Sitting at the edge of the water I can see the tails of the tadpoles kicking up minute storms of silt that twist and swirl, almost imperceptibly in the shallows ringed by weeds, algae, trash, and the decaying shells of Baghdad’s stray dogs. Once when on a patrol in the Ghazaliyah neighborhood of Baghdad I … More Tadpoles as the Scale of What Makes Us Weightless (Pt. 1) (also, I’ll publish an image once I’m sober enough to figure out how these buttons work)
Like the steady drip of water against the face of a stone mountain over epochs, or the ravages of heavy winds and waves on sea shores over eons, or the pounding of shod hooves on dirt over centuries, the environment is altered and changed by even the smallest particular collisions, even noticeably so if given … More The Erosion of Bone and Will
A wordy response to your assumption that white men have no place in conversations on change and advancement … More To Have No Color or Shape -OR- Why White Men Can Have Opinions on Abortion.
A pile of six heads, neatly stacked, greeted us when we stepped down from the ramp. Each was easily recognizable as having once belonged atop the shoulders of a living, breathing human being, and yet each was also almost as unremarkable as the next. In death, they had lost everything that had made them so … More Heads
*This one is sans photographs. There just wasn’t an image in my arsenal that fit well enough to include. Memory is entirely unreliable, I know that. It is malleable and moldable and completely subject to the influence of third-party stimuli. Parts of memory are certainly rooted in the unquestionably accurate recording of sensory input, the … More The Solution
If I had to choose one example to use as a summary, to capture in a nutshell what it is like to travel and hunt down shots with me, it would be my time at the Grand Canyon.
Some people get into photography for the earning potential, others for art, maybe still others for god knows what reason. I fall into the third category. … More My Little Plastic Box of Memories