Saturday, May 5, 2012

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True Romance


I had to come all the way from the highways and byways of Tallahassee, Florida... to Motor City, Detroit, to find my true love.
                
If you gave me a million years to ponder, I would never   have guessed that true romance and Detroit would ever go  together.

And to this day, the events that followed all seem like a distant dream.

But the dream was real and was to change our lives forever

I kept asking Clarence why our world seemed to be         collapsing... and everything seemed so shitty, and he'd   say,

"That's the way it goes. But don't forget: It goes the    other way too."

That's the way romance is. Usually, that's the way it goes

But every once in a while, it goes the other way too.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Saturday, February 25, 2012


“If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”  C.B

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Friday, February 3, 2012


Wim Wenders wonderful photo book Once, my everyday bedtime story

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Wednesday, February 1, 2012


Child in nightgown by Diane Arbus 1957 

a picture that stayed with me, out of hundreds of astonishing photographes by D. A at the Jeu de Paume exhibition in Paris

Monday, January 30, 2012

" The real act of discovery consists not in finding new lands but in seeing with new eyes " Marcel Proust