Indiscriminate, Photography thoughts on February 13th, 2006 by escargot

Sun goes down.

Yes, waiting for the sun to melt the snow. I can live with it, and I could for long, but it’s what I want to shoot what requires the snow to leave.

Haven’t been quite stable. But the biggest problem is that I know the reason, reason which seems rather undeciphrable ([after a couple of minutes] ok, thinking about it just make it worst).

There is nothing to be said.
Not because nothing has happened.
But because I can get my words in shape and my thoughts fixed up.

It’s just brabba-biribullop-babbap not here.

Thinking in tongues

Indiscriminate, Photography thoughts on February 8th, 2006 by escargot

Construct me by clicking on me

On sunday it started to snow again. I feared winter was going to leave without a last breath, but it didn’t and now Munich is under snow. Foot steps crunch like Mr. Jones on “cookies” and the joy of having something between my shoes and the asfalt will stay for a while.

On friday we watched a shortfilm with Marc and we both got excited of doing something. It ain’t difficult, you won’t be dishonoured by shooting a nonsense clip and useless stuff only exist under inquisitive thoughts (I don’t really like such declaration, but I can’t think of anything softer or smoother). So…

On saturday, taking the subway home my head started to move inside the skull (like a navigator inside a spice chamber, moving and drooling through his vaginous mouth (?)). Long time since the last time I actually hurry to get home, sit on my stool and write everything down. I like what they -the shaky thoughts inside a turquese wagon- became, and I hope you will someday watch this saturday-rush in movement (even if it sucks donkey dolls in hell).

On monday, a book arrived which I ordered… hmmm… two weeks ago? three maybe. I had already gave it into perdition; the buying-click wasn’t predicted and the prize was minimal. So I forgot it thinking that the american company offering books on amazon would be 3 euro richer. Maybe with those they could get a delivery advice system. But it arrived. And I’m glad because it’s great. “Fuck Machine” by Charles Bukowski (I think I mentioned him some tabulated-thoughts ago), containing the story which gave the name to the book and some other short stories.

On tuesday, I started this post. Bed summons me, good night.