Architecture of Cities: Crossroads

The Crossroads gazing west over Manhattan

Jonathon Swift wrote: “Vision is the art of seeing things invisible”.  The invisible sometimes vanishes before we are aware of what has passed: How does it feel to seek what is no longer- -I imagine the unimaginable.

I soothe the anxious when I dream: If I imagined Antonio Salieri fraught with envy- -Might I hear somewhere near the clavichord tickled by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: The invisible- -vanished: If I imagined standing afar from the island of Elba- - How might I imagine the exiled Emperor Napoleon gazing towards his empire: The invisible- -vanished:  If I imagined standing near the institutionalized jazz musician Art Pepper- -Might I imagine Pepper’s absorbing atmospheric scribbles in gouache suggesting Dali’s and Gaudi’s: The invisible- -vanished:

If I imagined Herman Melville scribing Moby Dick- - Might I imagine the White Whale swallowing Ahab’s horror-stricken shipmates- -: The invisible- -vanished: If I am allowed to dream- -might I stand alone naked imagining the truths that live in all of the above?

Not a day not a shadow of light passes where nor when my camera begs for something to become: Vivid dreams may live in realities or asylums: Quests, real and imagined stand ahead: I saunter forward for the encountered memories: The architecture of my cities and cities not yet met await: Elba’s Portoferraio, Vienna, Los Angeles, Barcelona, Port Lligat all and more beguiled my eyes: 

Architect: Thomas Heatherwick: Hudson Yards: New York City

My entire collected archives await and invite the new imageries, new places, new lives: Together they form an emboldened front of history past and history to become: The images, their voices, quaint and anthropomorphic are like a chamber of choruses staying the course: They thank me for my captures:  My past is their past: My life is their life: We cohabitate legally: 

The invisible that my camera realizes is vanishing before I can breathe like fog in the nights’ morning - - “poof”. Cities filled with architecture are like Russian Nesting Dolls: It is easy to imagine each and everyone suffocating my imagination: I align my eyes with the spirit that leeches Freud’s “ID”: Instead of suffocation I feel the freedom and the impulsive to capture the pleasures that are built before I arrived and before my history:

Crossroads are about ideas that we pass through- -to get to the other side: The camera imagines cities of architecture, architecture of cities awaiting my decisions to pose and capture: I am merely passing through in frame and  imagination- -again and again.

Architect: Santiago Calatrava: The Oculus: New York City

My dreams assimilate into alternative universes: When I am in the space of others  the ideas I imagine embark into celluloid and print: I hear  voices urging my camera to react: The eyes of others are not mine- -Yet magically the inspiration that others compel me to breathe become my captures- -if only imagined: 

I remember standing in front of a movie screen watching Paris, Texas: I needed to get closer to the empty quietude: Homer’s Odyssey was my home for many hours until the thrill of being closer to his  universe became mine: The day the poet Percy Shelley died at sea every nightmare I could conjure magically appeared across the Ligurian Sea: I died and thrived wading aside and near remains:

The components that make compositions are  observed in the above three vivid fractions of time: My camera saw light and power: The personality of light posed before my eyes: Photography took flight- - My photography took flight:

Out of breathe and eyes aflame my camera began to see all of my histories and those of others as one- -posed as if in flight. My eyes filled with dreams mannered, my cities of architecture almost through osmosis became my brotherhood of ideas.

Kings Cross Train Station: London, England: Architect John McAslan + Partners

Architecture of Cities: Above and Beyond

Central Park Greets Plaza Hotel New York City

To see the night when the light is so bright,

Take the beautiful I go out to take - - the beauty and the beast; I beg to ask which is…:

So much beauty in what you don’t like- -

So much uncertainty in what I think. 

Judgement is not mine- -

I merely stand and ask…:

Would I dive into the liquid that is sky?

The sky above sits by my side- -The photography that is mine I see from here- -Here, looks like the entire 1968 cover of the Whole Earth Catalog: The earth’s stars glittering but stranger than life- like eyes-akin to Francesco del Cossa’s Saint Lucy Extra Set of Eyes: Much to reveal: Much more to imagine.

If my camera is to record anything in this or next life; be warned, the breath that may expire- -I exhale to confirm I am alive: I search again for the breath that titillates the eyes: The oxygen may explode willingly atop the iris--snippety-snap-snap: 

Tomorrow again one frame exhausts but I do continue through today- -for what may be tomorrow: Without that I am incomplete: Everyday is the same: The sky is me: The earth is seen spinning on the imaginary axis around: Then is there a point.

Walter Benjamin recorded time making ultra articulate observances: They are like whispering lady bugs- -alluring and luring your thoughts to the moments need: His footsteps among the Arcades will never be mine but only if…The manner in which Benjamin observed was/is an invitation to a greater voluminous dream: Events- -busts, sconces and an architectural maquette or two cut from plaster of Paris: More engravings, tapestry’s and anonymous curios rest in these Paris deposits: The Arcades that Benjamin’s mind stole just for my eyes- - set ablaze my every moment behind camera device: Razed histories abound; Unknown artifacts from nations speaking to my known histories: Lives and words become imaginary keepsakes: My heart feels like oxygen permeating my eyes- -Like the  passion for captures and living- -A new history renews old passions for yesterday’s histories: Remembering yesterday is exhausting: 

Frank Gehry graces New York City with Spruce Street and much more

Walter Benjamin animated the inanimate: The aura that inhabits my camera is all too aware of what my eyes have missed- -does my camera have time to revisit the past? Where else but in the depository’s that hold so many secrets- -our secrets: It is Benjamin’s eyes that drive me to a faster gait.

I rummage through stories that are not mine: The joy that there is too much to know: The ideas abound remind me of grattaging the sectors of my architecture’s cities- -The cities of my architectural captures: The captures have always been meaningless without the investigations: 

Sometimes I dream that I walk in the shadows that were once Jack Kerouac’s:  Sometimes I allow my mind to trace the frenetic that was On The Road: I imagine his continuous scroll of frenzied excitements: I could never mimic his mind in words nor capturing frames: I do imagine emulating a fraternal companion: It is a fun place to pillow my mind: 

A Random Gaze looking up: New York City

My mind is a pocket full of tools as an archaeologist might wield line levels and dental tools: I look back at my world with incredulous fascination: I am in a constant motion of constant grattage- -My eyes see the streets I have mannered from a imaginary stepladder rotating on ball bearings: The speed seems equal to the earths rotation on an imaginary axis: My world seems to appear and vanish: Then I realize, My existence seems imaginary- -The lasting captures seem imaginary: I close my eyes and dream again.

My naked eye awakens: My camera narrates my new days: It elucidates for my eyes only architecture’s variety of vanity’s: There is a quiet whisper: I follow for more:

I have stood a top one-thousand and nine buildings: I see what a city has to offer: My lungs caught in an ecstatic ecstasy- -I “snippety-snap -snap”. An eternity of light may pass until I see more: I wait with eyes in hand: for something not yet known- -different. The precious breath rests- -the eyes follow- -then there is there again I replay the moment. The streets feel like an asylum of neuroses.

I have walked in step with many imaginary friends: Benjamin and Kerouac the alterity that is sets them apart; Yet the two flaneurs with vastly different genes compel me to dream beyond my yesterdays, todays and tomorrows: 

Their minds have always seemed melded into one: Passion and Pace; grace and austerity embraces as nuptials by interest: Forever forward I tend to imagine linked to their past: What remains today is a vault of fresh thoughts to grattage over and over…

The Solow Building: 9 West 57th Street, New York City: Architect Gordon Bunshaft of Skidmore, Owings &Merrill

Architecture of Cities: The Theater of the Absurd

Architect: Frank Gehry’s IAC Building reflects Jean Nouvel’s 100 11th Avenue with a tree or two in between

The Theater of the Absurd is something I participate in everyday: I photograph architecture: It is something real in my career- - life, the life of my career: In this universe “The Theater…”  is and was imagined and executed through minds like Cocteau’s, Genet’s, Pinter’s and possibly one million more: 

Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming often comes to mind: His lines and pages have/had me applauding with surprising delight: My mind awakened my days awakened: I realized that surprise and delights were to be my camera’s days- - common denominators looking ahead: The architecture of cities would be seen as my theater: If only I could remember all of the absurd moments.

I know about the fantastic lives in the Iliad and the Odyssey, Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, and Kafka’s Metamorphosis: They are not mine: They are nice places to pillow the fantasias that live near and far:Their bizarre and fantastic are captured in forever mode: My camera’s eyes never forget: My camera captures true stories that bring my fantasies to life.

Architect Jean Nouvels’ 100 11th ave intersects something old: “Something old something new…

I often revisit lives, I have met before: I walk among memories again once and again: My first home- - My first classroom- - My first neighborhood pal: I revisit sensations and moments real to me and fantastic to dream about: I can hear the Pope demanding Michelangelo to paint the “ceiling” faster: I can hear Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo chasten his slaves to move faster: I knew the Pyramids would be built: I could hear Kafka’s bounty of tales as he wrote the visual and visceral  Metamorphosis: If I lived in an asylum- - I would embody an extra set of eyes: It is absurd to seek the truth in photography:

Peter O’Toole bellowed slightly into a lighted matchstick: The flame became the desert under the heated sun: My camera often seeks an equal capture: My camera will never know another Lawrence of Arabia: It is something: It will always be mine: I am sure, I will never capture the same:

I wander in and around cities- -built environments: I see the past years arrive as ghosts and as the “Plains” Indians’ smoke signals, vanish into the beyond: I have seen photographs at the crest of our galaxies’ stars: I have imagined one frame of a trillion pixels squeezed into my mind’s right eye: Delusional, yet the truth validates it:

I stand fitted as if; The coolness that is Hieronymus Bosch in tunic, doublet, and shoes sans hosen- - is me: The Garden of Earthly Delights-  is where my ideas in part exist to make photographs of architecture: I enter at my own risk: It may be a good look- - “The…earthly delights” I capture now.

Frank Gehry’s “IAC” intersects Bjarke Ingles “One High Line” and the two buildings intersect Shigeru Ban’s “Metal Shutter Houses”

What Hieronymus dreamed and saw can never be me:  I revisit streets with architecture- -architecture within the streets: I capture new moments: Patience almost never arrives: The rotation of a clock tower’s hands- - tick: The moment missed- -I wait again: The clock’s rotation pulverizes my patience: Fragments matter- - I continue: The thrill that awaits might die in my eyes: The entire minute minute frozen again- -frozen until my camera captures a new rotation: Klimt’s Kiss stares impertinently- -waiting to hear my snap: Might another moment not be missed: If the actual is not seen, again I await- -I wait again to witness The Kiss- -that is Klimt’s: Not to kiss but to embrace: I need to remember my yesterdays: The inanimate needs to animate: The rotation of the clock tower, the embrace that is the kiss whisper: ”Snippety-snap-snap” is only my prayer.

I revisit the absurd theater that is my universe of architecture: I revisit to engage friends from another day another fraction of my life: I almost always say I will return:  When I don’t forlorn sets in: I beg myself to reconvene: The streets, the buildings from not one past- - but many await:

The reveal, the revelation between then and just now are my somethings.The moment the architecture the cameras espy speaks the past volumes live for me: The new capture anew is my past anew: My camera’s everyday is my O’Toole’s matchstick aflame: Will it be a world of heavenly affairs as in a Bosch painting or will it be a quiet rotation of a clock that nobody sees the rotating movements whispering, not heard:

I have walked into Dubai, Barcelona, London,Tokyo, Shenzhen, Miami and many others: I carefully and wildly photographed more than one-hundred buildings per, each of those metropolises- -Yet the mere Manhattan street turns induced patience into screams of delight: I enter the absurd theaters, visit the earthly delights- -and  reconvene past friendships: I hear the difference my eyes see: The whispers that are my tenses past and near: Frank Gehry, Jean Nouvel, Bjarke Ingles, Shigeru Ban, Norman Foster and more  await- -posed- -“snippety-snap-snap.”

Architect: Sir Norman Foster: 551 West 21st Street

Architecture of Cities: The Pilgrimage

Architect: Bjarke Ingles: Via 57 West or NYC Pyramid: 2016

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: 

Jefferson Market: Architect: Frederick Clark Withers and Calvert Vaux: 1875-77 New York City

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.

ideas seen 2025

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.

Architect: Sir Norman Foster: Jp Morgan Building New York City one year before completion

Architecture of Cities: The Light in the Night

a night cityscape of my Manhattan

 Night Witches flood the sky in silence: In the midst of darkness there is only their wind not heard: Their flirting languid shadows stretch through the night- -then there is their fright: The heart stirs: My eyes feel like bees in hives multiplying: I hear one snippety-snap-snap: The night is done- -I see: An abundance of satellites amplifying radio waves capture the darkness that are blips: Only the sky knows.

My cameras’ eyes open wider than a blue whales’ dilated: Much more so than all the planets’  observatory’s sky domes: My enormous human aperture peers through an 8mm lens: The visual language seen is ensconced in the idea of a fisheye: The world is wider than my ideas: I imagine somewhat more: I consider zooming into focus- - zooming out of focus: My head feels the whiplash as in a cinematic crash: My eyes are sensationally disoriented.

Darkness steps forward: I imagine  Impersonating the great Gordon Parks- -His specially made f1 lens made by Nikon changed his life: The lights in his darkest moments peerlessly came to life: I again imagine more: The superior NASA Zeiss Planar 50 mm 0.7 lens is more- -I dreamed as it would be fictitiously mounted on my camera: I pause and pray for what dreams may be: The camera held in my pillow soft hands, shivers and shakes: The entire vista in every direction explodes in a single frame like an entire planet recounted in Black Magic ink: Every known pixels and dots vanish: The conquest of film revealed- - appears as Spartacus would - -victorious in enviable vibrant resolutions: 

Madison Square Park Tower: KPF Architects on the left: On the right: One Madison: Architect Cetra Ruddy

The expanding silent brilliance awakens the universe: Darkness that is above our eyes becomes a brilliant lullaby: The light that is our stars is seen shimmering like marmoris from the far galaxy’s:  An astronomers story about a star is heard- -Let us listen and remain until the end:

An army of wolf-packs baying into the face of the night encroaches: Maybe the astonishing delight that becomes one-hundred wolf men seen as Lon Chaney Jr. Maybe a morning’s pitch black light seems like a phantasmic tale to tell. The night happens at night: I rekindle and resume my nightly walks along tracks for trains: Vagrants, explorers and aliens- - accompany me to my architectural captures: 

I gather for my mind’s sanity- -fictional companionships: Alone in the darkness I kneel (as in prayer) for a few more eyes to accompany me into the night: Alone myself alone, Under the Volcano’s Malcolm Lowry’s Geoffrey staggers aside: This Geoffrey drunkardly appears as my Albert Finney: Side by side we seem to walk like two men dangling and fractured- - in dangling conversations: 

Cityscape looking south from Murray Hill on Fifth Avenue

Enmasse, there is strength in numbers: If Oz’s Dorothy was me- - If Kipling’s Daniel and Peachy were me- - If O’Toole’s  Arabian’ Lawrence was me- - we would all share tales told about the darkness; the adventures into the unknown that appear in the dark: We might, as I would, dance towards our destinies hand in hand: We would as most fiction may do- - glorify in bold embellishment what our eyes have seen: Histories and architectural histories may have been splayed with entire nakedness before our eyes: Startling but true, the past and future had been built magically before my eyes: We all appear as gawkers in the circus. We applauded thunderously.

The camaraderie among my friends- - soothes the lurid deafness from the night: Though me, myself and I feel a twinge of loneliness- -my eyes- - I, embrace the darkness that is shared and illuminated among my experienced travelers- - and friends. 

All shades from twilights to dawns are filled with interwoven tapestries’ nightmares and tales that  have not been heard nor seen: One day I will  share more of the brew that holds my architectural experiences past and the new ones ahead: Cities dressed and undressed have stories: Secrets from above and below the streets are us: From Seville, Southern Mississippi, South-Central Los Angeles, Bangladesh, Shenzhen, Tbilisi,  Samarkand, Mexico’s Condesa Park, and Moscows’ Golden Rings and more- -skeletal shadows whisper in the night.

The French Building: 551 Fifth Ave: Architect: Sloan and Robertson 1926-1927

Architecture of Cities: Playing for Time

Met Life Tower: One Madison: Architect: Napoleon LeBrun 1909

The clocks’ vibrating gears- - A books’ final page: The sounds softly pillow-pocketed in the mind: Quietly, passages and time vanish before closed eyes: I dreamed about what, I do not know: The forever dreams continue: The visual captures navigated ahead and behind:

Moments are called- -The Hush”. 

The White Spirit Bear whispered in silence: The silence is something greater than a capture: The hush returns: A revolving door aka revolving window snags a glimpse into the mind’s eye; One shutter frame depressed as might be an entire collective of a pianos’ black sharps and flats: I don’t move: Emptiness fulfills a void that is now: A hush near is heard: It might be a farewell: No moment is too important to interrupt silence: I often, knowingly say farewell to what may have been the final capture: The hush- - my last dream is realized as a fantasy- -again.

Carl Jung suggested that fantasies’ live in reality- - and realities’ lives in fantasy: We- -the White Spirit Bear- - stand in the forest together: Sounds never whispered: The natural woods all around: The entire universe speaks quietly and alone to us: Through and throughout with little inducement I stand alone: The phantasia that was an idle forest becomes my Madison Avenue: My realities focused: Streets and thorough fares are mine in frame as I again awaken to- - For today and tomorrow one more than yesterday: 

Macy’s Department Store on 34th Street: Architect Robert D. Kohn and Theodore de Lemos: 1902

The “…Bear”, my mirrored materialization of me hovers: The camera marches on as part bear, part phantasm: Reality captures fantasies in my frames’: I depress the shutter release softly- -less than can be heard: The dreamscapes I imagined are funneled through my mind by a clock heard: The near distance invented: Clocks determined the history of us and navigate the future of us- - according to time:

A faraway train near was heard: A serenade of time faces across eras played: Timepiece gears nakedly vibrate to my pitter- patter footsteps trampling New York’s Broadway: Amid a torrential downpour I am accompanied by two human wildlings; Dead men sometimes breathing; Thomas de Quincey and Hunter S.Thompson meld into one; No rancor among them: Mere lively minds tagging along raveling and unraveling my brain: The clocks ticked as the streets beckoned us for more:

We three raced: The light of the night elliptically danced between the pouring raindrops in the storm- -The  histories’ that are me reflected in the streets that have seen me- -:

Harry Potter Hungarian Horntail Dragon and Magical Clock: Posed on a landmarked structure built in 1862: Architect Griffith Thomas

My accompanying wildlings from another time vanished as in a “poof”: I felt a frenzy of panicking hurriedness; I grabbed inside my pocket for a watch face sans wristband: Forever on Broadway I will mourn the loss of  the timepiece apparently slipped, misplaced or vanished as mementos do: Forever, somewhere on Broadway is an apt ceremonial burial plot: My heirs may mourn my misplaced timepiece: I revisit clocks as if attending my time piece’s memorial: Lost to the universe abound:  still glistening for me to remember: Certain recollections become seen as one: The red to green street lights maintain a rhythm as a Ring Starr drum might: The ebb that is the moon’s is seen prescribing the flow of the planets ocean flows: The labyrinths of time ahead and behind are us gazing into our histories:

The Darwin’ Center Ammonite Clock, Greenwich Mean Time/Greenwich’ Royal Observatory’s clock, Tadao Ando’s London Atomizer- -pace my mind into a spellbinding labyrinth of days and nights: The institutions enumerate our lives in dates and times together and apart on earth: My shutter/release remains in capture mode- - to capture what is left to see- - what more is there to see: The second and minute hand hold together as lovers before a cliff deep dive: Tightly squeezed it is obvious that time is unfurling before the end is seen: Tick-Tock is exposed: We are all prisoners to the movements: The unconquerable spirit hints: No matter the time no matter the hush- - Termination on earth is always near:

I mentor my camera’s day: I share the lives of clocks: Someone else’s time will replace mine: Run, hurry,” begs my visual capture device: Time runs, the face of history vanishes: The two hands posed on all time bearing devices:

The Chambers Brothers sing, “Time has come today / Can’t put it off another day / There are things to realize (Time)”.

Architect: Tadao Ando: “ Silence” The Atomizer: Connaught Hotel: 2011

Architecture of Cities: A Prelude to Memory

New York Life: Life Insurance Building: NYC:Architect: Cass Gilbert

King Kong held on to life as he knew it: Atop the Empire State Building, Fay Wray snaked and writhed in the “Kong’s” palm: Atop The World Trade Center’ Southern Tower, Jessica Lange snaked and writhed in the “Kong’s” palm: Fay Wray and Jessica Lange held the future of Kong in balance.

The Fountainhead’s Howard Roark held the balance too; the promise to realize the ideal he knew to be true: My Roark and my “Kong” both stubborn romantics stubborn idealist- - understood the need to embrace the need for architecture; For love and invention- -humanity embodied in two beasts morphed into our forever imaginations:

The James Bond Film Title Designer, Maurice Binder suggested that each frame in cinema is a prelude to something more; A prelude to beauty is action; A prelude to action is beauty: 

My eyes eloped illicitly into a past: if dreams were real, my mind’s eyes resembled movie film dressed in fermenting froth:

Shibuya, Tokyo: The Iceberg Building: Architect: CDI: Creative Designers International

My every city whispers a sound or displays a scene heard or witnessed: Before a snap or a frame the narrative that my ears or eyes engage- -become my Magellan: The scripted word: The literary remembrance: The movie in mind: The lone musical chord and all of the biological us- - are preludes to a symphony- -A prelude to the prelude while seconds remain on this earth. A framing of life in cities to breathe before the capture: 

The newness that is my capture is my loneliness: Alone with one camera- -one tool of ammunition: I am forever indebted to movies that I imagine, computate as a single frame: The list of influences as I remember marching into cities is frightening : Not that I scare: But how cinema has influenced my days beyond and ahead: Citizen Kane’s- -Xanadu is not mine: I am merely a visual pawn as Google’s recovery software recalls the overlooked: I recall nothing but everything: I have replayed the two hours Welles feat as a single frame: It appears in mind and film like a scratched skip repeating on a long playing 33 1/3 record album: Toland and Welles’ endless devotion to the interior of exteriors- - the exteriors of interiors are a whisper of how dreams, realities and memories play out : I devote my eyes to cities seen and not yet known: The Kane’s silhouette in sublime decorative brilliance resides in my ceiling to floor framed mirror: The prelude to the framed stillness is the capture: The prelude to what may follow is my forever.

I remind myself daily to dream with huge swaths of moments: Fifteen-hundred times I have lifted, my eyes see into the morning light that became another’s night: A world never mine: In a single frame, the storm windows flew: The window panes followed:The Red Balloonappeared atop the Paris I once knew: 

Shunjuku, Tokyo: The Washington Hotel: Architects:Sakakura Architects

Martin Scorsese’s Gare de Montparnasse’ clock in Hugo lures me into the vault known as histories not yet known- -fantasies to make about cities I do: I scale and rescale each detail with eyes set: I need to arrive at the apex of understanding: I need to marry the prelude of every thought: I need the foresight to know what will become in the single camera’s reflex action: What will one movie atomized into a limited series of my cameras’ formats become: The prelude to what is next haunts the eye of my camera: Cities are my forever: 

Fellini’s 8 1/2  comes to mind a bit too often: The truth that is Fellini arrives by my side like a constant wind: He intentionally or not portrays a city’s story as part ambrosia part miasma: The two melded, are akin to Black and White film seen in colors of saturated high contrast: The architecture of streets and the  intersections of architecture play like checkerboards in multiplied levels of dimensions: l then snap and move on: 

The masters call repeatedly: Welles, Scorsese and true heroes emerge: The prelude to my captures in the end is not a prelude: It is a pilgrimage: The big screen, the little screen- -frequent miles or waking dreams; My mind travels: The Nights of Cabiria comes to me like starving eyes force fed for a universe to see: I can never- -I refuse  to ever press delete:I refuse to remove the genius of Buster Keaton’s Anything: I assimilate his energy in my everyday on city streets: I refuse to deny the idea that is Godard’s Casa Malaparte:

If in my journey to arrive at a prelude to a capture- - To understand the essential need to make pilgrimages I would ask that my eyes forever commingle with the beauty that is The Mood for Love- -and the waddle that ends Charlie Chaplins’ Modern Times: A singed heart eternally like a Lambl’s excrescence knotted to my anticipated forever adventures. 

Rockefeller Center: New York City: Architect Raymond Hood

Architecture of Cities: The Life in a Day

Tokyo: Architects: Tadao Ando and Issey Miyake

The “Star Child” that is Stanley Kubrick’s- - is not me:  My stories told rarely are rarely seen: They died one-hundred times in a series of unfortunate dreams: Now I dream alone: I am my own audience:

 Let’s take a twirl together: Let me show you a bit of soft-shoe a few two-steps: I want to be the hare racing ahead: I am gladly slowed by the quietude that mingles with my heart: Until it is seen no capture is secure: The “Star Child” is not me: My eyes not ours are living in a dream seen so slightly ahead.

Often I glimpse at a ghost- - near: Akira Kurosawa directs: He tips his brim; He doffs his cap- -: The  masters majesty in my frame: I assimilate: My dream nips at his history: The imagined whispering genius breathes a bit of sonic pulse: My Pentax and Nikon salute- -My dreams anything Kurosawa: If only his cinematic “Dreams” were my realities; My universe his- -occasionally real- -: There are vibrations underfoot- - the march of anthem(s) are always present; “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” comes to mind: I continue the march: It has to be continued: I charge- -wide open, my aperture captures one day in my life.

When nobody watches I am alone: The consciousness that is my camera awakens: We are one as two when we advance- - we dance, as we do: A mass of cities quietly beyond yet not seen- - pose: I  grasp a glimpse of nature’s possibilities: The tapestry that are layers of history and memories; that is us, revealed.

North Carolina: Architects: Snohetta: James B. Hunt Jr. Library

For a second I feel like Cartier-Bresson’s boy with bottles of wine: I joyfully gather a thousand clusters of cities imagined as a bouquet of trees: My palms’ fingers extended furtively- -linked like a Simian Crease across continents: Human habitats; Tokyo, Dubai, Barcelona, London and more spawned within centuries await: The magnificence of the imaginary tapestry idyllically appears. A pastoral tranquility communes with a beckoning complex urban sprawl: An abundance of pollinator highways appear secretly snaking among impenetrable skyscrapers:

New York City: Architect: Frank Gehry: Spruce Street mingling with the city

The beauty of nations witnessed: A dream massaged by a balm: Bruegel’s Tower of Babel or Pomodoro’s Fractured Spheres sit like pawns atop architectures’ global black and white chess board. Visual conundrums always present: Baskets of beauty will be seen: The earth is flat; Sightings of admired expansive light awaits: So I fly:

The face of time adorns my wrist: Guam’s Mount Lamlam tilts in the wind: The Hawaiian Mauna Kea appears just there: The Mariana Trench wades partially tethered and anchored to the underpinning of the Seven Seas: Visual restraints fall aside: My eyes weather great distances to see just beyond: Land and oceans’ reveal and relive tales from cemetery’s above and below: I imagine: My cameras capture memorials from the past: The present is almost behind: The future is a dream laden with unknown histories to become.

Confessionals have come and gone: I am no longer Kurosawa’s, Wender’s, Kubrick nor Varda. I have chased after buildings and nations: I am at peace meandering and loitering with dreams that have eyes not mine: If the atom can be split- - the puzzle that might be me…

New York City: Citi Corp

Architecture of Cities: Gorillas in the Midst

Met-Life Tower at One Madison: New York City

Imagine a day melding into mankind’s entire history: A lone child; lithe, black (not white), and Congolese- - bent: Atop the Congo-Savanna  two hands splayed as shadows atop dancing naked skeletal fishbone patterns: The mirage that could be an entire earth awaited: Glittering millimeters of crystals and more brilliant minerals wispily lingered below: The known unimaginable surface seen as enjoining expanding circumferences- - watched: The lone Congolese dipped his hands: The moment in a recurring blind faith; witnessed and grew exponentially like the base of giant Sequoia growth rings: Treasures speak in confessional volumes- - as evidentiary values shared with eyes not mine: Our history becomes.

A labyrinth of tissues fondling a millennia of landscapes lay witness to a visual overlay of transcending discoveries amassing data not known before this very certain day. Occasions to dream: History remains: The glittering gems were born before yesterday: The Savanna child stands near:

Taj Mahal: Agra, India

The world displayed in CinemaScope pretends to visually imagine two simians or relatively so: I mingle: I tug with the muscle. One Silverback gorilla and one lone one photographer: Hands held; The gorilla hovers near my ear: A new life amidst my dreams are whispered: We, two parts of an umbilical transcendence espy Africa: Our paths are star-crossed: Natures’ moment poses front and center in freeze frame: Global cities abound appear surfing/riding above cresting waves: 

The planets’ unfathomable circumference splayed before us in the guise of a forbidden Congo: Traces of our excavated past living in- - buried  “just so” as colored mineral impurities: Histories yet to be seen: Reflexive action warrant a pause: The Congolese child’s treasures cupped: The momentary remembrance of our future’s past.

Architectures’ buildings are about living in an expanding universe: Architecture’s buildings are my fiction’s fiction: The imaginary sojourn that hold stories seen in a single lens; Through the Congo Basin’s Western lowlands: The image of my imaginary dreams to remind: 

Architect: View van der Rohe and Philip Johnson: New York

I venture into global cities to discover glittering treasures: Not iconic icons of architecture’s past and present: In my frame there is a treasure at hand: The treasure does not have to be Turkey’s Göbekli Tepe: The treasure does not have to be Egypt’s Pyramids: The treasure does not have to be modern or in bed with antiquities: The camera need not be frozen in my time nor travel to middle earth at any time: 

I am the Silverback standing erect (pause) imagining one last thrust on earth to make a capture: Hand in hand I stand with my alter ego: Nature that is earth, awaits; Earth, splayed in tender folds as far as the eye may imagine: Real fictions, are typed in Kipling’s Kim, Tolkiens everything; A heart  belonging to Stefan Zweig: I am merely the aged gorilla living in the midst: Standing alone in the footprints of every man’s made moment that may become my capture: Emphatically dreaming.

Architect: Frank Lloyd Wright: The Guggenheim Museum: New York City

Architecture of Cities: (pi) π-π-π

Brooklyn Bridge

The umbilical cord that is pi (π): The canvas extends more than five-hundred years: From Albrecht Dürer to Anselm Kiefer: Paint strokes in the manners of all colors and light become a collective dream: Like swallowing 10 short tons of oxygen: Then again:

The umbilical cord that is pi (π): Lin-Miranda Manuel’s Hamilton and Benny Goodman’s Rhapsody in Blue take their cues; The ghosts of two men decades apart, train ride in tandem (Lin-Manuel to Brooklyn and Goodman to Boston): The rambling rhythms generate  revelatory creative  might: The revelations are again like swallowing 10 short tons of oxygen: The tales of my imaginations are verifiable to everything we might know and might see: 

My eyes embrace everything afar and near: My captures styled like mathematical and scientific sequences: Endless combinations enhanced with every dream before I snap: Photography’s science; iso-f-stop-and apertures computed as in a marriage with the mathematical timing: The mechanical and visual experiences come full circle each day: All of my captures again will come alive while swallowing 10 short tons of oxygen:

Architecture firm: REX: The Perelman Performaning Arts Center: New York City

I awaken moorless in all of my days: My eyes newly transfixed- -again! (My own Groundhog’sDay:) The camera muster’s a Darwinian conviction at breakneck-breathtaking speed to master a moment awaiting in the city at my feet; Everything ahead. The lens not seen hovers repeatedly above and below: I reclaim realities’ dream to see: Imagine capturing an unseen reality. Not to see sameness but see what is not us. I dream of such things with and without my camera in hand:

Every country and city are the same until they are not: I enter and exit exactly the same way upon each landing each crossing: I am met by my intended rendition of architecture: Something great or something to become- - Either way my anxious exuberance explodes quietly unseen: Swallowing 10 short tons of oxygen- -feeling more than often like one-hundred tons: It is that emphasis on discovery that makes the “snaps” come alive: A hint of pi (π) in mind I do pause: There is no end to my journeys, as there is no relative end to pi (π). The possibility indicates that I could meet my earthly beginning or possibly an unearthly ending is more than slightly depressing: I continue.

Midtown Manhattan reflections

I create a world that feels real but might not be: The whale in me travels at great speeds: For a single 60th second capture there is a secular rapture: I investigate the partial seconds allowed: No country, no city is too big: I move quickly: My entire experience is to imagine tagging along with the HMS Beagle until I am moored and decommissioned: My endgame.

This circuitous journey towards my dreams truth returns me to pi(π): I circle around and back again:

I could never lose this ebb and flow or what may be natures’ natural pace; My camera explores explores the moments I need to address: I might find myself adrift as in Rilke’s, “Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower.” I could not, would not fathom nothingness: The Blue Whale is me, as any Blue Whale may attest- - I continue: The architecture awaits the camera’s excavation: There is more.

Citi-Corp New York City: Architect: Emery Roth&Sons: Hugh Stubbins: Engineer William LeMessurier

Architecture of Cities: Communing with Architecture

St Vartans Armenian Cathedral: New York City

I have never been able to escape the elfin collective who tag aside as I pursue the youthful exuberance for snagging my captures: I often feel more Kim in Kipling than Peter Pan in Barrie: Adventure’s in my paradise is a camera navigating fantasies in fiction: I desire a plethora of fiction living in my fantasies: Anthropologists, e.g., (Leakeys’, Meads’ and Goodalls’) congregate in my tiny cerebrum; They abide by alertly, and surprisingly navigating my skill-sets: Introducing my camera eyes to nature’s natural artifacts: The history of us all lives in the architecture that remains: All of the stories claimed and reclaimed over time are mine to snap: The buildings alone are not mere legos: They are stories that accompany our histories: Freeze-framed in architectural footprints, buildings are ready for their close-ups:- -My lens becomes us.  

Eli Attia: Architect: New York City

Alone- -I imagine edifices posing in abundance: My camera orchestrates my sights. My camera prefers the fiction that is nearer to reality: The intricacy of tissues webbed to my neurons’ engines that power my eyes remind me: I am reminded of another life making portraits: Standing before the fixed lens are living examples of what came before me: What will lead me ahead: The voices begin looking back in time: The new voices try to define what tomorrow will hold: Aged impressions of lives lived- -The youthful promises for what may become:

Antoni Gaudi: Detail from Sagrada Famalia Barcelona

Antoni Gaudi’s Sagrada Famalia’s  unearthly design poses like an old man: It stands having seen: It stands remembering the past: Restored it is moving forward with the past trailing: We have “two-stepped” many times: The melding of my first views; like seeing an embryo at first glance: The restoration so many years later- - and then- - Realizing the division of time enraptured by a single shadow in a frame: The entirety of the brilliant for me was a voluminous shadow: I remembered my first encounter: I gleefully remember the recent encounter: Realizing simplicity conquers all in photography: I breathlessly allowed the film see: Everyone and everything living across generations in minute detail is an anthropologists gasping discovery: Halted breath, eyes a glow revelation: Then and mostly, the origins of us like growth rings tell the story like two boxers in a ring: Statistics separate the aged from what we might see as the “Sweet bird of youth”. Tired and proud structures spread across continents like kernels of sustenance reminding us of our stories: The precious time on this planet is mostly fleeting before our eyes: Both ideas are manifested in two types of pictures I capture in cities:The generational urban and rural acclaims are simple: Who we are and who we were. Gaudi’s intimate shadow awakens.

From the first afternoon I walked under/through the California Redwood Chandelier Tree- -I knew. I remember communing as if the tree was my very first anthropomorphic encounter: The shadows and the vertical cavernous cavity introduced me to my futures: Communing with architecture is about conversations with architectural friend and foe: Architecture is unique to the moment: It is not as Dylan Thomas referred to Christmas snow: “It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas.”

Architecture is not merely architecture in one city or another- - it is a manner of communing with the history of self and the histories prior to me and forward forever after.

Architect: Diller/Scofidio/Renfro: 15 Hudson Yards: New York City

Architecture of Cities: A Story

A Temple turned to rubble: 58-60 Rivington Street: The former oldest Temple in New York

The unnerving quietude in mystery—September 11th, 2001 hosted a brilliant morning light,--, a brilliant sky. Quiet went on alert: Quiet is when your pets perked ears are like sirens not heard: Quiet is a place where my dreams live: Quiet is a perception of reality about to be heard: Quiet is an overture to all of my tomorrows: Every morning seems the same: I wake up: I check my calendar: A bit of coffee: Something arranged for the day(s). I try to  capture something three-hundred and sixty-five days a year: A volcanic interruption is all that might interrupt the flow:

The walls were not moving: Traffic seemed still: Something was too quiet: I tuned into my television: I saw the second plane hit the World Trade Center: The noise that followed was silent: The noise was never real:

I gathered my camera on my balcony: I kept looking down to the streets as I did when I first skydived: The balcony was not falling: I landed onto my streets: I walked towards the smoke: I could barely make out street signs: I walked until my lungs knew better. The streets lead me to the silent site:

WTC: What became after 9/11

I returned home: Freeze framed the soul:

I stood into the evening darkness leaning into my balcony window: I watched assorted vehicles with windows shrouded in black drive past: My imagination challenged: I knew but imagined  bodies  in those windows: The transportation never stopped: I never moved: I never blinked: The last and final gaze saw a yellow school bus- -

My camera never moved: The purpose of framing horror could not be framed in my mind: Maybe minutes or hours passed- -certainly days: Now it is shy of twenty-four years and I can reprint the image across my eyes faster than a Red-tailed Comet hummingbird flaps its wings: The haunting lives: The capture remains in my mind’s time- -every breath that whispers.

Time passed: Architect Richard Meier included me in the al corrente collective: Eisenman, Gwathmey, Holl, Vinoly, Isozaki, Schwartz, Diller, Scofidio, Tod Williams and the New York Times Architecture critic/organizer-Herbert Muschamp. More groups and gatherings would later include Shigeru Ban, Ken Smith, Libeskind, Foster, Childs: 

I snapped most of the teams in their search for plans and progress: I returned daily to capture the planning stages as if a military strategic war room was secretly deciding our nations future: I was invited to record the captures of the participants planning: I was a pretty large fly on the wall that nobody paid attention to: The universe seemed to expand into a congregation of like minded and not so like minded participants: I was reminded of Raymond Burr coordinating the attack on Godzilla: The best and brightest gathered to counter the catastrophe:

Most photographers keep an elfin influence somewhere atop their shoulders: Close enough to whisper inspirations into their ears: I almost always had American Civil War photographer Mathew Brady near: He choreographed so many captures not merely for the times: He made images he thought society might want to see this day in twenty-twenty-five and the almost  one-hundred and fifty years from his initial captures:

The tallest residential Building in New York City by SHOP

The very  day I encountered the “site I claimed the tragedy of the grotesque: I will remember it always: The days that impacted my camera’s eyes never truly remember, but do: I play every scene from my initial captures to include my nightmares and horrors that others have lived:

I have replayed the anthem  my camera has undertaken: It begins with an audible from the metronome in my ears: The yellow school bus passes in my every nightmare: I imagine I begin to a period of adjustment: I stand from this street and that corner with a promise, promised: I will record as in my elfin Mathew Brady- -From my initial capture until there is no more- - cities and more will become captures for not this day but those tomorrow:

As if accompanied by an army of hazel-eyed irises: The woodwinds gather: El-CID as in cinema’s Charlton Heston’s plays before my eyes: Miles Davis as in Miles Davis plays to the march: The Gabriel Garcia Marquez Tramontana melds with nature’s Aurora borealis: The  accompaniment of inspirations challenge the lens to see the cities as I might imagine them- -and as I need to expose the streets beyond a mere today.

Christian Portzamparc’s One57

Architecture of Cities: Ensemble of Names Proliferate Over Time

Architect Eric Parry: London

I remember in my life exactly where I realized the repose: I turned slightly one  morning: My room had some Edward Hopper details: I stood where Hopper might have… I saw someone else’s world: It was mine: It was new to me forever: Then I gazed some more: This city for my second time was also the first time I remember talking to myself about photography: Photography-I had not seen: 

One memorable moment was here alone with me in this city: I walked beyond the alone with my eyes peering into decades behind and ahead: 

There was a cafe; A secret hideaway I sat: Daily I watched Rod Serling toss time forwards and backwards: The entire time of a day eclipsed dreams to be had:  Presence and experience was (and still, possibly) my light: I awakened  to see myself through history that will become or has been before me: The light in my mind or others must have a beginning: The mother’s womb comes to mind: I imagine this possibility everyday: “Snap”. So a new day begins.

Arnold Böcklin‘s “Isle of the Dead” comes to mind often: Viewed from afar and viewed as if within {pause} it is a quiet place: Serene ripplets cross ample immensity of a secretive waterway: Serenity offered: Something portent: The end game is near: Peaceful expectations vanish: torrents of desires  approach: I seize architecture; I seize the streets; I seize the cities; I interpret cities; I interpret the streets; I interpret architecture: Cultures remain captured in my frames: The camera spins atop an unfettered ball bearing {pause} aimless and equally engaged: I am rewarded by the experience and the surprises that land in my focus:

Strata: Architect BFLS: Elephant and Castle: Brookfiels Developers; London

The structure of cultures: The structure of cities and streets are captured in freeze frame: My first and every city invites me to collaborate my lights and colors with experiences to be seen: I am immeasurably unleashed with equal trepidation and fierce desires to secure photos of destinations: The assembled components appear: I snap: The waywardness in me is destined: The depth of the infinite experience in a single frame is what defines dignity in not a career but a life worth seeing:

Time is stretched out like an intimate canvas across decades: Celluloid and digital captures only become enviable when photography’s plasticity affords me something more.

An ensemble of cities in pictures: Paramount in my time are experiences: The surface of my archival pages indicates many thousands of names and places: The entire collective of decades is something dear: 

A bridge to cross along the Thames

Dangers and entertainment alone in one place: The park-shadows frightened: Smoke seen from the roadside: A meal skewered over a fire: Riveting history I have not seen: Thousands collide and dance in shadows past as I inch my way to make  new captures: I need not escape the shadows or the histories: They are in many ways why I am here to make photographs: Again and again to capture: The city, the country or continent I replicate my steps to be certain: I repeat my steps to improve my points of view:

Crowds bring mysteries: Mysteries are heightened by noises and the anticipation of what is near: Traffic stops: Strips of streets meld into excitement and something new: Jack The Ripper came to mind: Confessions of an Opium Eater came to mind: The realist in me prevails: Wild photograph  fantasies fade from memory: Truth in photography is my raison d’être:

Andre Kertesz photograph of his brother exiting the glare from a single street light is the simplest template to live by: I have seen that image one million times not in my dreams but in each passage to a new place through a new passage of time: it is there for and to become my balm: To tell me to breathe with the lone intention of the single frame{pause} my capture: Follow the light no matter how bright how dim: It will lead to a place: The place not often of your choosing but anew:

The ensemble of so many names and places are reminders of my years in the streets of cities: In and around the architecture of cities: Gratifyingly listening to stories about cities, places and architecture; My camera may tell stories: The buildings in my scope by Oscar, Thom, Zaha, Frank, Renzo, and …. I have spoken to{pause{ in my own language in my own time with my own meaning.

Thomas Heatherwick: Vinoly and Foster: London

Architecture of Cities: Starlings in Flight:

Fifth Avenue Apple Store: General Motors Building :Grand Army Plaza

I begin each day with a hint of emotional blindness: The deafening quietude of noise calms the purpose ahead: I often imagine patrolling the streets my camera needs to see: Sightless heart, ears in quiet whispers: A day begins to become(…).

The Starling’s murmurations are seen awakening in flight near the night: Unequivocal noises step forward: The early night listens to a unity of trees rustling and water flowing: Silence is clear-I stepforward:

Starlings by the thousands and maybe millions contort, rhythmically in my skies: Beyond the above there is more: An imagined psalm read by a chorus: My eyes vanish within, and reappear. 

My Starlings posing en masse, and across the skies: I seek to frame the Starlings patterns as moving frames: Starlings waiting, frighteningly like a midnight prayer: I awaken with each fluttering movements moment until again I sleep:

Chrysler Building New York City

Inconceivable patterns of flight: The birds dance frozen in frame: The spectral of one million colored transparencies with indelible resolution mimic the Starlings skying patterns: My captures my frames now seen as Starlings in flight: The entirety of an entire career: Starlings evolving freeze framed morphing  in real time: My life in images-if only for me: 

The lone SLR camera accompanied by my murmurings and Starlings through my time and history(…) contorted to see: Colors heard in every direction: Imagine my everyday in flight; like a picture posed, and collected like Starlings in flight: My life in a mirror (…)like Starling’s murmurations.

Ten thousand dreams appear: A naked elephant remembers listening before sex: A naked Mynah bird always talks up a storm before sex: My dreams: My ghosts: My life in pictures.

Architect: Fumihiko Maki: New York City Building: 51 Astor Place

I hear voices from portraits past: Most have died some are still heard: Generations transformed into Christmas Carol’ like ghosts: The ghosts soar and contort among the colored millimeters of Starlings frozen in my imagined sky: Exposed in singular frames among millions my eyes dance with images mimicking birds in flight:

I walk the streets nomadically, but grounded in moments-past and tomorrow.

If I was a Starling in flight or frozen in time and place what would I see while soaring sprightly amidst murmurations: Flying impossibly ladened in stone: Flying fleet with wings just above the streets.

I navigate towards obstacles, differences and memory dementia: Mere overcoming becomes victorious: I beg: I beg to capture; capture the entreating streets: Buildings that present themselves front and center: Buildings that hide in corridors: Secrets and more are my captures: My eyes frame the reveal and the tempered absolutes: 

Moments imagined with “ifs” you were me: I observe with joy and horror the dark energy of space thrusting through all known galaxies: A capture in the making is heard: The galaxy’s, thrust or the lyrical sky dance: I am hurriedly hurling across avenues: Slow tense focus: I explore what is left of my memory: The lights of days, the lights of nights and what will  be reimagined in my mind:The lyrical Starlings murmurations abound in flight; My entire life in pictures contorted in my skies.

New York City 8th Avenue looking South

Architecture of Cities: Vanilla Sky

London: Architects: Richard Rogers “Lloyds…” and Norman Foster: Gherkin and more

The romance of being a photographer has vanished: Today and every day I say hello to my hundreds of thousands: They are my DNA-pause-friendships in celluloid and more: It is a kiss to my past and tomorrow: I identify real places in real times: I dream again. 

I do not need any validation today: Maybe tomorrow or another day will do: I would assume it is natural. Moments are precious: I have no time to listen to my mind>Today is tomorrow: Tomorrow will be in the present and then again the cycle continues: I walk streets at dusk and dawn. I memorized my moments that have not occurred. My mind rehearses the reels of movies and literary pages: I walk with those imageries/words lens in hand: Galaxy’s stars play visual tricks: Carnival barkers are seen and heard: I search for my Vanilla Sky:

London: Architect: Amanda Levete: Detail

I stand in front of the Eiffel: I stand next to city halls: I land in real airports and stand upright with unique whispers, whispering.

I often drown my eyes in an onslaught of visual brilliance: My eyes meld into Pieter Bruegel’s hyper-hyperbolic “The Tower of Babel.” My eyes meld into Claude Monet‘s atmospheric view of “The Seine at Argenteuil,”  A collective of noises are heard dancing with serenity: Somewhere in between lives my Vanilla Sky:

I am passengered into the Chicago’s 1893 White City Worlds’ Fair. The movie “Vanilla Sky” plays forward: I sit in a faux Ferrari 250 GTO: Times’ Square is naked and soulless: Time travel is real: Tom Cruise sits near: I imagined with innocent verve anything can be believed. I gaze into the mirrors of my past and present.

My pictures are not mine: The traces of my days making  architecture and portraits become my palimpsest: Remains: Traces of the past before me: Memories ahead: Shaped by alchemy and prophecy: Narratives are formed: Photographs shaped then and now offer glimpses into what may become my Vanilla Sky: It is what takes place in every footprint I leave behind and every footprint to be seen. The game of dream versus reality is always alive.

Tokyo: Architect: Kisho Kurokawa: Nakagin Capsule Tower

Urban discoveries are my equal to Thoreau’s pastoral wildings: Excited like a prairie dog rising in the midst of the morning sun: Things seen but not seen. I gaze into my archives chasing not memories, but occurrences:  I have witnessed decades alone-with my camera: Maybe I dream of finally seeing my  “Vanilla Sky.” Maybe I wish for too much. I  try to make sense of the traffic of imagery:  Everyday and my every night I awaken  with a penchant to pursue the thrill of my “snaps.”

There is nothing hallucinatory about the experience: I  merely need to remind myself of the experience…sort of subscribing to an idea as those may do in church: I mention in every piece I write about the cities; The cities I have walked through and across- but mostly that I gallivanted around: I have run into darkness: I have run into light: Run, walk and gallivant: All are familiar: 

I listen to the sounds in London: I pause: I listen to the sounds in Barcelona: I pause: I listen to the sounds in Tokyo: I pause: The architecture of cities I share refer to not merely a capture but a singular experience that is caught with bated breath: I can never repeat the moments because… Then I confess: Somewhere is all I need: Knowing that Bruegel and Monet complicate and equally are a balm for my mind’s eyes is absurd: Yet, sit alongside my lens for a mere snippety-snap-snap and see what is seen but not yet seen: Time is precious: Days pass- light passes-moments are lost: Monet wrote, ”The light constantly changes, and that alters the atmosphere and beauty of things every minute.” 

If I could only find the beauty once: If I could only capture the atmosphere once: If I could merely slow the entire experience into a lonely minute; I will have discovered my “Vanilla Sky.”

Barcelona: Architect: Jean Nouvel:

Architecture of Cities: Rhythms of Space and Sound

Architect: Frank Gehry: 8 Spruce Street: New York City

My eyes pace the streets-gingerly: I reconvene with my real and surrealistic photographs-daily: Everyday I step into my archives steeped in degrees of time travel: Ten or one-thousand architects I imagine: Their space, their architecture are my captures: Some and many voices are no longer among us: My eyes remember: I have preyed upon their buildings: I have morphed into a cheetah with an heralded mantle standing as camouflage: Praying for anonymity-to hear what I might see: Praying for anonymity to see what I might hear:

My mind’s eyes and ears listen to two thirty-second intros melding The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter”with Merry Clayton’s full throttle worshipping shrill and Benny Goodmans’ “Sing, Sing, Sing” with Gene Krupa’s solo drum dance followed by torrents of woodwinds and brass: The music plays; I capture rhythms-I capture space: 

I see five-hundred cities fictionalized congregated as one: Patience-I hear the shutter-snippety-snap-snap: Daily fictions carry on. I make more snaps. The camera’s reflecting reflex captures the chorus of moments: 

Architect: Skidmore-Owings and Merrill: Principal Architect: David Childs: Moynihan Train Station

Photographing cities and the architecture within is a kinship: The eyes often feel an elated   emotional burst: Then their, my eyes, begin: I pre-visualize the unattainable: I am reminded of two and ten million moments: Maybe remembering the Japanese artist Hiroshige Utagawa’s bewildering beautiful woodblocks frozen indelibly upon my eyes + Maybe remembering the German artist Hans Bellmer bewildering beautiful poupées frozen indelibly also upon my eyes: Maybe their talented passions infuse my eyes-Intimately and broadly: Maybe their voices and a dozen-dozen artists, five photographers and more accompany my journeys: Their Images, my memories bask in the glory of fantastical accomplishment: A reminder of achievements never to be mine: Stirring to remember: Calming and disturbing: Alarmingly beautiful and frightening stories to be remembered.

A daily conjuring of ideas play repeatedly: My mind’s eyes see stories about cities and architecture mingling in and around five-hundred years and maybe five-hundred thousand years: I exaggerate on all accounts: For I never know how to single out one voice or one day to explain how I may or may not strategize my intent for content: There is tomorrow.

Architect: I.M Pei: Javits Center: New York City

A collage of the surreal hovers: I stand hand in hand with Oscar Niemeyer at the wide bight, on the Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro: We see and hear the full discharge of the Amazon River: We see and hear the Amazon forest as a collective of spheres (pause) above are seen expanding like millions of tendrils before our eyes (pause) crossing continents:

A waxing crescent moon hovers near darkness: Kettledrums tickle the air: The two of us imagine our past and present as one voice: The names of places accessible and excessive dance: Mere magic: Perfect theater.

I point northward as with a baton: I share Dhaka, Rio, Copenhagen, and Rome: We reminisce about nations and continents: We collectively animate the names of influencers in our lives: So many directions and directives are enjoined in the conversation of generational exchanges: We admire the anthropology of worlds seen: 

The day and night nearly end: We share science fictions that are true: The stars above free flow exponentially: All the stories in real time that might have been shared: Mine live in rhythms and spaces my camera has seen: Oscar’s live in designs he has made for the planet: Every capture relates to a story somewhere that my camera has seen: One thousand faces and incalculable places have made for stories: My past is here-I am among those who might wish for another  tomorrow. 

Architect: David Adjaye: 130 William: New York City

Architecture of Cities Unique Spaces on Celluloid: Yesterday and Tomorrow’s Architecture

Grand Central Station: New York City

I see architecture through many lenses: Yesterday and tomorrow come to mind: My past has been framed from eras long before mine: Eras merge: The present is seen before the future vanishes: My camera mingles atop and between streets: It is a daily reprise of my fiction’s fiction:

I imagine the first capture: Buildings breathe to be heard:

I might remember tumbling down a vaulted spiral staircase: I cannot remember: I might remember fumbling down an alp or two: I cannot remember: I do most often remember dancing amidst a blue whale’s massive baleen-That I do remember:

If I faint my world blackens: Realities may be forgotten: My finger reflexively snaps captures merely because I am somewhere: The shutter is heard as if a pendulum clock: Alerted to more than time: 

Herzog and De Meuron: 56 Leonard New York City

I march somewhere else: I remember the last snap and these words: “I didn’t want to die too soon:”

(Duke Ellington’s son Mercer about his father’s share:) I quickly realized it is time to harness the vast chronicles of my photography’s biospheric time: My captures are in my rear view mirror and slightly ahead.

I have always imagined stealing time as did Claude Monet: His plein air captures could never be mine: Monet’s light seem to last just shy of eternity: Monet’s impressions are mine in my dreams: My light vanishes as I see it: My captures are no longer dreams, but akin to Monet’s moments. I am capturing real light in real time: The light will never be again.

“Now I’ll never dance with another/

Oh since I saw her standing there.”

“I Saw Her Standing There”

Paul McCartney/John Lennon: The Beatles; 1963

I return every minute and day to what I do best: “Snippety-snap-snap”: Yesterdays world is mine today: Tomorrow is coming: Vespers are often heard across my cities: Cities become empty cavernous whispers to what may be new captures: A Vesper Martini sipped may conjure other whispers: Sacrilegious as it may seem, a calm influence on my apertures nonetheless are embraced: What prevails is framed-and I shoot as I see again.

Marble Collegiate Church/Virgin Hotel

I see today, yesterdays’ world: My camera knows time travel well: It is what the mechanical tool was built for: My mind revisits each and every frame: It is a prayer I invoke unhesitatingly: The backdrop from every capture is storied: My yesterdays remain my today’s. My pictures remain my everyday: Again I see yesterday and tomorrow, and again.

I miss celluloid as I might an old friend: I miss celluloid as I might miss an article of banished comfort clothing: I miss celluloid as I might miss a bite from the day that harks back: I miss celluloid as I might miss a gathering of friendly souls: I miss celluloid for the singular quietude that only resides in one known cranial vault:

I know for a fact that neither anthropologist, nor archaeologist could cipher through every visual evocation that accompanies me through villages, towns and cities: I have never slept without imagining what captures will follow the eventide that never arrives.

Frank Gehry 8 Spruce Street New York City and everybody else

Architecture of Cities: One Building at a Time

Gazing East: New York City: Empire State Building and More

My camera merely dreams:

A frozen pulse as if in mid-pen motion: Photographer Bill Brandt snaps poet Robert Graves: A satisfying cacophonic camera shutter freeze-frame is heard: Four imminently patient tickled ivories touch me as Keith Jarrett’s “Köln Concert” plays: Director Alan Parker’s Mississippi Burning rolls across the screen: The birthing of portentous evil is seen atop aqua blue night shaded curvy rolling hills: Writer Geoffrey Dyer’s “But Beautiful” musicians Duke Ellington and Harry Carney drive through the blackness of the night: My vision quest may be part music quest, part light quest for something not yet known: Maybe like a strip-naked vibrato, dark contoured intricacies heard ahead: Prophecies appear: There are signals of better light, near: 

Ruminating through history encourages me to engage foreign lightscapes across urban and rural destinations: The romance of missions ahead reminds me of anticipated treasures filled with hope: They are what soothe my sleeps and frighten me awake.

In every city I visit, I wonder if one city is enough: I am continually accompanied by a “Breathless” vibe. Imagine actor Belmondo; Artist Caravaggio; Cartoon character (Taz)Tasmanian Devil; And Melville’s Ahab all shrink wrapped together as a single piercing voice: I hear far and near passions breathing.

Gazing South East through a corridor of light: The Empire State Building: New York City

Continents, countries, and cities my camera has seen: 

Ernest Hemingway’s sitings appear: Hills like white elephants afar could easily or seemingly be my template for every building and cityscape I have seen or might. Every day I imagine a magicians wand hovering above my image to make: One blink and the event vanishes: Fleeting  images designed by light is an extraordinary sense of my life: I can blink one thousand times and see the building in front of me a million different ways and see divinely, canvases of urban and rural moments: Vanishing white elephants may infer my own living “Old Man in the Sea”: The white elephants may be my Melville white whale: Breathlessness days are my common denominator:

The imminent fleeting disappearance of my light pales me: My light barely remains before the camera’s f-stop shakes my aperture for the capture: Light is a rewarding selfish fleeting companion: Close your eyes once and it is gone: “Hurry” my mere camera shrieks loudly: I must always capture what appears as white elephants or another imaginary capture.

Voices ring: 

Architects Thom Mayne, David Childs, Bernard Tschumi and Charles Gwathmey, ring my phone: All are known across the architectural curriculum: Their place in history is not mine: Their voices heard on my iPhone audio become considerations and possibly proclamations for where and why my camera should focus: They as in an a cappella of visual ideas offered intuitive advice: My eyes were momentarily flooded with their ideas: Their visions merged into mine: The moments reminded of  archaeologists softly navigating like a brain surgeon: The soft lift of  the skull for observation; Like the archaeologist sifting through a layer of soil many times more fragile than a finite sprinkle of salt on our diet: If I apply the gentle nudging, siphoning through ideas of others I just might discover the moment- the architects design: The results sometimes fail to share what I see: Often I imagine I hear “Eureka” bellowed  between my interlocking ears: Voices of suggestions sometimes may be what the camera needed.

Gazing South and West: The Empire State Building: New York City

The photographer’s art of fact and fiction is often about utilizing space and time: Astrophysicists

live in some respect by a similar notion: They ask us to imagine beyond the stars: They like photographers use math and science to determine an inevitable truth: We all must assume a leap of faith that the truth is before our eyes: The photograph and stars are just right there: Look closely.

The light we see and the light not seen illuminate our stories: 

My photography reminds me of the movie title “La Grande Vadrouille” (a grand stroll)-The life with camera in tow: Maybe everything I share is akin to Duke Ellington’s confession that he does not play piano, but is just dreaming; Maybe I have not made thousands of pictures, I am merely dreaming.

Gazing above: Empire State Building: New York City

New Architecture of Cities: The Sounds We Never Hear

The Morning of…

I saw the smoke travel a few distances afar: Across the backdrop of an entire silhouetted city: Colors arose as did the sunlight: It was impossible to enjoy the palette with the unmistakable fraught and fright: With the rising sun you could move your eyes genuinely with appreciative glances: The imagined sounds were much louder than the real unnatural sounds: A jarring nightmare never dissipates:

The known universe hailed: My imagination is better: The convergence of emergency transportation reeled and riled:The smoke did not float as if piggybacking bilious clouds: The temperature inversion merely tattooed the meaning of horror atop almost 200 hundred known countries: The smokes constant merely inspired an entire world to grieve: I imagined; 7 billion known: People looked in the mirror.

The mirror is  never about self reflection: The mirror has way too many suggestive meanings: Precisely, the mirror is about a crime scene: What did you see when is what the history books retain: What did you see when is what your heirs hopefully will remember.

another day, another sound: Another frame of mind: The New World Trade Center

There is another type of sound:

My Ted Turner is about different sounds and pictures-my pictures in a box:  He opened the door to his Ford 150 pick up truck: We didn’t have a lot of words for each other: The  morning until we arrived was deafening: Silence breathed so many stories: I felt like the writer Jim Harrison hitching a ride with with Walden’s Thoreau and Teddy Roosevelt: I never imagined the Rough Riders until that morning AM.

Ted took aim at the bare life: Clearing the land, a pose before death: If only I could share the details: I cannot: The blast heard from near Ted’s eyes, was just near: Championing the natural land: Issues about up keep and imaginable privilege of landscape to behold: The morning silence pounded: Nary a soul: Unnerving is not known by most: We, two bona fide strangers stretched across the brook to be sure: We walked not hand in hand: He postured: The ensuing sound deafening and a mere more: Understanding  a caven heart only increases the possibility of confusions.

The quiet sound of space: Lincoln Center, New York City: Artist Henry Moore

The sounds rule:

The  sounds that rule our days are irrevocable: Memories live: Passionate rivers near by were unceremoniously unleashed: Sounds of electrical signals are converted: A constant heart beats: In the distant, Fly fishing reels rigorous volumes like streaks of clothes lines playing house to collective flies: Quietude is simulated amidst the seen silence: A state of affairs most will never hear:

The lure’s lonely flight captures my attention momentarily and forever: The appeal continues as a mere crest of a river moistens my eyes lashes: A must to be close: The near currents wave action:

What lies beneath the rivers tips and tops  has an endless appeal even if never seen; What might be above: A dream from top to bottom as the British Harrier hovers: Everything genius may be presupposed: Sound is silence: My camera hears from the north and the south: 

Wilderness is where I stand every day: The urban and rural remain calm: Something spectacular has occurred in my ends: When my heart stops my eyes still remember: It is as if in my bedtime sleep the impossible is never whispered: “To sleep, perchance to dream. At, there’s the rub,/ For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,/…Must give us pause”.

Hamlet

By William Shakespeare

Two sounds not comparable in anyway; yet.

I stand atop two separate spheres of our abyss: Two sounds continue to reverberate: I am in constant reruns of stories scene sounds I am desperate to forget and inclusively remember:  When my heart stops my eyes still remember.

The Quietest Volume of Sound; Artist, Giacometti: Foundation Beyeler, Switzerland

Architecture of Cities: Kafka’s Children

architect Calatrava: St Nicholas National Shrine

The wand stirs the planet’s cauldron below and imagined: Transformative powers arise: There is a real subconscious: It resembles a dream: It resembles a reality that I have not known: A singular place where metamorphous believers Ovid, Dante, Kafka assembled as a cabal: Nightmarish realities alight among spectral prisms. Dreams do come true. Imagine my youthful thrill: Far from the madding crowd is where worlds of imaginary dreamscapes live: Far from the madding crowd is where my eyes meet unsparingly my three tenses:

I sit in awash of dreams: I see billowy clouds as in the dream is where I imagine fictitious eyes breathe: Eyes of the real Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s atmospheric truths, live: It is a place where I caress the Pyramid of Cestius: The exacting execution is simply imagined: One day my camera will emulate the exquisite precisions: To be a draftsman with my mechanical eyes:

One day I will capture a dreamery likeness to Piranesi’s The Round Tower: A simple investigation into a troubled brilliance: The exactitude of a surreal mind: A maze for the imagination: A tour of architectural designs my portraits may become:

After 9/11 St Nicholas Shrine

I feel a kinship with a mechanical tool: My camera: It must send up red flags to networks of institutional asylums: All on twenty-four hour alert to my preposterous visual expectations: The sky above illuminates faces in my crowded mind: Ken Kesey, Randle Patrick McMurphy and Chief appear: Who better to dance around the maypole than a cuckoo’s nest of a few good men:

Piranesi I seek for visual answers: Bizarre nightmares reconfigured dreams and creative forces live inside my lens: The metamorphosis is a constant. If only to make sense of Kafkaesque like ideas:

I once traced the origins of horse racing: Maybe seven thousand years before today: A transformative experience that I never witnessed, occurred: The desert, mountains and windswept sands felt the power of four hooves: More modern episodes followed in Chester, England, Hempstead Long Island,and more across the natural world: A race became a story that beget another: At dawn and twilight I listen for the thundering hooves of ghosts: When time before me passes I realize something was where I am before I knew: Echoes of a real life made memories that an orchestra of citizens cheered and applauded: The quoted orchestra is only a wind in the past: Like the entire planet something was always before: My camera begs to see that apparition and make a story-a mechanical story:

I dream again: My days and years sit in reverie: Not a true second passes without a bit of naïveté: I sit, where the other realists sit: I still pause for Ben-Hur.

Met Life and One Madison: The New Version

The pages of One Thousand and One Nights comes to a close: The true romance of my real life dangles powerful stories about my vanishing world: Real buildings in real time: Architectural footprints never disappear: The lives above and below may: It is a happy scary metaphor about the lives that were and the ones we dream about: There is no infinite number: Lives and buildings have become mere numbers aside from when I travel to all of my continents, countries and cities:

I utilize my spot meter, the one lofting atop my irises: The history of me is cloistered in an imaginary glass Matryoshka doll: Beneath me and above architecture has become lives of others and my life from afar.

It seems I could be like Kafka’s Gregor from within and about: It is a ridiculous science fiction account of a life on the streets: What if it is true. Why would I sit awash in vacillating dreams: Why would I swim through voluminous ponds reveling atop lily pads where tad poles reign! This curious child’s mind is innocent: The mind elevates atop a trampoline and aboard a seesaw

Unsparingly my eyes ride among my three tenses: Transformative powers engage: The light of the world is my moment to capture:  What was, what was once: Did I imagine: What remains: a storage capacity on steroids: So I dream:

I sit alone and alert as if in the darkest quarry: Enclosed in a Swedish like wind-eye is a happy place: Science Fiction becomes reality: Nightmares are fabulous dreams: The past is replaced with the present: A nano second of frivolity is near: Memories are present in different guises: No time for more; Marvin Gaye’s Inner City Blues plays just around and near: Take a listen. I have pictures to take about my vanishing world.

The Original Met Life