We got these chairs from my Aunt Margie. They were child sized. I painted them green to match our house. Those are bags of beauty bark.

Ok, I got some black and white photos of Mom’s back patio. For example, this is the barbeque.

Porter Ricks was a character on the show “Flipper” and also the best electronic music I’ve heard since Aphex Twin. The bass of “Polytoxic 1” from Symbiotics bounced off the walls of David’s meat locker apartment as we ate Blue Dolphins. I filmed him playing upright bass and I filmed his dentist’s chair and we went to the party.

yadda yadda

nother party

yadda

We wanted to make some good stuff for ourselves. Something to delight our senses. I started driving toward Hunter's Point Naval Shipyard. I was sure we'd get stopped or pulled over but we just drove on in. A truck patrolled in the darkness but didn't seem to care about us. Looks like the hours of 5am to 6am are wide open if you want to catch the sunrise. That's what we did, parked at the end of a long pier -- right in between that crane we got from Germany in WW2 that nobody knows what to do with and the seagulls. And we dreamed of having the energy to break into that beautiful glass building with a crane coming out of the fifth floor. David slept while I worked the area with my digital camera.

Mom’s sink.

How To Sing

I. Learn these tunes before you learn any others; afterwards learn as many as you please.

II. Sing them exactly as they are printed here, without altering or mending them at all; and if you have learned to sing them otherwise, unlearn it as soon as you can.

III. Sing all. See that you join with the congregation as frequently as you can. Let not a slight degree of weakness or weariness hinder you. If it is a cross to you, take it up, and you will find it a blessing.

IV. Sing lustily and with a good courage. Beware of singing as if you were half dead, or half asleep; but lift up your voice with strength. Be no more afraid of your voice now, nor more ashamed of its being heard, than when you sang the songs of Satan.

V. Sing modestly. Do not bawl, so as to be heard above or distinct from the rest of the congregation, that you may not destroy the harmony; but strive to unite your voices together, so as to make one clear melodious sound.

VI. Sing in time. Whatever time is sung be sure to keep with it. Do not run before nor stay behind it; but attend close to the leading voices, and move therewith as exactly as you can; and take care not to sing too slow. This drawling way naturally steals on all who are lazy; and it is high time to drive it out from us, and sing all our tunes just as quick as we did at first.

VII. Above all sing spiritually. Have an eye to God in every word you sing. Aim at pleasing Him more than yourself, or any other creature. In order to do this attend strictly to the sense of what you sing, and see that your heart is not carried away with the sound, but offered to God continually; so shall your singing be such as the Lord will approve here, and reward you when he cometh in the clouds of heaven.

Form John Wesley’s Select Hymns, 1761

These were found reprinted in the recent Canada United Church hymnal:

A genuine, honest-to-goodness, pile of junk.

Mom’s picnic table.

Mom’s canning jars.

The lamp that used to be in aunt Florence’s house.

      Oh, I forgot to mention that I did a skate video. Filmed it with my new [camera](/photo/vpc-sx550_faq.html) and sliced and diced it with Premiere.

▶

Night Skate :33 seconds
or download

      It's on the [videos](/media/galleries/videos.html) page also.

Shifting gears a bit, from the wreck of a country that is India to the wreckage of my mother’s house. First off is a series of pictures of my mother’s backyard. I took them a couple days after her funeral. Now it looks like a normal yard I guess.

The faucet under the back stairs.

Love is like a bottle of gin,

But a bottle of gin is not like love.

A sweet little cactus gargen where people go to smoke in the Singapore airport.

What more to say? It’s the Exhibition Cum Sale.

How bout if we lived apart?

We could make a brand new start.

Do you want to break my heart?

Yeah! Oh yeah!

Skinny little guys like this move most of the goods around Calcutta on their heads. There are thousands of them swarming the street all day and night.

They ride the roads as they bend.

As they bend to their dead ends.

This is where they buried the British in Calcutta.

A boy painting oil lamps. Calcutta. That silver paint that he’s applying with his bare hands is pretty deadly.

Today I wrote a little FAQ about the video capabilities of the Sanyo VPC-SX550MD. I got it in the mail and have been geeking out for the last 15 hours on it. I think it’s time to go to bed though. There’s a good chance I’ll be posting short films up here from now on. But For Now, more pictures of India.

The Calcutta Underground. Rush Hour. Amazing. Nothing like above ground. I’m not sure why it’s not horrendously crowded like everything else in India. Have to check that out.

Holi Cow. This is what you see on your way to the store to buy a handmade paper journal in Varanasi. If you have a QL17 GIII loaded with PJ400 this is what you take a picture of. I think I used F8.

On my last day in Bombay I realized I didn’t have any shots of the thing I looked at the most during my stay. The view from inside a Taxi.

Street Sleeper. Somewhere in India.

this history lesson

doesn’t make any sense

in any less than

ten thousand year increments

common sense

common sense

common sense

common sense

Waiting for mom after school. Bombay.

I’d usually post just one picture but I can’t figure out which I like better.

On the opposite bank of the Ganges. Varanasi.

Stickboy with fill flash. Hahaa.

I like your twisted point of view, Mike.

I like your questioning eyebrows.

You’ve made it pretty clear what you’d like.

It’s only fair to tell you now

that I leave early in the morning

and I won’t be back till next year.

I see that kiss-me pucker forming

but maybe you should plug it with a beer.

Now listen to me, we’re taking pictures for my parents. We’re taking pictures like we’re a couple - like we like each other - like we’re husband and wife and we span time together. We span time together ‘cause we’re a loving couple, spanning time. These photos are us, in love, spanning time.

You gotta get up at 4:30 am for this but…heck, you’re in Varanasi. And there’s garbage everywhere else you look.

Sarnath, one bumpy rick ride down the road from Varanasi. This guy was probably a Hindu, but Hindus dig Sarnath too. Why? Sarnath Fully Rips.

Things I love about this web page would fill up almost entirely the memory contents of any early 80’s PC. But I think the most significant of them would be that, at the time of posting, I haven’t read the contents of these posts. I assume I’ll break down eventually and saver each one — a dollip of meaty flavor� on a long chain of knuckly bones of contention.

I cannot fit this web page inside the dementions of this space. Literally or figuratively. Please sent a few HTTP get’s over there.

Duladeo Temple in Khajuraho, Madhya Pradesh, India. I almost got mugged while I was taking this picture. The only thug to really threaten me the whole time I was in India.

I had ridden out of town to on a bike to shoot these isolated temples. Now that I think about it, the guy was kinda funny. He was like, “I’m a very bad man. I’m a very baaad man.” and this little kid beside him goes, “Yes, he just get out of prison.” I acted as bored as possible and he just stood there staring at me. I had about 4000 dollars worth of camera equipment. I was like, “Hey, get out of my way, I’m trying to take a picture.” but he wouldn’t move. “Give your money. Give me Rupees.” was all he said.

I shot my pictures and started to leave and he started grabbing my arm and I was shooing him away and I started to get scared. I got on my bike but he grabbed the handlebars and said, “You buy keychain.” I said no because I don’t buy stuff off bad men and then he started to get desperate, like he was going to cry, fiending like a junky. The keychain was a little metal contraption that depicted some erotic temple carving. You twiddle the handles and people moved like puppets and a guy slides his little brass dick into the back end of a cocksucker. I haggled him down to 30 Rupees for 2 and rode away.

Those Khajuraho hawkers were some of the saddest motherfuckers I’ve ever seen — like mugwumps from Naked Lunch. A tourist season that lasts 4 months and they need to sell enough postcards to live on for a whole year. They can’t farm or get a job. Turning Khajuraho into a “World Heritage Site” has turned the economy inside out. Flying a bunch of fat white people in every day has rotted their society to the core. Towards the end of the season (and my visit was during a particularly slow season) they get so desperate that they could probably squeeze a couple Rupees out of a lifelong Bombay beggar. Bletch. The temples are cool though.

Varanasi. She’s like, “What the fuck?” I’m just takin’ pictures.

unburdened
and relaxed

Brahma Ghat on the Ganges. Sari tossin’ dhobis.

i love to watch them floating

on their backs

Calcutta. The “New Market” Mid-day nappers.

if someone offers you some suger

you should eat it

This kid was right behind the Frooti salesman. I’d just climbed all over the waterfall with him and he was all wet.

no dancing

Sikkim. By the side of the road. There was a nice waterfall nearby. Kids playing and, thank god, Frooti. I was thirsty and sicker than a dog.

loomed so large on the horizon

people thought my windows

were stars

This here’s a monk kid. Sleeping. Sikkim. India. Sunshine. Top of a Mountain. No one around. You know. Just an average spring day in the Himalaya.

I think I’m going to change my life. I’ve got up and sat in front of my computer in my underwear too many days in a row. I need some play excuse. Some fake diversion. Computer is not interesting as it used to be. I’m getting sick of photoshop. Maybe I’ll finish off that Ghat movie.

This is Sarnath. The place where Buddha. Yes THE Buddha told everyone about the Eighfold Path. Or was it the Four Noble Truths? Eh, don’t matter I suppose. This is the only religious spot I’ve ever been to that actually made me feel all “spiritual”. That big stupa was actually built up in the 6th century, 800 years after the man sat and delivered. I’ve included 2 red-robed monks for visual reference.

I could swear I took this in Calcutta but I was there quite a few days after Holi. Anyhow, this guy’s still covered in toxic dye. A fallen technicolor angel.

Calcutta motherfucker! Sitting on the train platform. Watchin’ this girl dressed in a western dress. She doesn’t look very comfortable. Judging from the way she looks, she’s probably a tough villager girl who never has to wear humiliating clothes like this. I’m 90% sure she’s on her way to a wedding — the most common reason for train travel in India it seems.

The Death of Ferdinand de Saussure

Signify THIS. No hyperlink. What to do with it?

I was thinking about the song that I repeated in my head Saturday morning from about 3 to 9 am as I laid awake in bed. I didn’t use much of that period of time to travel the intricate paths of meaning that the lyrics can take one down but I have today. What does this song signify? Maybe the song “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds from “The Breakfast Club”?

Ferdinand de Saussure was a Sanskrit teacher who pretty much started the study of modern linguistics by never publishing or leaving behind a single written note of his ideas. How fucking romantic! Sephen Merritt reveals in the liner notes of 69 Love Songs that he read “Critical Theory Since 1965” (which I proudly mention was co-authored by my favorite and most influential college professor Leroy Searle) which was the sequel to “Critical Theory Since Plato” (the book that Leroy used to almost destroy my life, and which, along with a lot of acid, led me to drop out of college only 1 paper short of graduating) and which allowed Stephen to take the germ of motown melody “we are nothing. whoa whoa” as his only ammunition and shoot a Swiss linguist.

I met Ferdinand de Saussure

on a night like this

On love he said “I’m not so sure

I even know what it is

No understanding, no closure

It is a nemesis

You can’t use a bulldozer

to study orchids,” he said, “so

we don’t know anything

you don’t know anything

I don’t know anything about love

But we are nothing

you are nothing

I am nothing without love”

I’m just a great composer

and not a violent man

but I lost my composure

and I shot Ferdinand

crying, “It’s well and kosher

to say you don’t understand

but this is for Holland-Dozier-Holland!”

His last words were:

“we don’t know anything

you don’t know anything

I don’t know anything about love

But we are nothing

you are nothing

I am nothing without love”

His fading words were:

“we don’t know anything

you don’t know anything

I don’t know anything about love

But we are nothing

you are nothing

I am nothing without love”

Two new videos posted tonight: “Kids and Rat” and “Varanasi Paan Spitters”. Check ‘em out.

Varanasi, on my way down to Brahma Ghat. Red Monkey Man.

I’m not out of Cuba shots. Just got tired of them for a while.