Looking Back to Africa Where Time Has a Different Density*

I came,
I saw,
I was conquered.

The world
incomparably richer
than anything I had been taught.

Africa does not exist —
only poverty,
only dignity,
only abandonment,
only endurance.

The malaria mosquito
decided history.
The desert
teaches humility.

Independence brought
responsibility.


Colonialism left behind
borders,
habits of thought,
fear
that travels faster
than wind.

A crowd
is a separate being.

The traveler
discovers himself
only when he loses his way.

Time
has a different density.

The problem is not only poverty,
but the absence of choice.

The reporter
must be quiet enough
to hear
what is not being said.

The world
is not a rational place.

The greater the poverty,
the greater the need
for dignity.

Patience
is a form of intelligence.

I came.
I saw.
I was conquered.

These words and phrases were gathered from the Polish writer and journalist Kapuściński’s The Shadow of the Sun, a collection of journalistic accounts and essays during his travels in Africa.

Hohoe, VR, Ghana

Bitches Brew

The studio became part of the composition.

Not chaos —
direction.

Rhythm moved to the center
and stayed there,
low and circular,
like a thought that won’t resolve.

Texture replaced harmonic motion.


Improvisation was collective —
no one stepping out front,
just currents crossing currents.

Electric sound opened new space.


Tape hiss.


A razor blade lifting silence
and laying it somewhere else.

The music mirrors its historical moment —
voltage in the air,
streets unsettled,
nothing wanting to close.

Davis was always listening forward.

Jazz did not end here.


It changed.

And in the change
pulse overtook certainty,
groove kept widening,
and the lights in the control room
burned past midnight
while the future assembled itself
from fragments.

And listening changed too —
no more waiting for the solo to arrive
like a clean answer.


You had to lean in,
stay inside the weather,
let repetition become hypnosis,
let ambiguity breathe.

The listener became part of the mix,
not solving the music
but entering it —
finding meaning in the mystery of the world,
holding the pulse
until it began to reveal
what it never intended to explain.


This is a found poem composed from words and ideas from Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew by George Grella Jr. Feel free to share your experiences with this masterpiece of modern music.

Riffs #1

Anybody can play. The note is only 20 percent. The attitude of the motherfucker who plays it is 80 percent. -Miles Davis

This series of photos, which I call Riffs, resonates like modern jazz. Since I’ve been in Florida, I’ve made it a mindfulness practice to carry my camera or phone and wait for a photo to come to me. I’m not hunting. I’m listening.

I’m listening, with my intuition, through my eyes, awake for something subtle — a shift in light, a tension in a line, a mood that hovers just beneath the surface. It’s like having music in my mind, but instead of playing an instrument I’m using a camera. The frame becomes the measure. Light becomes tone. Angles become rhythm.

I’m not interested in representing the thing itself. A palm isn’t about botany. A street isn’t about traffic. A building isn’t about architecture. A shoreline isn’t about geography. I want the image to act like a riff — structured but loose, slightly bent, unfinished on purpose. Something that lingers, hums, and leaves a little space for the viewer to improvise.

Weather inside the Weather

I’ve never trusted the loud surface of things,
the noise beyond the headlines
hijacking my attention.

I turn instead toward the weather inside the weather,
light breaking out of its own shadow,
a chord held longer than it should be,
almost refusing to resolve.

I wait for the hush after the ferry horn
when the harbor keeps breathing anyway.
Kapuśińki walking through Accra dust —
not filing copy, listening.

Noir light slipping through blinds,
everybody marked, nobody simple.
Deep thinking feels like this palm at night —
fronds flaring out of blackness,

structure rising from dark without announcement.
At this age I resist the easy answer.

I grow outward into depth.

Ambition has fallen away.
What remains is home.

St. Simons Island, Georgia

And A Man Comes On And Tells Me…

Think different.
Just do it.
Open happiness.

Begin before the narrative.
Immersion first.
Explanation later.

Priceless,
but somehow always available.
Technology as magic.
Presence, no proof required.

Belong anywhere.
Stand still.
Buy less.
Feel more.

Real beauty,
threaded through generations,
stitched quietly
behind the noise
and the pitch.

Timeless.
Legacy-approved.
Edited, then rescued
by what feels authentic.

Silence as value.
Sound as identity.
Your year, your taste,
your data,
remembering you.

Motion equals meaning.
Energy you can trust.
Flow over mastery.
The body knows first.

Life as fuel.
Life as current.
Life as something
you almost control
until it moves you.

Show, don’t tell.
Stream, don’t stop.
Touch the object.
Feel the surface.
Call it real.

Expand the horizon.
Ignite the instrument.
Turn emotion into action.

Belong.
Resonate.
Find your voice.

And underneath it all—
a soft insistence:

You are enough
but not quite
until this moment
arrives
and lets you feel
already here.

Reykjavik, Iceland

…This is a found poem, constructed from advertisement taglines.