Architecture of Cities: 75 Cities in One Day, the Race for Light, the Race Against Time

Racing against time, the light turns to something before dusk: The rhythm matters: My own American version of an Irish jig: Untold stories appear: Pictures are designing architecture: My lenses see the captures displayed: The jig remains:

There are no stories of people in my travels: Billions is a number too many: Imagine all cross-legged around the fireplace/hearth listening to my tales of fractions, seconds in travels impossible to appreciate: I Look into my one pair of eyes: Entire galaxies of planets align: More than one is too many:

I don’t have time to imagine: Dread is ahead: The last light of the night is the end of twilight: My second favorite time to capture: I stretch reality: I find my footing: I stretch reality again: I tell stories not told:

A cavalcade of names and places for decades have been married to my photography: Ancient influencers shared their perspectives: Decades became a lifetime of days:: Weegees, Brandts, Strands and thousands remain by my side: Photography’s icons enlisted to meld their/mine periphery: I marched into

I spent a day with  Oscar Niemeyer; I spent a day with Zaha; I spent a day with Nouvel, I spent a day with Johnson plus thousands:  A finite collective of artists: Jasper, Ellsworth, Miro,and bits of Andy also whispered: I have spent the luxury of a lifetime immersed in filmdoms Spartacus, The Hill, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, Pixote, Cool Hand Luke and ten thousand more:

To be alone with my heroes and demons is a bit of captured heaven: Throbs and trebles play like pixilated sound waves; a collective of wonders: Names and faces, places and days become one; I run, I race:

Keith Jarrett’s Köln concert plays in the distance: A regular minimalist of devoted passion sounds ahead; George Simenon’s Maigret lurks about: No volume, just quiet: Influences remain a mainstay in every capture: Something knowingly naked awaits: The life ahead awakens as it did before.

My photographers’ eye conjures a vast uniquely science fiction narrative: Walter Tevis’s The Man Who Fell to Earth’s sees Newton’s presence alit on earth: The presumed performance is innately me: The identity is absurd: The kinship is only realized in my own desert mirror: My entire oeuvre is merely me manufacturing my presence in front of the world’s built environment: Filmmakers like Nicholas Roeg, David Lynch, Stanley Kubrick and a few others saw alternative universes: Their mind-stretching cinematics  became a kinship I could never let go of: A whisper from Wim Wenders suggested; make it more than seen before, became my mantra before I was twelve years of age: I remain to photograph realities and narratives: Something’s not seen but living in hiding:

I have often offered up a personal sacrifice not unlike the Aztec/Inca  sacrifice for a greater good; a greater god: Take my eyes tomorrow allow me to see today:

Light is missing here and there: I play hide and seek among atmospheric dimensional corridors: My mind sees all of my captures like the Spring Equinox: Light is everywhere before it vanishes: The end is near. The train to somewhere can no longer go fast enough: My eyes run full throttle: The moon or sun light may soon vanish: The mission to frame the building might be inconsequential if I do not shoot:

Five hundred sun tanning birds perched: They assailed the locals with spewing vulgar avian tongue lashings; Like a racket of squabbling tenors under the vaulted St. Patrick’s Cathedral: Atop the equally proportioned parapet and sill, flocks espy my race for time: They watch for fun:

I could be a lonely man standing in a rain puddle: I could be among the four Beatles humming A Day in the Life: My sanity imagines: I imagine fractions of sounds across my landscape: A crashing sound begins: The end is near: The beginning of the end is so bright: Beautiful sounds are echoing from afar: I snap to live today and tomorrow: There is nothing powerful or alluringly striking: Just the capture that day:

I am alone as in Kafka’s Metamorphosis:  I am Buzz Aldrin posturing for Neil Armstrong until I lift off from my lunar perch: The entirety of decades’ experiences lifting my spirits from the moon to earth. I race to best time: I manufacture dreams to understand: I capture time within time.