I walk in my woods: A canopy of indelibly traced centuries appear as architecture of nations: Centuries past and centuries to be discovered: In lieu of reality- – my mind sees mountains of forests ablaze in silence: The me may languish- -frightened: Stories of empowerment wade in the dust as remnants: The nakedness that are twigs, leaves, branches and tree trunks are papered books of histories to be told if not heard:

My voice imprisoned: My shutter hovers neither near nor far: The apogee of the human experience is front and center: My feet are whispering- -Hardly a soul hear my steps jousting and dancing as if Fred Astaireing: My eyes screaming: How much is left to see before the darkness prevails: My cities captured new and old tell stories: Pictures are never alive until the camera positioned between times- -sees the future’s history:

I am never to be, never known to be Byron’s Childe Harold:  I have always adventured: Never Pilgrimaged- – but engaged destiny within discoveries: I have embraced dreams that continents, countries and cities have held: The more obscure, the more I find a home for my camera: The more places to rest my lenses the more ambition I have to capture the unforeseen seen:

Childe Harold as Lord Byron was animated about the inanimate: The soulful emerged if I am correct or not after years abroad: He introduced his being to the nature of oceans and more: His certain awareness, like mine aroused with time: The time abroad is not mere; but being in a way never been before:

When I remember the romantics I often hear in the distance a metronome vanishing quietly distancing: The rhythm heard is something akin to Dion’s Abraham, Martin And John”.  It is not easily explained: My camera moves to single frequencies and the intensity of one thousand more in tow: The false notion of oscillating metronomes’ lures my eyes and feet to an inevitable abyss: Childe Harold and my Lord B, and my camera agree to champion onward: The solitary is us- -so the camera remembers- – or is it me merely seeing.

I visited Louis Daguere’s history: A travel through his time and space brought me home: He was steeped in and straddled atop a history that became my futures:

The voices imprisoned sometimes in the gloaming moment are heard: Fewer days ahead- -The  past and future breathe quietly: Time Machines, Remembrances and History’s became templates for H.G Wells, Proust, Herodotus as well as five million more chroniclers of our dreams and lives- -It could possibly be seen as a nod to the awakening that became Childe Harold– – My camera listened as did we once listen for the oncoming trains and stagecoaches: Ears to the ground history displayed: Everyday and everyday the “Astaire that glides me as if an awkward pirouette is the way; I see the way I glance into the tenses that may be our/my history: It is with amazement that my eyes afire remember the moment until whenever the dark side becomes permanent: To dream of the daylight will be tomorrow: All stories about the past traveled us into the future as we looked back.

All stories start with a step receding- -a stride ahead- -So I shoot a bit more.