy.

Of beauty.

Of terror.

And then I’m reminded.

Kill the weekend. Everyone.

G

I am

Dumbfounded.

But not.

Speechless.

How can i be?

How can any of us be?

————-

There are so many things wrong.

And no.

It didn’t take a camera.

For me to notice.

I’ve always known.

And. Make no accusation.

This is not pessimism.

If only life.

Was so easy.

————–

Right the ship.

What if i don’t want to be on this ship?

What if none of us do?

Have we come so far. Together.

That no one remembers the path back.

————-

The nihilist in me.

Would love to think so.

But.

Like all good punk rockers.

I will resist. Camera in hand.

We all will resist.

Because.

Well.

Its Friday.

And sometimes.

That’s more reason.

Than anyone needs.

Kill the weekend.

All of us.

Whoa!

Time.

Why is it always in a rush?

Why am I?

My grandmother at the cemetery.

She’s outlived everyone.

She’s in no rush.

——————

But I gotta stop.

Sometimes in my hurried pace.

I forget the most important parts.

And i’m reminded how ridiculous.

All of this will one day seem.

———————-

Its becoming pretty obvious.

I’m having more fun than I probably deserve.

And as I get older.

And make sure to.

Kill the weekend.

All of you.

G

http://www.volcom.com/flash/new_futures/0509_denim/main/main3.html

Click on the ‘Copeland-photo’ link.

Feels like one big.

Really long.

Bad Day.

I would love for someone.

To speak up.

And let everyone know its over.

————–

Anyone out there?

Not one.

The Wait.

Is so exhausting.

So I obsess.

On the brighter moments.

————-

And.

Until.

Someone chooses.

To speak up.

We have no other choice.

But.

To leave the Old.

And.

Find.

The.

New.

———–

Kill the weekend. Everyone. Everywhere.

Lately.

Its one big pattern.

Almost predictably.

From one emotive reaction.

To another.

Base.

Even caustic.

—————

And i always thought.

With the complications of age.

Would come.

The calm of wisdom.

————–

Damn.

Why not me?

Or.

Should I ask.

When?

—————

I’m turning a new leaf.

No doubt.

But Lately it just seems better.

To throw the brick.

Rather than.

Try to catch it.

—————
Kill the weekend all of you.