Been out of the tumblr game for awhile, but I do believe it’s time to get back.
I have recently returned to my beloved Kentucky and thinking about how to make photography a priority again. Looking through these old posts reminds me I can do it.
This little short by my very favorite Sam Shepard has got me thinking about rhythm and landscape and I need to fucking get out there and start taking photos.
Here goes nothing.
If everything could be sung to the standard rock and roll progression – C, A minor, F, G chords – then everything’d be simple. How many variations on a single theme? The greatest drum solo I ever heard was made by a loose flap of a tarpaulin on top of my car hitting the wind at eighty. The second best is windshield wipers in the rain, but more abstract, less animal. Like the rhythms of a rabbit scratching his chin. Vision rhythms are neat, like hawk scoops and swan dives. Slow motion space rhythms. Digging rhythms like shovels and spades and hoes and rakes and snowplow rhythms. Jack-hammer rhythms make Ginger Baker and Keith Moon look like punk chumps. Oilcan rhythms, ratchet wrench rhythms. Playing cards in bicycle spokes. A string of rapid-fire, firecracker rhythms. Propeller rhythms. Cricket rhythms. Dog claws clicking on hardwood floors. Clocks. Piston rhythms. Dripping faucets. Tin hitting tin in the wind. Water slapping rocks. Flesh slapping flesh. Boxing rhythms. Racing rhythms. Rushing brooks. Radio static buzz in a car when the engine is the dictator. Directional turnsignal blinkers. Off and on neon lights. Blinking yellow arrows. Water pumps. Refrigerator hums. Thermostatic- controlled heating systems. Clicking elevators with the numbers lighting up for each floor. Snakes sliding through grass. At night. Buoy lights. Ship signals. Airplane warnings. Fire alarms. Rhythms in a stuck car horn. Eating rhythms. Chewing rhythms. The cud of a cow. The chomp of a horse. Knives being sharpened. Band saws. Skill saws. Hack saws. Buzz saws. Buck saws. Chain saws. Any saw rhythm. Hammers and nails. Money clanking in a poker game. Cards shuffled. Bus meters. Taxi meters. Boiling water rhythms. Clicking ballpoint pens. Clicking metal frogs. Roulette wheel spinning rhythms. Tire rhythms. Whittling. Stitching. Typing. Clicking knitting needles. Parrots sharpening their beaks on wood. Chickens scratching. Dogs digging for moles. Birds cleaning their feathers. Cocking guns. Spinning guns. Bolt actions. Lever actions. Snapping finger nails. Finger popping. Cracking knuckles. Snapping bones. Farting. Spitting. Shitting. Fucking rhythms. Blinking eyes. Blowing nose. Coughing without control. Candle flicker rhythms. Creaking houses. Thawing ice. And you call yourself a drummer?
I just love him….
I don’t know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there’s beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
Recently did a small road trip to add to the Just Passing Through series. This is going to be a life time’s work trying to get all the folks on my list. I have a few more people to add in the UK, but the american ones are going to cost a fortune! Buy heres a few snapshots from my roadtrip with JT Dockery taking Hank Williams Last Ride (sadly not in a long white cadillac). No one will ever know where he exactly passed on to the otherside, so we did a little research and photographe as many of the stops the driver made until he discovered the tragic cargo he was carrying. Hoping to do something a little more with the final photos. These are just a few digi snaps.
I have been doing a lot of thinking about A Music So Subtle lately. I’ve been working on it for so long now it was hard to see straight. I have fought using text and padding it with the stories behind the locations of the images, and even the experience of taking the images. But after a conversation with Paul Cabuts, I’m beginning to change my mind. He said one of the reasons he loved photography is because it is the world’s worst communicator. To drop in a cliche, a light bulb went off. I had been trying to put that sentence into words ever since I started studying photography. I had been rambling about the conflict between the real and fiction a photograph creates. Which wasn’t wrong, it just wasn’t the angle I was really trying to map out for myself.
Also after showing a few Kentucky folks the project, something i was very nervous to do, I have realized those stories are so important. I end up telling them to everybody I’m physically with who is looking at the images, why not fix em so they’re there when I’m not? So now to put on my writers hat. And put a plan of action into place.
It would have been helpful if I could have made it to that Patti Smith Sam Shepard reading in dublin after all. They might have learned me a trick or two. Here’s a photo from the missed out evening. My friend Evelina’s selfpenned caption to the image ooh this??? Oh just a bit of light reading….. I left Derrida in the car.