Fun Spot at the Library

Since this photo was taken in 2008, I have fallen in love with photography and the southwest. Excited to see what imagery my future holds – I know the way I look at things has changed.

holly troy ~ sacred folly

I’m wearing my favorite socks and dressy shoes.

Sometimes work is fun!

Photo by Steven Toya.

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I'm a rock-n-roller poet who left the Big Apple for the Big Sky Desert where I've been letting it be and grooving with universal love, singing to the gods, dancing with the muses and bicycling with dreamtime messengers. I like altering my reality through imagination, movement, breath, and makin' stuff.

2 thoughts on “Fun Spot at the Library

  1. Southwest Ginger Snaps, stripey socks, pine nuts, cane breaks, reed pens, bamboowood box cameras, glimmering clouds of shivering aspenleaf glory, cottonwood box canyons, apertures set to infinity. Seized shutters unfrozen, sensible dressy shoes eased on and off, sky islands charted by chamisa songlines. Exposed silver reefs, calligraphed mountain streams, silent bird flight scribing invisible ink brush poems across the crystal-clear mind.

    Go forth in love and your aspiring eye just keeps getting richer, deeper, wider, sharper, wilder (freer)–ROUNDER.

    Minor White (whose blacks and whites are major) says:
    “When you approach something to photograph it, first be still with yourself until the object of your attention affirms your presence. Then don’t leave until you have captured its essence.”

    Which is a precise apostrophe of Basho’s credo:
    “Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and do not learn. Your poetry issues of its own accord when you and the object have become one – when you have plunged deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there. However well phrased your poetry may be, if your feeling is not natural – if the object and yourself are separate – then your poetry is not true poetry but your subjective counterfeit.”

    AH! The Southwest!–America’s most flam-buoyant-ly austere sacred corner–aflame in holy light, hovering, glimmering, infused with sacred magic.

    …And also: the ancient Chinese cognition-couplet that “a picture [painting, and/or now photograph] is but a frozen poem; a poem is but a fluid picture.”

    Minor: “No matter how slow the film, Spirit always stands still long enough for the photographer It has chosen.”

    Matsuo Basho: “There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.”

    Minor: “Often while traveling with a camera we arrive just as the sun slips over the horizon of a moment, too late to expose film, only time enough to expose our hearts.”

    Matsuo Basho: “Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.”

    You live surrounded by, drenched, drowning in glory, submerged in, saturated by richness, more fabulous than the mind can comprehend. See through golden-crystal spectacle lenses of loving-regard and the world is seen as golden, crystalline. Seen through. All the way. All the way back in. Be the golden pine and see what happens? Be the camera and the world is apprehended, comprehended within your aperture. “She who opens herself to the expanded vision of boundless awareness gains inner and outer purity” (Rk Ved).

    Dare be the red pine, Miss Red, and the pine you dare photograph is you. Be the flaming red rock. Be the boundless blue sky. Through and through.

    Happy Trails to You.


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