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Posted on June 25, 2011 by Scott

Yesterday was my birthday. I have reached the age of 42. Did I do anything spectacular? Of course I did!!!

Woke up yesterday morning, said to myself, “Alright then. I’m 42.”
Worked on the Goggle Girl video. Finished it.
Did some stuff.
Went to work (and got soaked for the first time since this day.)
Came home.
Started to watch a movie.
Went to sleep.

I received two birthday cards in the mail. One from my parents, one from my sisters, nephews and niece. (They were all vacationing at my eldest sisters’ home in the South of France. So they took the time out to find a card and all sign it.) That made me pretty happy.

I’m actually really happy to be this age. Totally looking forward to the coming few months. And 42 is a year of abundance, I was recently told. One day in and so far, so good. Here’s to a good year.

Dancing, in the street and behind closed doors (with video)

Posted on June 15, 2011 by Scott

Two nights ago, toward the end of a very slow shift and in the middle of debating whether or not to stay a little late, I decided to have a cigarette to contemplate the matter. I walked out the door and crossed the alley to sit on the curb closest to the street.

It’ll only take me fifteen minutes, twenty max.
Breathe deep. Flick the ash.
Why is that guy outside The Deuce standing there, just holding his junk?
Oh great. Eye contact. How many cigarettes do I have?

“You lookin’ for a frien’,” he asks as he sashays his way over. He is much taller than me, much broader than me, much blacker than me. Disheveled, wearing somewhat baggy, bluejean shorts, a belt, and a large t-shirt, I can’t tell if he is homeless or if he simply missed laundry day. He would be intimidating if he didn’t have the “come hither” look in his eyes.

“No, not really,” I say with slight dismissiveness, hoping to end the conversation quickly.
“What chu lookin’ for tonight,” he asks with a twinkle in his eye.

Does he have weed he wants to sell me? Coke? X? Commodities frequently pitched on the streets of South Beach.

“Nothing. I just want to smoke this cigarette.”
“Then you must be lookin’ for trouble,” he replies.

I run through what he can possibly mean by trouble in my head, given his demeanor. I’m still sitting there, looking up at this giant of a man looming over me.

“I’m just taking a break from work, trying to smoke a cigarette.”
And then he presents his argument:

“See, if I was you, I woulda said I was lookin’ for a frien’. Cuz if not, it mus’ mean you lookin’ for trouble.”

I notice a shift in his facial expression. His look of flirtation has turned to angry psycho rage. Shit. Really don’t want to deal with this. I realize I am at a disadvantage, sitting low to the ground in front of him. I stand up and on the curb. I am now only slightly taller than him.

“I just want to smoke my cigarette, man.”
“Oh, you gonna stand up now?!” He is in my personal space. He backs up. He comes close again. “What? You gonna run now,” he asks. His voice is raised. He is agitated.
“Just leave me alone,” I finally say. I look away from him and pull on my cigarette, trying to breathe deeply with it. Hoping he’ll just leave.
“You gonna call the cops now?”

Sigh. He’s not leaving. The tension is growing. I finally turn to just walk away and hopefully finish my cigarette in peace. And as I do so, this complete stranger cocks back and punches me in my ribs.

“Mother FUCKer,” I mouth out in shock and pain. Are you serious?! FUCK, that hurt! “What the fuck?!”

He is still talking, saying something or other. He begins to dance around, fists clenched, as if we were in a cage match, all the while glancing nervously all around for any nearby cops.

I can’t believe he just punched me!!! Who the hell does that?!
I turn once more and begin to walk back to the shop. He’s still talking, yelling, whatever the hell it is that he’s doing. I check over my shoulder to make sure I’m not going to get jumped from behind. I throw my cigarette out and go inside.

I decide to stay late. As I work, I think about what just happened. Seemingly out of nowhere, just utter crazy. What the hell was that? I think about where that came from, what possible chain of events could lead that man and I to that exact moment. I know what got me there, but what the hell got him there and in that state?

After about five minutes, it registers with me that I really didn’t get to enjoy that cigarette. So I go back out; back to the curb, sit in the same spot, and smoke another cigarette. I continue to turn the situation over in my head.

In all actuality, I got what was naturally coming to me. I didn’t try hard enough to diffuse the situation. I could have simply had a conversation, albeit a strained one, without getting sucker-punched. But I was really tired and just wanted a moment to myself. Who knows? Maybe I wanted to get punched.

But then if I put on my magic “everything’s beautiful” glasses and look at this from a different angle, it’s a solid win: He seemed to be happy with having either a friend or trouble, and I didn’t want a new friend so… we both got what we wanted. Win-win. Only my ribs still hurt.

Really don’t enjoy the bad crazy. Have GOT to stop pulling it in.

But hey!

Look at this! From the other end of the spectrum of life: Fabi in high heels and a skirt, doing her own “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” moves. (Video/editing/music: me, of course.)

(Feed people, link here.)

And….where we are today

Posted on May 22, 2011 by Scott

I’ve had a good deal of turmoil inside me for quite some time now over two different issues. The larger issue of the two is a daily (some days many times throughout the day) internal debate I’ve been struggling with since the death of my oldest son: whether to stay here in South Beach or leave. And where would I go? There are only two places that I could go: 1) to the town where my youngest son still lives or 2) a land far, far away where he would visit and maybe one day stay with me (or stay close to me).

I am not going to get into the details because right now it is, believe it or not, too personal. I hope that one day I can write about it openly. I can tell you that it kills me every day that I am not with him. I hate it. Today, and right now, this is the most logical place for me to be, all things considered (which I have definitely considered). I only want to see him more than I do. It’s going to be fine. I love Zach, he loves me, and I will love him dearly until the day I die.

The other near-daily issue I’ve struggled with is whether or not to quit photography altogether. I stopped taking photos on a regular basis in the fall of 2010. Out of some feeling that I owed people more than what I was publishing, I even wrote about slowing down in a post back in late January. Maybe eventually there were a lot of reasons why I slowed, but one particular incident last fall left such a horrible taste in my mouth that I didn’t want to take photos for a long time. I tried, but I couldn’t. And I continued to try. And I couldn’t.

I’ve told a few people what happened and they all shake their head in dismay, saying it’s a shame. That I can’t or shouldn’t quit. My old friend Mark of Wander2Wonder was the first friend to listen to my misadventure back in the day; it happened right around the time that he and I were both orbiting the hostel. (Coincidentally, I ran into Mark a couple of nights ago after not seeing him for months despite the fact that he has lived, for the most part, exactly one block away.) I mentioned to him that I was finally getting over the incident; that I was beginning to come out of my shell. So I’d like to share this story and perhaps in doing so, drive the final nail in this coffin of negativity.

What happened

Last fall, late in the afternoon, I went to the beach. As always, I walked there with a small bag which held my towel, cigarettes, and eventually my camera which would always be strapped around my wrist until I hit the boardwalk before getting to the sand. The beach was fairly desolate. Between the lifeguard shacks where I sat (closer to one than the other), perhaps 25 people sat in the afternoon sun. After a quick dip in the water, I went back to my spot and while I sat there smoking a cigarette, I noticed something unusual with the seagulls. They were flying in large groups from south to north very low to the ground near the water’s edge. It wasn’t magnificent, but it was odd to see them flying like this. Something about the way they were flying was… different. And it was fairly consistent.

It would make great video, I knew. I pulled out my camera and my gorilla-pod and walked to the water’s edge. I adjusted the settings, set the camera on the mini-tripod, and waited until I saw a flock coming. When they did, I walked back to the towel where I was sitting and watched. After a few failed attempts of getting good video (each time, the seagulls seemed to bail early or fly off to one side or the other), I gave up on the notion, though watched with interest when they would fly past again.

At some point during my little exercise, a young woman came and sat directly south of me. Maybe 15-20 feet away. Typical South Beach girl. Straight hair. Thin. Nothing distinguishing.

Having given up on getting video, I was sitting on my towel, smoking. Watching the waves. Looking at those birds. And then it happened. I glanced over and a massive… I mean MASSIVE… flock of birds were heading north. And exactly from my vantage point, they were flying toward me with the young woman laying on the beach beneath them. It was a scene from The Birds. Only in South Beach.

There was no choice to be made. It was an epic, award-winning type of shot. And it was happening at that moment. I quickly grabbed the camera, adjust zoom and focused on the birds, the young woman’s body perfectly framing the bottom portion of the photo. No head. Knees to shoulders. A sea of black and white flapping wings above a tanned body on the beach. Unreal. I took a second shot, focus on the bikini-clad body, the birds a swarming mass behind it.

And with the second click of the camera, I hear it. I hear her yelling at me. I’ve never forgotten what she said, the names she called me.
“No, I’m a photographer,” I tried to say in defense. I apologize, not intending to offend or upset her. I felt badly for using her for a photo. Had it been a friend, I would’ve yelled, “Don’t move!” But it wasn’t. It was a moment in time right then that wouldn’t be repeated.

It didn’t matter. I took a photo with this stranger in it. She did not approve.

She picked up her stuff and stormed past me to the lifeguard station, yelling at me the entire time. The few people on the beach were watching this scene unfold, looking at her and looking at me. I felt disgusted. I simply sat there. I smoked a cigarette. And after she left and had stopped yelling at me, I just sat.

A few moments afterward, another young woman came to the beach and sat almost directly in front of where the other woman had been sitting. And then came the lifeguard on his ATV.

He drove by me, slowing on the approach, and looked around me (clearly in search of my camera, which was in my bag by this point). He drove past and down the beach a bit. He circled back and then stopped at the young woman who had just arrived. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I didn’t need to. He pointed at me. And then they laughed.

“Oh hell no. This isn’t going to happen,” I say to myself.
He began to drive back to the lifeguard house and when he got in front of me, I flagged him down.
I asked him if he was looking for the guy taking photos. He said he was. I told him that I was the one taking photos and I tried to explain about the birds and asked him to please apologize to the girl for upsetting her so, despite that I had already tried. That I didn’t mean to offend her.

He said he knew the laws and that I was “within my rights, man” but that she was a personal friend of his.
I was even more disgusted.
In his mind, I was just another creep on the beach to him taking some perv shot.

He left. I sat there for a couple more minutes, finished my cigarette, and left the beach.

Post-incident

That entire episode made me not want to take another photo. I spent months thinking about street photography, wanting to take photos, but being terrified to do so for fear that that I might have to endure something similar to that. That perhaps everyone would yell at me. I lost confidence in my ability to simply photograph people.

As for the girl in the photo, I couldn’t say whether I’ve seen her again or not. I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup. She was entirely forgettable, though her words and actions certainly weren’t. Same with the lifeguard.

As for the photos themselves… I deleted them before my feet left the sand that day. I wiped the entire card. I wanted no memory of that day. You can see how well that worked out, given that it’s over six months later. But it hasn’t been an issue that I’ve been able to easily resolve. It’s raised questions and doubt in my mind.

If you believe that for a moment that I feel I was clearly in the right, you would be mistaken. Legally, of course I was in the right. But law isn’t the issue here. The moral and ethical dilemma of that moment is the trouble. I saw a moment and I took the shot. I used someone for a photo. But that’s something I’ve always done. So then… what? Was every photo I ever took wrong? No, that can’t be the case. I’ve struggled with street photography. But one thing I know is my own mind. And I have known my intentions.

I’ve never been the perv on the beach with the camera. You can look through my entire collection of photos and you’ll note that shooting individuals on the beach isn’t something I do a lot of. I try not to invade the space of others. I capture moments or scenes. I don’t typically shoot simply hot bodies on the beach, though there is certainly an abundance.

What’s unfortunate about this is that if had I been a woman taking the photo, I doubt that any of this would’ve happened. The girl may have raised an eyebrow and maybe even ASKED what I was doing, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, I am a man. And I simply got treated like some sexual deviant and degenerate.

So this is what did it. This is what screwed up my world. That one moment. Now? Now it’s getting better. And Lush, the bar, that I’ve been frequenting lately has played a huge part in getting me back to photography. It has afforded me the opportunity to shoot people in a relatively open environment. It’s helped me mentally get back on track. I’ve been grateful for that.

Another business downtown in Brickell will be hanging some art of mine on their walls in the not-too-distant future (street photography, not model photography). I am slowly making my way back. I’m looking forward to the day when I will simply take sunny day photos to my heart’s content again. I’m not ready yet. But I’m close.

Interactions

Posted on May 21, 2011 by Scott

I have had some unusual interactions lately, including being threatened to be shot while conversing with a drunk on the street late in the evening and having an old man tell me a surprisingly dirty limerick for which I gave him $1. (The followup conversation with the same old man the next day, after I purposefully sought him out, was equally as strange but even more satisfying.) Tonight, though, I had an interaction that left me feeling very bad. It was one brief moment.

I had just finished making my second to last delivery of the night. I was on 16th on my way back to the shop. I sat at a stop sign and waited as three youths crossed the street. I looked at them, reflecting on my own sons. Two boys in dark shirts, dark haircuts. One in Abercrombie-wear, haircut by his mom’s stylist.

They walk in front of me, I think they are perhaps a year younger than my youngest son is now. I pull up images in my mind, of ill-fitting clothes on my oldest. I see my youngest in Abercrombie kid. I think they are lucky, these kids. They are laughing. Having a good time. I smile.

As I cross the intersection, I look back to watch the youth amble off into the night. And I see the clean-cut one walking in the street, lifting the handles on all the car doors as he passes by. Mental register of what’s going on. I pull over. I look at the traffic. I circle back and turn down the street.

I pull up beside the youth. I slow to his speed as he begins walking to the next car.

“Seriously. Stop doing it,” I say firmly.
“Alright,” he says. He looks down and away and quickly walks over to the sidewalk.

I drive on to the light at the end of the block.

I only wanted to prevent him from making a mistake he would regret. A forgettable petty crime for the victim. A not so forgettable moment for the youth.

Delivery, no. 489

Posted on May 10, 2011 by Scott

About once a day, I deliver to any one of a number of high-rises on the beach that play home to the wealthy. Not the people pretending to be wealthy. Not the middle-class wealthy. The wealthy. The procedure for these deliveries is the same at all of the buildings: I check in with security, they call up to the resident to alert them of my arrival, and in a couple of moments, I am in an elevator going to their floor (or their wing of the floor). When the elevator doors open, I am standing in the outer foyer of the resident’s home. It is designed/decorated in the tenant’s style. Some might have massively thick, dark wooden doors; others might have French doors with delicate panes of glass from wall to wall. Perhaps the walls are covered with Asian or African or Middle Eastern art, each piece with gallery lighting. Or maybe it’s a bright space with photos of friends and family, neatly and casually framed atop an oblong table, mirror above. Shoes that aren’t to be worn inside may sit in a small pile by the entrance. Whenever I go to these residences (as with all of the places I visit), I like to take in the environment, try to gather some insight into the inhabitant inside, and then wait for the surprise of who it is. It’s a fun mental exercise for me.

I actually did a few shoots for other models/producers in one of these buildings. Shoots which can admittedly and solidly be called porn – calling what I photographed and filmed there art would be… No, it was straight-up porn. But the residence I shot in was absolutely stunning, spanning the width of the building. One balcony overlooking the beach, the other overlooking the bay with bedrooms, great room, kitchen and dining rooms between. The bayside balcony was particularly luxurious with comfortable seating placed around a queen-size bed. Lots of pillows and cushions. Miami in the backdrop over the crystal blue waters and yachts. Really, just a beautiful location to shoot. Porn or not. (And I have to admit, whenever I go to this building now and I see two girls together out front in the middle of the afternoon, clearly waiting on a taxi, disheveled and clad in something akin to stripperwear, I always do a double-take to see if it’s someone I know or have shot. I have yet to have an, “Oh hey, what are you up to these days” moment, though statistically speaking, it can’t be that far off.)

Offtrack. Not what I was going to write about.

So not that long ago, I am making a delivery to one the tenants of one of these homes. I check in with security, wait for the resident to approve my arrival, and take the elevator up to their floor. I am greeted by a generic door and nondescript art on the walls. (“There should be some art here” the resident said to himself.)

I knock. A young man in his mid-twenties comes to the door. He has a bewildered look on his face.

“You ordered food?”
“Oh, it must be so-and-so’s. Hold on.”

He turns and begins walking toward the back, shouting so-and-so’s name. Shouting without response. I wait.

I take in the decor. Modern furnishings. Not quite minimalist. Wall of glass, the city far below. Another shout from the back of the apartment. Nice wood on the end table, I notice. I expect to see a ring left behind from a glass not left on a coaster. I examine it end to end from where I stand. Why isn’t there a stain? Yawn. Where is this guy?

Shortly, the man returns. “He’s on the balcony. He’s drunk. Come on.” I follow the man through the residence to the dining room in the back. Music is blaring from the balcony outside. Ah, here he comes now. Here is my customer.

He is in a t-shirt and jeans. There is tomato sauce splattered all over the front of his shirt. At least, I hope it’s tomato sauce and not vomit. Yep. Definitely drunk. Not Wild Turkey stinking drunk. But adequately obliterated. It is 2:30 in the afternoon on a weekday. (No judgment on my part, simply amusement.)

“Do you have the credit card,” I ask after greeting him.
“Hold on, let me get it.

I wait.

After a couple more minutes, the fellow returns with the credit card. He has ordered $12 worth of food. I pull out the receipt for him to sign it. And then this:

“What’s a good tip,” he asks me. “I want you to write it in.”

I ponder for a second this drunken fellow in this lush apartment, I ponder the scenario. And I recognize this moment; this opportunity for one to act without scruples. Not me. But someone.

“Two dollars is appropriate,” I say.
And then… then he narrows his eyes, leans in slightly and says:

“Make it FOUR!”

He pulls back and nods his head up and down. A self-congratulatory grin on his face, pleased with his baller move. I smile inside and out at the absolute goofiness of this entire moment. I don’t mention to him that a girl in pajamas with two cats living in a space not much larger than his foyer already trumped him earlier in the day; nor that he will likely be out-balled many times throughout the day; he is drunk and pleased with himself.

I write in the tip and the total and he scrawls out a signature. “Have a good afternoon,” I say to him on the way out. I close the door behind me and wait for the elevator.

“Well, that was fun,” I say to myself and the security guard watching. Where to next?

An open invitation to my friends [Updated]

Posted on May 2, 2011 by Scott

Local peeps: I’d like to invite you out to Lush on Tuesday night. At 11pm. I will be celebrating the fact that as I sit there drinking a $2 beer, enormously framed prints of mine will be hanging on the walls around me. Available for purchase directly from Lush.

Very happy.

Which prints will be there? Well… I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Not that it’s a big surprise. The photo above isn’t one of them, though. So I kind of want to keep it a surprise. I’ll be there earlier in the afternoon to get them up on the walls.

It’s kind of exciting to me. I do so so soooo very little to explicitly promote or sell my work (a fact which is all of a sudden changing) that it’s a big deal for me to actually have stuff hanging on walls. And I have to say, every time that I get an image printed and/or framed, I always think, “Wow, that looks effin’ fantastic in real life!!!”

And these look absolutely gorgeous! They are sitting across the room from me now, wrapped in plastic, waiting for delivery.

So please come out to Lush, 233 12th Street (between Collins and Washington) Tuesday if you can. I will most certainly be there. At 11.

If you can’t make it Tuesday, look around the next time you’re in Lush. If you are familiar with my style, then you won’t have any problem identifying my prints there. Plus, they’re gargantuan!! Woohoo!! Very excited.

Scott’s unsexy update wherein he sighs – Only one print is currently hanging. The images are too large for the space we initially talked about. And, to be honest, while the print that is hanging is without question a beautiful image, there are two more that are shockingly beautiful. Bar patrons today were in agreement and kept looking at one while I was hanging the other. Those prints will, however, be put up next week as space is made for them.

There are two fundamental problems with wall placement, both having to deal with height. If they are too low, then they will get either ruined or stolen. It is, after all a bar. And these are definitely worth stealing. Next week. Of course, I’ll still be there tonight. And it’s still exciting. But I’m a little bummed to not see them all right. this. minute.

Patience. All good things.

The Odd Couple

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Scott

I.

This is Silver. If you see a guy zipping around town on this scooter, it’s most likely me. I think I’ve seen two other identical scooters (People 50 in silver) on the beach. But as much as I’m on the streets, the probability that it’s me is pretty high.

II.

I’m pretty certain at this point that my neighbors think I’m completely odd. Especially the guy across the hall. Since moving in nearly two months ago, I’ve had four interactions. They are as follows:

Sometime within the first couple of days of moving in, he steps out while on the phone to take a look over the man fifteen years his senior who is apparently wrestling with the key as he tries to enter his new place. He looks, gives a head nod of recognition, keeps talking, and closes the door. I eventually make it into my place.
I see him outside of The Standard while leaving a delivery. I recognize him so I say, “Hey, aren’t you <so-and-so>?”
“Yeah. Oh, you’re the guy who moved in across from me.”
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you later.”
I drive off.
I woke up in the early evening one day from a nap that went a little longer than I anticipated. My electricity was off. I was half-asleep and heard voices coming from outside my apartment, knowing it was the neighbors. My brain told me I should check with them to see if their electricity was off. So I sat up, walked over to the door, opened it to find out. A girl stood in the doorway across the hall; I assumed it was the girl that went with the voice I regularly heard from next door. I asked her if her electricity was off. I asked this while I could see the lights on behind her. She said it was on and then asked if I was okay. I told her I had just woken up. I went back inside and closed the door. (My space heater had tripped the circuit breaker, apparently.)
UPS buzzed the door one day with a delivery. I was anxiously awaiting a package. The UPS man apparently buzzed all the doors to get someone to let him in. So the neighbor and I both came out at the same time. He said it was probably for him. That he gets packages all the time. We hop down the stairs together.
“Scott?”
“That’s me.”
My neighbor goes back upstairs and I feel badly. But still excited about my package!

I know he thinks I’m completely odd. It’s okay. It’s no worse a relationship than I have with the girl beneath me. I met her at 2:30am one morning when the police buzzed her and woke her up. That was unfortunate. What happened was really simple. I was working on photos and at 1:30, pizza delivery guy shows up. When I went downstairs to get the food, I accidentally let the building door shut behind me. I locked myself out. For an hour, I stood outside in the cold in a t-shirt, track pants, and socks and a pizza that sooooo wasn’t worth it. I didn’t want to wake anyone so I didn’t buzz any of the apartments. I didn’t knock on windows. It’s South Beach; life happens around the clock so I figured one of the residents would be coming in or going out at some point. Nobody came or went.

Eventually, a police officer finally drove by. I told him about my situation. He inquired as to the location of the pizza to verify my story. I pointed to it. And he instantly did what I had been avoiding doing, and simply ran his fingers across everyone’s buzzer until someone came out. That someone was the girl beneath me. She had been sleeping. My idiocy woke her up. That’s how I met her.

Eh. I figure by this time next year, I’ll have strange interactions with each one of them and probably still not know them. I am the Odd Couple; that strange man who drives the scooter and lives in the corner unit upstairs.

(Video entirely related.)

There is something…

Posted on November 28, 2010 by Scott

…to be said for believing.

I have a roof over my head. Last night, for the first time in well over a year and a half, I slept on what I can only call my own bed with my own pillow underneath my head.

Now, I sit here with my laptop on my lap, plugged into the wall socket behind me. The one that will most likely be used always. This will most likely be my spot. Coffee has been brewed over on the kitchen counter. Shortly, I will let take a shower and then venture out for another day here, in this place I call home.

It has been a long time coming. It has been over a year and a half since I’ve lived in a place of my own. Ever since I left on Scooter to travel across the country, I have been without address, for the most part. At some point, you lose sight of things. Like when you fill out an application and it asks for your address. And it’s a question that you can’t answer.

I am so happy to be here. This has been a phenomenal week. And now that I’m settled, I can begin to do all of the things that I want to do. And there are so many. Look for changes/news/new things coming soon.

Icing on the cake? A couple of months back, a very close friend of mine and I had a falling out. The day before I moved in (which was yesterday), that foolishness is mutually, simply, and decidely water under the bridge.

I have a roof over my head. I have friends and family. I can watch the sun rise over the ocean.

Life is so very, very good. Happy place? Yes. I’m there.

Oh, and can we just let things roll like this for a while? Pleeeease? That would be so nice. I like it when life is good. Thanks in advance.

-Scott

Life (Live Blog Edition)

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Scott

I’m on Lincoln Road right now. I’d like to tell you the photo above is from tonight, but it’s not. I’m sitting at a Starbucks, working on photos. Trying to write. Thinking about working on this audio clip. At some point, I will leave here. It may be in 10 minutes. Though I think it’ll be more like an hour.

I’ve taken a few photos while I’ve sat here, though, honestly, I’m scared to look up. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll never do anything but take photos. Then regret that I didn’t do more than simply take photos.

There is so much life here. This is what amazes me so. This organism of life that we live in. This mass of humanity, constantly moving. The constant barrage on the senses. Audio and sound are everywhere. That’s what fascinates me most lately. The audio track that plays in your ears throughout the waking hours. Constantly, there is sound.

But now, there is everything. Sight, sound, smell. Taste and touch in small doses.

Enough of this. I’m smoking a cigarette and soaking this in.

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