Category: Photographs

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

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

Snakebit

It was the night after Depth Charge Challenge—
left him on his knees,
riding the porcelain chariot,
begging for mercy.
Tonight he was taking it easy.

His crew was copacetic—
Mingo’s facial wounds,
another casualty of the Challenge,
were healing fine,
superficial, leaving no scars.
And Toons was stringing together
three weeks of medicated calm,
staying straight
with Diet Pepsi and maraschino cherries,
working the Karaoke machine
like a gearhead in overdrive.
That gave Benny the freedom
to shift his attention to Savannah.

Available again,
and sadly celibate,
Benny had a crush brewing
on the new waitress at the Mumbling Walrus.

He’d never known a Southern gal—
that’s how she described herself—
and was captivated by Savannah:
the slow syrup of her Georgia roots,
the country twang in her hello,
the way she put herself together—
just enough makeup to suggest
she was from somewhere else—
red cowboy boots with tooled eagle wings,
a perky denim blouse, a pleated skirt
that skimmed her dimpled, almost-zaftig knees,
the tattooed snake coiled
around her inoculation scar,
her proper manners and flirtatious ways.
Damn, what’s not to like?

Savannah made Benny feel
like he was the most important guy at the bar,
that his order carried
the weight of global significance.

Benny was smitten.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her—
tracked her as she waited tables,
taking trips to the sandbox
(her word for the ladies’ room),

Benny was smitten.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her—
tracked her as she waited tables,
taking trips to the sandbox
(her word for the ladies’ room),
while he rehearsed the courage to say anything
besides Pabst Blue Ribbon.

When he lost sight of her,
he drank faster—
hoping she’d circle back,
talk sweet, and bring him
another beer.

It never crossed Benny’s mind
that her warmth was the job,
not the girl,
that she was working for tips.

But Toons knew—
hell, everybody in the place knew—
and feeling sorry for his buddy,
he climbed on stage
to make a point,
dedicating the next song to Benny.

He shook that wild red mane,
face twisted in the blues
of unrequited love,
and spat out the lyrics:

Oh what’s love got to do, got to do with it
What’s love but a second-hand emotion
What’s love got to do, got to do with it
Who needs a heart
When a heart can be broken.

The chorus hit again,
and Benny felt his name inside the words.
He knew then he was snakebit—
made a hasty exit,
leaving a handful of crumpled bills
on the table.

Out in the parking lot,
he could still hear Toons
howling through the chorus—
a voice cracked but faithful
to the last note.

Benny stood under the buzzing light,
a gentle shower blurring the neon sign,
thinking maybe love
was just another song
someone else had to sing.

Quebec City, Canada