a script, an eleven-forty tango with “CREATE,” the captain of mice

the car

just got back from spain where i had a 1.2 polo. small. but what a pernicious beast. it gave me confidence and i appreciated its character for what it really was (not what it tried to be). the rival it sat next to in the driveway was a peugeot 308, hdi, with all the excessive ergonomics of a marketing executive from a third grade ‘play-duh’ session.

one morning, having awoken from a mass exodus of accumulated urine in my lower chamber, i took this poignant sliver into the sunrise on a mountain road until its ready-to-wear-consumer-shoes began to beg for friction to forgive. incredibility, but reality is measured using ‘sweat factors’ of nine.

part of the trip… the start (at least)

serially, sunsets are manufactured consent. i appreciate it, insofar as i can express it. the burst of a “wider-than-life” bust is impossibly sexy, erotically undefined but almost always tragic and endlessly pessimistic. spain, a country of obsessed one-to-fivers, a playground for the tired, a bathtub of simplicity and a flabbergasted pot of unanimity. i became instant coffee, the moment the airport become a visionary reality. we touched down at some random time, on some random day, on a bed of chaos, the breaks of our bird fighting statistics and reminding its inhabitants of the futility of order.

next came the peeling off of the outer layer. we became exposed to the intricacies of religious miracles. a small “trocadero” reminded us that life in general is sometimes impossible to diversify, but for a slight notice that reads: add salt water, fourteen palm trees and nonchalance by the bucketload. who was i to dismiss novelty?

that the car really had a past

my first was a 528e. old, expressive, full of emotion. rust became it. i recognized its deficiencies, but really did not mind. my love for the animal (incognito) was a precocious prerogative that has yet to leave me. it was a 9-5 on the weekend that car. never will i forget it, never will i forgive it for spewing its guts after exiting one of the more major highways that makes its way from the west to the east, along a colourful barrage of allusions and beast-like accommodations.

second time, i failed equally. probability is a science. and i’m a lawyer. the 325 entered into my garage as easily as it would escape from a three point turn on a roundabout in the countryside. she had two-doors, love handles and a big smile on her face. i would take her out on breakfast, lunch and dinner dates. at the local gas station. insatiable, a love that made humans weak at the… 

my “mode” is now altruistic. my magnanimous inside is on a collision course with my aristocratic outside. walking saves the planet, and i’m convinced that the exit valve on cows are equally destructive. but i refrain from making more waves than is really required by the upper chamber of frivolous disgust and imposed “fees-for-life.”

i miss my two bmws, i will miss them for a while. but now, it looks like i may have a new love, a new hope, a new mistress. audi…

… thank you for making the r8.

…and without the means, the ends would have turned into knots…

50 mm 1.8.
+ kit.

i don’t believe in the kit, but the 50 is all i shoot with, religiously. 

i have shot with many, many camera[s] (+ obviously… ), and only really feel connected when (abstractly) attached to ‘my 50’ while on the run hunting for “the shot” or being hunted by those who feel my presence is leading their existence into a chaotic depression.

lens hunger is ubiquitous, but extremely unsatisfactory. purpose should really drive your appetite, rather than a desire to accumulate slash horde for socially inexplicable reasons. that’s just “my own” escaping…

wait.
an attempt… end?

so why was it explosive. why was it emotional. and why was it so disturbingly beautiful while at the same time satirically constipating. maniacal equations are required to explain. my small back pocket – and i have two – offer little in the way of “a solution.” it was life, full of it. the sand was neither moist nor dehydrated. we are all “counters” and at the very same time “weights.” egos define us and will eventually ruin us, slowly, bit by bit, until the last living seagull will find another “bone to pick.” but this is traditional. amorous, polyamorous and all of the feelings in between. on the record, there were no regrets, just impetuses and small hostile drags with nothing to pray on but ineffective plastic hairs and carbon fiber. meticulous. m…ind… n… umb… in… g.

ants live in colonies of x numbers. their abode is garnished with cubism, their artistic tendencies preferring the less double, the less famished. i’m stuck. seriously.

i’ll come back later. wait for me…

00:0x.

[note: these are excerpts from things that i wrote on the day i published this blog. these excerpts were not written FOR THIS PURPOSE, but came together to form what is before you. boo.]