Featuring Lané Jo, and the makeup and hairstylings of Lauren Marler. Music (“Paris 4 AM”) by The Legendary Pink Dots. Location courtesy of Hotel Congress. . . . . .
Posts Tagged ‘ death death goose ’
extra lucem nulla salus
A Metaphysical Field Guide for Photographers. “Eternity is in love with the productions of time” - so wrote William Blake in "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell," perhaps the best-known literary witness in the West to the reality of nonduality, that rarefied realm where subject and object forever incestuously join. Given a moment’s meditation, one can see in this allegation a fairly accurate description of the art of photography, taking as its substance that utterly indestructible (hence, eternal) medium: light.
the eternal economy of rise and fall
A brief introduction to the labyrinthine metaphysics of That Which Rises Vs. That Which Falls, utilizing Greek myth, ritual magick, astrophysics and social psychology, for a perspective on catalyzing a positive personal transformation.
existentialism is for poor people
What could be more boring than never having to work again? Here's a quick primer on how to make certain there's never a dull moment after you've won your jackpot prize, and discover your life's purpose in the bargain, involving risking life and sanity using a 15th-century magical grimoire to summon your Holy Guardian Angel.
that day
That day I was sleepy, all throughout work, into my lunch break. I took my usual vigil outside, by the pond, while reading the current issue of The New Yorker. There were metal benches arranged around the place where the pond erupted back on itself in mild geysers, and the wind sometimes carried the delicious spray back onto the benches, and anyone sitting on them. The red brick was wet there, cumulative testimony to the accidental hydration wrought by the breeze. I was sleepy again because of the previous night’s repeat of my occasional insomnia, and so I was drinking a coke. I plunked the near-empty can on the small table next to the bench, which a particularly upstart gust sought at once to upset and tip over. And nearly a hair’s breadth from reflexively leaning forward to still the tottering can, that day the thought, like a silent stranger, stole into my head: “I want to still this tottering thing because I am still afraid of death.”
