Many years ago, in Petaluma, there was a car and a girl and a dog and a sky and a man who saw it all through a pair of ancient eyes evolving backward toward blindness. And in that moment, which only seems to be preserved, there was a revelatory flash that preceded (again by many years) a sonic wave of truth and understanding that belies all his crude symbols of speech and knowing, yet that is as visceral as digestion and as steady as a scar, and that is just now passing over as a single ripple in the pond of us.

A photograph, for me, is not a capture or a shot or some lucky accident of composition and timing. It is a rift in the dream that beckons a subconscious understanding. These are all frail and feeble things, these words that attempt to support them. To explain. There are, in this life, feelings, that no language can reach. Perhaps a better word is resonance, vibration. The frequencies of strings. And I have said this before but we are like radios. I am incessantly tuning the dial. Beyond form and between the visible there is the Source. That is the it within the image. It is there but it can’t be seen.

o O o


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