Every line and every sight my response to mortality. Laboring the divine exhibiting appreciation. Planting every season each day the garden. Farming as the first person and like no other. Reading shared words, offered to me particularly, and responding. I believe in all of this. Don’t understand why we mess with destroying the entire thing. With every breath arrives a thought. Searching through tool box for essential words. Possess many of them but not all. Other smiths have more, and are superior with them. Some die young. I’m still here, on the cliff staring down at the surf. My goodness what a view! Rather than fear falling onto those rocks below, mingled with waves, I’ve chosen celebration. Glorious rocks and surf, shatter me and swallow me when it’s my time! I’ll fall as a descending angel, glide like that eagle in the San Juan Islands. I’ll never forget you. Wonder what rebirth smells like. Complete the circle.
Precarious Birch Hitchhiking North America
Precarious Birch on the road in Virginia, resting between Boston and New Orleans, already on his second life. He climbed a tree to escape determined bloodhounds. But left the recorder behind, woven among several branches.
Compassion Upinniss
On the road in Asheville, NC
Hotel Dining Room Near the Library Where Precarious Found Erik Erikson
And so examined the convergence of individual history and History. Psychoanalysis maintains a discovery and a narrative which equates to a person’s reality. Freud was a historian. Know a person, know a place, know why people act, what they think, and what limits their movements. Gandhi’s, for example, Erikson probed and offered an explanation of Idea merged with Action, creating a tale of the origins of militant nonviolence. And so we are of this world, making it, being made, active and passive and something else beyond.
Feed the Baby
Feed the Baby
Precarious Birch in Los Angeles - Precarious Potter
On assignment at Universal Studios seeking answers to universal questions, such as the role of entertainment within the arc from life to death. These queries include the role of literature - Harry Potter - films and theme parks, where the civilization’s propensity is to take something good and a) dime bag it and b) maximize it. Come to Universal Studios to see movie magic. Precarious always wanted to be a foley artist . According to the Motion Picture Editors Guild, foley artists make a minimum of $2,000 a week, which Precarious, always almost dead, requires. Precarious, now four of nine lives. But see the itty?!! We do this. Way to go J.K. Rowling, you amazed the creative world and the world initially rejected your mind. There’s Disney, and there’s Rowling. And BV Knapp’s former boss lost a lawsuit to Rowling and the Harry Potter conglomerata. Such a wonderful mess! But not sure who truly won, and definitely not sure what is the definition of win.
Complete the Circle - Triptych RISD Museum
Why are they moving so damn fast? How to describe their speed, streaming across the sky already-time-lapse. Moon resolute, moon standing tall in power stance, humble power, you agglomerate space rocks, reflect sunlight for nearly eternity, good knowing of all gods.
Oh, yes, now I remember, the phrase, the turn of the thing. The word. Now I know again.
The thing of that.
And how fast are they streaming across moon space, right above tree tops. More, though, than find the phrase for the thing of that, what else is there to consider when the clouds move the moon that way?
Nothing else for the hour, nothing the day, all of life streaming moisture in our sky, playing with light, toying with our reality. Why would you consider anything else standing there? Give that scene your you. Ness. Soul belief declaring universal dream.
Sometimes, oftentimes, we forge onward with only a sliver of knowing
what might be there, a tiny inkling, or blindly groping, eyes closed, unhearing, moving forward down the cave,
knowing, absolutely knowing, that the sliver turns into massive, to the oak and idea tree, to the beyond you and all of me, to beyond, see I it. Only a fragment of light, follow, let guidance in your heart show you greater radiance. Follow the small indication, the slight, and the rush is adventuring from narrow to wide, following small clues, knowing they’ll lead us where or what, have no idea; but knowing that we’ll find the luminous brilliant thing. That process the rush. The high. Finding or being found, as we move forward, blazing, into the light.
I swear I know you’re there. Swear it. Follow me there. Can see you now. Such a small piece of you. And that’s enough. I’m coming that way. My narrow and my wide.
Photographs RISD Museum in triptych for the final wall. As regards the already knowing and seeing above. The path toward the light. The path from whence we’ve come.
Our journey already. Here we see the glow. The I Am. From there to here, we are. Standing with the shot, facing that way, seeing a sharp shard of light, like glass extending into the distance. Or the path we’re walking, facing that way, the road narrows and disappears. What will we find there? That miracles exist to discover and be discovered and spirit discovers us? What’s over the horizon, following this light? We can’t know, but here we are. Flashes of luminescence in darkness. Showing us the way. Lightning bolts. Humans love. Birth and sun. Our journey through the shadow of doubt and darkness, yet we remain on the pilgrimage, our odyssey always a miracle, the point of day, the current hour. Moving, light bends over there, begins its path away, outwardly curving, returning to complete the circle. We are the steady lambency, we are time. we are love. We see birth, we see death, we see variability. Magma, earth, piercing. Arrows of fire toward ourselves, direct connection to the One, holy, understanding. We are, and we reach from shadows toward golden promise. We live as the promise. We live the truth of our light. We garner our understanding, merged with belief, and maintain. For the sake of beauty, of love, and of life.
Arcadia
Searching for light, too, among the shadows. In Arcadia there’s a lake, the bridge washed out, forded across chased by that restaurant owner from Marin who cut me off and then kicked me out. Still don’t know why. Maybe I shouldn’t have said, “I didn’t do it,” when he opened the front door and squinted at me. I just don’t know about people sometimes.
Ichabod Rogers on Thames 1779
Chased by Coast Guard security on the Thames too close to nuclear submarines they didn’t catch me then I found this flat on the ground. Took the shot, sweating, ignoring bloodhounds. The industrial complex attempts to own my soul. Not possible. Never tamed.
Santa Monica New Year's II
Meet Precarious Birch
Precarious Birch is a photographer who started shooting reflections, shadows and light in the third grade on his first real walkabout in love with a girl and the love never materialized though he did give her a small Valentine’s card.
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