"It is written

the act of writing is 

holy words are

sacred and your breath

brings out the 

god in them"

Suheir Hammad

South Bend/Chicago

I guess about a year and a half ago I took a train ride from South Bend, Indiana to Chicago. The ride takes about an hour and a half. The locomotive starts its journey from the South Bend Airport then works its way through the planes of Indiana carving through sleepy mid-american towns that wake mildly like a sleeping giant and settle again after. Then arcing around the south end of the lake finally arriving at the big city. It is a methodical and deliberate passage of time and space, of traversing energy. I sat near a small group of young people heading into the city for what seemed to be a night of partying. The conversations jump from romance to politics, to fear and freedom. I ended my trip at the plaltform near the Van Buren stop, where the train station became my muse for an artful expression. I took many photographs and contemplated the meaning of what I had just experienced.

I think of the train as a metaphor and also all of the mechanics that require the train to operate. Each train car is a part in parcel of a larger moving expression. A constant motion on a contrite and tight track, one of which must possess a perfect distance apart from its opposite. In human relationships we often long for this dynamic, one that is rarely achieved but very possible. There also comes a time when the tracks must split or separate to allow for maintenance or switching. This is a safety precaution. When two lovers become entangled in anger and resentment after a long straight, tight, narrow, track it may become necessary for them to part, but there are railways that run for thousands of miles and a train car can rejoin the unit at specific points making it heavier and more stable.

Oahu/Valley of the Kings

On a rainy day on the island of O'Ahu, when the beaches were not so inviting, and wind and rain precluded a long hike into the valleys, I came across one of the most majestic instances of architecture I have ever witnessed. The Byodo-In Temple is in the Valley of the Kings, a burial ground for mostly Asian and those indigenous to the island. It is a Buddhist Temple nestled at the foot of encompassing mountains. I rang the large bell on the Temple grounds and lifted a prayer. It was as if I could see my prayers and thoughts ecscape floating into the fog above and behind the tree line, up and away into God's hands.