Yesterday, spoke with a 60-year old-ish woman. In the late sixtees, she said that she once stood on a street corner looking at all of the hippies parading around. I asked if she were a hippy, and she said (laughing), “I was too busy having babies!” She said, “I stood there, thinking, My goodness, what in THE WORLD is going on?! But then, about ten years later, I was yoohoo’ing all over the place, just like one of them!”
Breezy-blowing wind through trees, through the window with which comprehension increases. Feeling Oscar “Wilde” and wowed today. I sometimes feel the urge to apologize to certain people for who I am, for what I am interested in, and it is like the essence of something contained within itself, and the only way to find out what it is is by becoming what it isn’t, therefore contradicting its contradictions and finding out what is sacred and less commonplace. A revolt in a whisper.
In my “spam email” inbox, the sponsored links are providing me with Spam recipe links.
Squeezed like a squid.
(Note to self: The texture of this day, like flaunting fruit towards a hungry mouth.) Cannot remember who, but this flips me: “Sometimes I misread people’s behavior if I’m having a bad day or feeling vulnerable and then later am gratified to find my vision was distorted or skewed.”
Back to my stroll: Sometimes my careless attempts have glimpses of truth intertwined in them in a way that makes photography seem like some “abominable satisfaction,” and some would see it selfish to find that one wants to “invent” the future, but the future is already existing; we are just consistently creeping towards it, second by second (some people, as I have noticed, live in inappreciable moments of time) with nary underbrushes of thought (like how, when venturing about the HOT October 8th road with my camera earlier this afternoon, I found myself commanding the attention of everything surrounding me, in ways that perhaps would have not been the case were it not for my Object d’art. It is like certain listening skills, certain lacks and gains, and the eyes “search out” something to photograph; intense observation, like Christopher Colombus in his prime, the “fat” of the land like a goldmine (gold-mind) to those explorers)—and I have a love-affair with nature each day, like some John Keats and Fanny Brawne sunshine (Keats to Brawne: “My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet - You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist: and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often “to reason against the reasons of my Love.” I can do that no more - the pain would be too great - My Love is selfish - I cannot breathe without you.”—and I, Derrick Tyson [Patty once said to me in late 2007: “You should start using D.H. Tyson like D.H. Lawrence” . . . how flatteringly-embarrassing, I thought—I think of our emails, how lengthy and divine they often were, how expressively-poetic, how she printed them all out, had our stacked-correspondence in one enormous box—wondering what became of it, if she still has it all]) cannot breathe without nature (poetically, and lyrically and, well . . . literally).
Truth is, I have stop being so lazy with art, but “moods” are like moon-phases; I feel gagged on questionings and objectivism, but in a serene way; nothing violent. Felicia said to me after I told her that I am happy and content with my life: “How do you know that you are this way?” I said: “I just know. One just knows.” She said: “But, if you have never known the differences with sharing happiness with someone, how do you know that you are fully happy?” and I responded: “I have known the differences, which is the reason why, and how, I know. I know what to expect, what not to expect . . .”
I tend to stay silent for the most part—murmuring to myself, almost forcefully—always standing transfixed.
Back to photography: Recently, I am loving nature photography (why does that sound so . . . strange to say?). “Nature photography”—what is the nature of that phrase? Sounds so barbarious in a way, and I thought, “Every picture that I take is . . . a self-portrait. It has to be.” I ponder to-and-fro, restlessly, at times, the unavoidable noise in my mind clankering around, giving me speech-candy to taste on. Why should I apologize for my ways? This would be absurd. I was perhaps mentally-heavier as a child. Photography is dangerous in the right proportions—a wide semi-circle, a gap here and there, an empty space (fill-in-the-blank). Helps to make good friends, good conversations, but I cannot conceal what I don’t have, like some unbearable weight oppressed to one’s breast—a glance back in the dusk of day, before disappearing completely.
Revolving words. Thoughts. It is time to eat! (I’m staggering forward).
Sun Yat Sen Garden
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