Architecture of Cities: Paris and More

Kipling’s If is heard loudly: Moments become encouragements: I play endlessly with more:

I cannot remember when I became a photographer: I merely remember speaking photography:

The history of photography may be begins in France: Paris at one time was the heart of all dreams sometimes seen and always heard: Photography’s romance transforms not a generation but in some form mankind’s reflection of ourselves: France is what I remember most: My camera romanced the pictures that would become: Paris romanced my eyes:

I am an army of one and millions when it comes to Mile Davis devotees: Sometimes I am an army of one when it comes to Dingo: The soundtrack plays to the pleasures of my life lived like no other: The story begins “down under” and concludes in Paris: If all cultural adventures ended in Paris how bad might that be: Dingo has become a type of epicenter, a quake that informs my photography: Like the photographer Saul Leiter said: “I don’t have a philosophy, I have a camera”: Dingo is a visual offering: The sounds perform for so many frames:

The beginning of something may be beginning of everything: The common meeting of minds for pleasures is what Paris was: I am not writing a history of a cultural world: It is merely an imagined fact: All minds interested went to Paris to breathe:

My camera’s thoughts always return to Walter Benjamin’s “Arcades”: The long ago razed arcades were homes to history’s busts of Caesar, Napoleon and Homer: The memories danced like children between kiosks: Eyes peered into reflections of my past and yours: Prisms of light played hide and seek among mirrored interiors: They became windows into how I might see me: My memories of a past I had never seen were living alone in the Arcades: The past is always near: What secrets there might be for our futures:

Remembered histories are what Benjamin shared: The histories that including this very day stand before me in every frame I have ever seen: Death, life, dreams and nightmares of centuries past: This is home to my cameras:

Miles Davis played sounds that invoked Ravel, Rachmaninoff and more: Never to compare the simplicity of what I do to the genius of Miles Davis: My eyes see history in a small way that Miles heard history in his sounds: My eyes never captured what Miles heard: He heard melodies and chords of cityscapes and endless seas and continents: I have only heard the pictures of Charles Marville, Atget, Lartigue, to name the minutest among my countless heroes from three centuries of photography:

I stand alone not watching the frivolity that may be Dingo: I stand alone to hear history in my mind: I merely need to discover away to record a world of history in a single frame: The passage of time illuminates and elicits the bit of insanity where all of my truths live:  The goal  is ahead: Everything that has past before me before I pass my dreams by:

My privilege to dream about my forever lives is an unsustainable dream: I carefully choose my music the way one would in a military march: The ancients pose with weapons drawn:  A celebration of unity: Miles and me is not a bad way to dream about being aware: The song captures: My camera’s pace immersed into a soundtrack that only I can here: The birth of photography: The aftermath of every image as if at battle with myself: The need to conquer each moment: My camera lurches forward: Paris could be mine like it may have been for the ancients: The cycle recycles like a montage of all of the footsteps prior to mine: All of the histories lost in the arcades and in my mind: The privilege of beginning again: Benjamin is gone: Miles is gone: The music plays: I am here: Snippety-snap-snap.