on a roll….

487 Responses to “on a roll….”

• panos skoulidas

  May 13, 2009 at 11:56 am

  Good morning y’all….
  back from Lancaster…to…
  Downtown LA…
  Looking to expand horizons today…
  in all possible ways..
  Even if is job hunting…
  Even if it is gallery print hanging
  on the walls…
  Lots of energy in the air ..
  American Youth very very nervous…
  PROM SEASON… can u feel it on the air?????
• Herve

  May 13, 2009 at 12:08 pm

  I was thinking lately, shouldn’t “on a roll” be more accurately retitled “on drugs”….. ;-)

  Herve in, er… On a good mood! (no work, nada, enjoying spring recess)
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 13, 2009 at 1:02 pm

  OH NOW I see !!!!!
  It’s OUR Jim Powers ! VIVA TEXAS!!!

  Thank you for the WONDERFUL idea !!!
  Yes, Panos LOT’S of energy in the AIRRR
  DO not FORGET the MAGNETIC paint…
  I REPEAT do NOT forget them…

  CAN YOU FEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL ITTTTTTTTT !!!

  BURNIANS, take your vitamins,BREATH and ENJOY…!!!!!!!
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 13, 2009 at 1:09 pm

  FOR YOU FROM YOU

  But WE might NEED this …while waiting

  Soothing, Relaxing Music
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkbiB0QfU3s&feature=related

  What not to LOVE ,
  VIVA who needs drugs and drinks when WE HAVE BURN …mother fathers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• bblack

  May 13, 2009 at 5:27 pm

  my last editorial comment……….donate……

  that’s it for me…..paka vse, paka….
  —————————————————————————–

  ORDINARY THINGS: a life in photographs

  “Photography deals exquisitely with appearances, but nothing is what it appears to be.”– Duane Michals

  “I prefer to struggle rather than to achieve.”–David Alan Harvey

  “Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember.”–Seneca

  “A nothing becomes a deeply significant something because we decide that it should be so. Our imagination anoints and exalts it.”–Ryszard Kapuscinski

  I

  In the end, all is one.

  One thing culled from an enormity of disparate and small things, from the constellation of the quotidian and the inordinate, moments and places and names and faces, stone and bone and dust and glass, things titled or undescribed, remembered or scattered, this flickering mutability. From the incomplete many to the unified gathered one. All things, many transformed through the gravity of each tune, the splintered coalesced into that which was its beginning and became, through the remembered and the forgotten, itself.

  Begun.

  II

  Of The Old and Memory

  We are caught, a wisteried half-coin of shadow, between thumb and forefinger, of tooth and tongue, clutched and unsettled in the absence of things. Is it they or we who are absent among the gathering and re-gathering of that which once was?

  Once, undone.

  The stitching of things: twigs, stone, kettle and the bone which once made up all that nailed itself around a calcified and indentured home. The ordinary spec of things which appear to be here and there for long, but much later have gone lost, a forsaking of space and the place of things. Where is it that things go? Between the tough of palate and the turn of time. To which bending of which corner, what dampened and rusting space below the bannister, which clear glass of water, which board sagging beneath the weightless circumference of the shell that long ago was abandoned by an early and viscous interior: life. Where to, those ordinary things jostling in their vanishing, when they have not yet long left our call and cadence of them. Into which place and from where do they depart?

  The jolt, the un-finding.

  We are bruised.

  We are bruised by spared space and the lift of light, a tongued tunnel of shadow lip-lit, the hanging of a boot, the moth rain and the curl of steel beneath breathed-upon moisture, an arch in the wearied ribs of a roof, the calf of a window’s muscle, the knotted knuckles of twined flower-fingers poured out of themselves from a glass and the un-carefully set coin: a dime whose edges tan beneath a print of mossy oxidized green. The spare and dare of things. Of and beset.

  We are bruised by the plum print of ordinary things. Those ordinary things which tattoo themselves along the passages of our ordinary lives, those things which seldom scotch-tape their removal still stuck to us but tinker in their falling away: through our list and canter, the fibrous caught gone of us.

  So, how does one begin to sing upon the sting of things without welching a maudlin voice? Begin with a memory, the stitch and twitch of something that broke through forlorn sight toward a more fecund visibility: the door latch of a cold winter evening when you were a child.

  You remember the old, the what was not yet gone of this:

  Once you could curl into any small space, the size in height of a quarter, the length of a broken limb that fell each October, a worm from the wan elm in front of your bedroom window, that uncanny space between the floor-hung radiator and the bowing oak floor itself. It was then that you learned to carve yourself into spaces, to imprint your child’s flesh against the bark of the hard-chiselled greying kiln that seemed so odd from all the other homes and the unforgiving floor, the same knobbly boards whose derma into which you’d chiselled your initials as a way to stave sleep just as you’d carved your eyes and fingernails and longed-for absent sister’s initials. Into the dentures of your school desks, you repeated and repeated and repeated initials and words and names, the way now you repeat photographs and photographs and photographs. That shadowy space which framed light and warmth, the crawl space for mice and web and dust and coin, that is where you went to awake. There, you settled and yoga’d your body in the radial breathing and bending that would best allow you to stick, like a finger between hip and socket, into the hermitage of the baseboard heater, a space that became a Sistine firmament when you closed your eyes.

  That which was beneath became too that which was above.

  Beneath the radiator you crawled and listened to the hum, the soft drumming of sound fluent between the grammar of the wooden floor boards and the syntax of the cast-iron pipe, sound in song and dialogue above and beneath you. How large that space? How no one knew but you as you crawled out from your bed into the pilot’s bunk beneath. Even now, the sound is there in a home years away and miles stretched, the pliant boards still vibrating with the ache of their age and the softening knots of the water when heated and blown through iron pipe. The old and the new. The way and wander of things.

  It was then that you learned to tattoo yourself against things: the way things leap at and into. What other explanation is there that you still dream of things you no longer know the names or places of. Words: the naming of gone spaces. The absence between syllable. The space of black silver between frame after frame. To photograph: the writing of those spaces. A floor board twitching beneath a shoe-print of jogged weight, horse hair stretched between open grooves like corn silk woven loose by the wind and caught half-way between a child’s fingers and stained wrist, the sound of wall-licked rain, gone homes, a crucifixion on the streets of Havana, a tattoo turned to staring from a bus-window, caverns along dusty roads, children netted by lavender and lost shadow, broken and bloodied feet, chewed upon sugarcane-bone, light, husk, shell, skin, cinder, source, all. From the many, continually one, snap after snap after snap.

  The detritus of our lives: excavate it and see what unsettles.

  The unsettling of the settlement of things ticking. Our forlorn and grieving bickering.

  Come. Let us see.

  III

  And Our Bodies As Carriage

  Our bodies carry, like flotsam and drift-wood upon the back of a slow-articulating river, the memories of those who came before us. Along the curve of our spine, tickled beneath the hinge of our jaws, along the fan of space between our fingers, from within the resonant sound of the shape of our teeth, memory seeds itself and grows with a fecundity we seldom acknowledge properly. What grows happens in the silent snap of a moment. That moment may, however, occur in the lick of a lifetime. Nonetheless, there it is: a river to be panned, waded into and ridden. We contain the entirety of the lives that came before us, bestowed to us along ligament and hair lick, tongue and tissue, wobbly vocabulary and vocal chord. We are, even in our muted silence, the spoken history of those lives lived gone, only the songs written upon our bodies remain choir-less, the stories cast along our limbs unopened, the mythologies archived in the chambers of our cranial corners still uncategorized. Yet, we hunger to remember. But they are still, the faces the traces, the sounds of rounding of the days, the pictures and tinctures of the already lived and lost, recomposed inside our own seemingly inimical lives. But there it is.

  Photograph after photograph after picture.

  But we are not unique but an amalgam and we understand this within the shape of our hunger to remember and to retrieve, to understand and to delve, to research and relinquish. We contain. We sift. We burgeon. It is, in fact, all there inside us though often it seems at a loss. How to contest this, besides the naming of things, the stealing pictures of things. Take into your hand something small and weave it into the movement of your thoughts. See how it enlarges all of you and all that you had not counted upon; see how a small artifact reminds you of what once was and what still lives inside: a book, a story, a pen, a signature, a piece of cloth, a word, a scent, a glimmer of a shadow or a speck of light, an imprint, a sound, a comb, a shoe, a tattered lace, an indent, a forgotten taste, a photograph, all the small things that trigger other obdurate things. How much could be unbelted if we unhook what longed to be retrieved? Those places and faces and spaces, ancestor and parent, that sit like an unadorned and unopened book inside each of us. If only we reached out and opened it, would we begin to recognize ourselves more clearly? To snap the spine that has woodened from age, the welp into the world of recognition. Crack it. Shellack it. You were born of it: desire and duty. Look at the rings beneath your eyes, nibble upon the the carving along the back of your hands, focus on the nimble notes of your voice, see the the photograph of the woman standing on the bridge with her back turned and catch her, the curve of her hip suggesting the loss of love, wander over the TV screen with the face that knows not your name or the details of the tales of your forlorn awakening but speak upon them. Arrest that which has rested too long. See what it was that you were meant to see. Listen, the ache of a quick snatch gone, fleeting. There, in that moment, see it in front of you. Have you begun to remember?

  All these small photographs beckon by taste, the way scent armatures a recollection, the way a bruise on a child’s knee inspires admittance.

  Begun now and of late, a song.

  IV

  Unity

  A coupling, the arch of the ordinary that comes together, object and light, person and sound, the accumulation of that which in it’s wholeness becomes shorn. And in this shoring of things, comes a reciprocal fullness, a unity of things. A couple not a couple but a singularity build from two, a wholeness born of incompleteness. Once we were incomplete, the hole in the center made whole from that union and one that spills upon a life, the surface of things more than the perfidious soul.

  The body magnetic of which we have not song enough, the testament to our broken, wobbly selves, those things that contain and cage us, restrict us by their limp and linger and measure, but we still are of body and more than body, more than cramped space and lofty words, desirous of something still amid all the clamor of naming and gathering. Body and book, time and temperature, the gustatory and the numb, the linger, the loss of our bodies, of ourselves and all that obdurate reflection. So, we photograph to trap, to make material from the phantoms that stay with us, linguistic recipes that more than not fail to add up to a full meal. Yet, there: another cantilevered point of light .

  These things which accentuate the spine and stick of our lives. Word or frame, picture or memory, soot or stone, real or recalled. All of these things departing, clipped and woebegone.

  But not for long.

  V

  Testimony and Abacus of Bone: Pictures

  1. Iron bent like the curve of a vowel that has grown old, sat like long cupped rain over the shoulders of strangers who have failed to catch the soft sound for the coffin of the word that has pinched it: wrought and rung relief.

  2. A wrist that carries the dragon seeds of the dead now clipped along the bellow’d bone of its travels: desert and time and elapsed taps: home.

  3. Once the milky moon, wearied of it’s blue-ghost brother, shattered itself into tears which spread like fireflies across the firmament and fell, stardust and cottonseed breath, upon the netting of a summer window in a child’s room in the country: of which dreams became earth, of which net became the milky-way, of which reflection and bulb became chrysalis and quasar, of which became you.

  4. At rest two reptilian spines, arched over wet weed and gooey block, the lustrating lustre, that shift and sift of that which once was: of this so are we.

  5. And when you were asked, “what shall we do with your ashes?” you nodded and spoke of glass and water and root and bloom and pointed: in that glass see the bones of my limbs, the ribs of my smile, the teeth of my skin, the blood of the water of which I am composed, finger and joint, nail and hair, breathing: two unbaked tuber branches inside, drinking, the urn of glass: i too shall flower through loss and leave of this.

  6. Of all the flowers and fields, of all the roads and ravines, of all the thickets of forest and fawn, it is that place, slightly above the slow creek behind the bend in the acre not yet parched of our backyard, that place that sat like a chin above the muck and ducklings, the place from out of one day I leapt and away, the tickle of the water when she chased and that flower twig, the long chalky bone, longum and femur, which reached out with it’s small patella of a thorn: caught. The thorn: the patella that kneed my heart, a long lasting scratch to her.

  7. Once, my brother and I built our speed from wood and wheel and hammered it home and pulley’d it up a hill until, like Icarus, we shot ourselves out into the air, shadow and shorn, and wobbled nearly all the way home through the pitched gravel of air parabola’d over the soft dent in the hill until that one small barnacled wheel caught a stone-tip and wiggled and wearied and went away and my brother and I shot out along the dampened ochre macadam that was slowly blackening with our blood and skin and then the rest, our wings burned and crushed against the waves of that country road and the aching came to a full and complete stop. Flight and filament broken by rust and rain: an old wheel dislodged, our broken selves levelled and unloved by the tossed away hoped for flight. An old wheel dislodged. That is all it took, you know. The tick. All it took, you know.

  8. Tins and kettles and rain and harness: time peeled and juiced like an orange turned upon a triangular spit. The glucose walled chambers of the sitting things.

  9. Peppers and phone cord dried along the skeleton of my grandmother’s wall: I hear the crisp crunch of the wind inside the steps taken on the way to her grave, the cord in the wall still plugged in.

  10. Once I learned to cook wearing white, bare and crisp the shells of the broken eggs, softened and weightless the flour against the undercarriage of my fingers, slick and inching the yoke and sweat against my chin as I wiped away my fear, the outer-skin that was my sealskin, my mother’s apron, so that now I can’t make a damn thing, even crack an egg, because that apron remains in the same place I first wore it, an ocean away, and I am still at a loss to explain this: bereft by an apron pegged upon a wall that is seven time zones and a lifetime away. Away.

  11. A rose that dries in the light is a forlorn beast, a crippled animal caught in the tar-pit of time. Two roses that dry in the parched light, instead, re-create the entire museum of our dinosaur’d lives: fossils peering breathed life into our imagination, excavated in front of us, chiselled upon us, until those 2 tuberous heads suggest not rose, not bone, but you and I, scrotum and skin, urethra and yearning, vas deferns and vesicles, rap and rhyme, toe and tap, of all that which rosed away and is only shell but more so, the all of that, the all of: we.

  12. Bike, shadow, tin and time: how does one weigh what cannot be sat upon a scale; how does one weigh the deflation of things, how does one weight what is absent but is still outlined in the penumbrae along the garage wall: my heart, the weight of a worn bicycle seat. Do you see it, chafing in the dust but still managing to carry you so far, that so far.

  13. Between the space of the small eyes that line the window after dew and humidity has perched, sticking out like shards of thought, a forest that reminds of what unwinds. Scatter all that eclipse, rattle the ellipse of this and that, rat-ta-ta-tat. The going of all that vanquishes, spun thread, spiders’ weave and small knuckle of heave, the darting away and unwound of this and holding tightly onto that. The leafing and the leaving: forests of distant forests as nails dropped upon a floor set vertical and tall.

  14. Late in the crux of morning my wife bends forward and speaks ecumenically but then pauses as if a twitched by a gnat of light birched into a corner. The hesitation and then this:

  I dreamed that I took a child into my arms and pulled his cowlick mouth against my breast, bowed my arms around his clavicle, whispered to him as if milkweed settled upon the spine-stem of a root. He was protected and i rose aloft. I rose, child to my breast, air beneath my collar and cage and arms, my arms bent and flapping like wings until i was aloft and adrift like a bird, he still clinging to my nipple. I, after a moment of surprise and serendipity, alighted upon the thatched roof. I sat stilled upon the gutter and bone of the spout of the roof like an owl, the root of my calm clutching the pull of his mouth against by draining body and I curled out my song while he suckled upon me. I was a bird sitting upon the perch of the world, child at my side draining me of all that I am in order to nourish all that I dreamt to be. I was a bird. This child was a god whose thirst needed all the tributaries of my once-clung to body. He was a still a child, a human child and as he clipped the skin of my tit, he bruised the fruit of my hope, swallowed all that I dreamt i would be in order to be that which I meant him to be by leaping into flight. Then, after an interminable moment, we leap, leap together, gathering gravity and wind, rotter and arc. In that moment of discarding, I recalled how he perched against the awning of my body, lapping up, as if a hum, as if a song, the nutrients of my life. We alight not as if birds but as bone and feather and dream. We flew, then, not from skeleton and earth-pulling but from alchemy. Squawk. By the dream’s end, he had fallen from beneath my breast and my wings squandered the air in descent. There it was. There, the falling. The ascent from the plummet. How could I have not known before. How then, in the falling, I could have forgotten that once we were, gene-to-gene, a-perch?

  All that. All that. Past your window, do you hear that, the leap and the anguish and the falling.

  15. To live as if the only voice in your body was the spin and hum of the world.

  16. All that: pipes, roses, glass, light bulbs, clothespins, hanginghungclung chickens, doors, skin, carved, signs, peelingawaypaint, spoons, tea, cups, shadow, light, mud, shoes, sawdust, laces, awnings, roof, tile, tire, post, moss, seed, pivo, bubble, spit, bubble, ring, wring, rung, rail-trail, tie-bye, paper, kettle, mitt, burn, ash, print, tongue, tub, tomb, comb, pine combs, earth, pod, mirror, blood, polka-dot, clown, cloth, town, gown, bulb, bun, ton, car, oxygen-run, iron-I-zed, rusted pomegranate, dilld dull, chloroform of form and function, rust, car, dandruff, children, locked, closet, spit, spattle-spittle, gum, gulp, gapped, beacon, pecan, prick, pavel, pivot, pipe, gas, gate, arbour air ain all up, all up, o….and of…all.

  17. Going. Usurping, fulsome pitch and panting, where if not by its appearance. Going, going and yet there, between the integer and the sum, between that which still abides, that which rectifies the falsified? The going and the coming.

  VI

  And now, after so long, I have arrived at the beginning. Forgive me my inordinate postponing. From all of those colloquial moments and dispensed with pictures, the shadowed light and the brisk lung, from the clip and touch and rung, have come a small simple thing. All things gathered from their infinite parts to their exact exiting that have turned in toward one small thing. What is it that we remember, why is it that we breach the lost by slipping ourselves into outsized pictures. Why and then, before the hesitant response, a breath and as if a part of light and bone now, a small uncertain thought. All those ordinary things, all those pictures of which we have thumb-tacked ourselves by, all those small beads that make up the plummeting abacus of our lives, all those small extraordinary blips and tocks that fail to register, all those clips that make up the geography and calculus of our ways, all those ordinary things that coalesce, wed and yoke, each of us to each of that, all those simple parts, amalgamated and undone, born of and fanning. All those things by which we are simply understood and though bereft are able to acknowledge that without them, dissipating each moment to buckled moment, we would not be each of each and because of them we are each of each all and then in the end, one.

  Slowly, inexorably.

  VII

  Gone.

  -Robert Black
• Gracie

  May 13, 2009 at 5:51 pm

  mr robert black,
  i read your not-so-editorial comments.
  thank you for the wealth of poetic prompts.

  ONE
  by U2

  Is it getting better
  Or do you feel the same
  Will it make it easier on you now
  You got someone to blame
  You say…

  One love
  One life
  When it’s one need
  In the night
  One love
  We get to share it
  Leaves you baby if you
  Don’t care for it

  Did I disappoint you
  Or leave a bad taste in your mouth
  You act like you never had love
  And you want me to go without
  Well it’s…

  Too late
  Tonight
  To drag the past out into the light
  We’re one, but we’re not the same
  We get to
  Carry each other
  Carry each other
  One…
  Sisters
  Brothers
  One life

  One
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 13, 2009 at 5:56 pm

  paka vse, paka…??
  Is that Slovenian …? ALL, PAKA ????

  First ANTON with this LONG,long,long,long post …
  and now YOU…

  MR. BOB BLACK – the legend , THE EDITOR ,the BURN and the FIRE, the BONES and the blood…
  You wrote: “my last editorial comment…” WHAT’S wrong?

  You are MY ROLE MODEL… I promise that I will read ALL your posts, from the beginning to the end!
  WE ARE ONE…you said it …

  Well, enough I will go back and I read your post as I promised and I hope I am wrong…otherwise
  I will call KATIE …oime she has a sword and a whip …and a pan too…
  and I will call MY GRACIE to write you a poem that it will make you burst into tears…
  OIME today …
  WE ARE ONE …YOU WROTE THAT …damnit
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 13, 2009 at 5:58 pm

  THANK you MY GRACIE…

  See BOB…I told you so…
• Kathleen Fonseca

  May 13, 2009 at 6:03 pm

  Civil-eons

  oh god, don´t start me on ¨a little bit of Monica¨ i have that CD on my ipod because it makes me think about my daughter who used to go bonkers for that song…

  Bob Black..

  WTF? where does one start for the love of pete? Civilian, don´t even try BB´s post..i know it´s gonna keep me up all night..you wouldn´t sleep for a week if you tackle this! And Bob, you don´t mean ´gone´ as in gone, do you or that this is your last editorial post? did i miss something today? like the end of the world as i know it? eeps..how about just your usual ¨running¨? what changed?

  best-
  kat
• Kathleen Fonseca

  May 13, 2009 at 6:05 pm

  geez Gracie, what do you know that i don´t, besides how to write poetry? That U2 song is downright sad..think i´m gonna go back and hide in one of the national bank offices that kept me locked up all afternoon..it might be cheerless but at least nothing happens of any import. there´s something w-e-i-r-d here today..Civilian..que paso, chico??

  katie
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 13, 2009 at 6:12 pm

  THANK you KATIE,

  THANKS so much for coming to my rescue…You are my hope…I better say, you are my EYES tonight
  You my Katie …I trust you can find out for me…

  OIME I forgot your daughter, what’s her name again?
  KISS her for me…and wherever she is…I send her good energy and love (maybe some euros too!
  Oh,and I bet she will be the first to use the key of your greek house …

  LOVE andZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
• Gracie

  May 13, 2009 at 6:16 pm

  hi katiecakes,
  i aint sad or anything. have you tried purple ice cream? well, green ice cream would do.
  this is from my son for you and civi

  A funny green Frankenstein
  Had a funny green hat
  He ate green leaves and Green celery.
  He ate dead leaves and bushes
  And he ate green vases
  And he felt awful
  That his belly exploded.
  And he said,
  “I don’t wanna eat everything.”
  And his mommy told him,
  “STOP EATING EVERYTHING!”

  Ethan, 5 years old
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 13, 2009 at 6:31 pm

  To ETHAN,

  I wish you the best in life
  and since Gracie is your mommy…You already GOT the whole WORLD…

  LOVE 2U and 4AllOFU
• Kathleen Fonseca

  May 13, 2009 at 6:31 pm

  Civian M.A.

  Eye am your i´s tonight? ok, but you gotta wait till i get back from the movies and i´ll give you a synopsis of what BB said..My little bit of Monica´s name is Juliette and you are right about being the first to use my key in Greece..she´s a little wanderer and she is sure to see Greece before i do. But some REALLY good news! She is coming home on May 21 for 2 weeks! i am doing the mambo all over the house i´m so happy!

  Gracie

  Your little Ethan Hawke has his mama´s poetic soul! i can just imagine him in a few years becoming some famous rocker and us digging up this old Burn post and thinking, ahhh, this is how it all began!

  I saw some of your multitude of posts today, gracie..personally thanked by the MAN..whoa, when you´re right you know it, when it´s good you feel it!

  ok you 2, i´m off to the movies!

  besos y abrazos
  kat-
• Kathleen Fonseca

  May 13, 2009 at 6:32 pm

  Civilian

  ¨and since Gracie is your mommy…You already GOT the whole WORLD¨

  i second that emotion!!!!!

  k-
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 14, 2009 at 3:06 am

  KATIE ,

  I second that emotion too…Oh, Well, let’s give it a break …

  I am thinking to move to Spain …did you read that …check this out…
  Study finds cocaine in the air of Spanish cities
  http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/spainscienceenvironmentcrimedrugs

  NOW WE ALL NOW…MR.HARVEY…too much energy since the Spain VISIT…Aha…?!?!

  I LOVE YOU ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL…
  Running like Bobby…where is SPACECOWBOY ?

  Going to work …the DONATION BOX got me GOING….CIVILIANS …I am coming…

  P.S JULIETTE YOUR KEY IS READY…love YOU !!!
  MAY 21st it’s a big holiday in Greece…SAINT Helen and Konstantinos and the Holy Spirit.
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 14, 2009 at 3:10 am

  TO ALL

  DANCE WITH US !!!COME ON DANCE …Trust me you will feel better…
  Not for you Mr.Harvey Sorry Laura…you know better…:))))))))))

  Burning Love- Elvis Presley BURNING !BURNING BUTNING
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2inZ2VRP2I&feature=related

  I will be back
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 14, 2009 at 5:23 pm

  BURNIANS and CIVILIANS,

  BREATH…and listen to your hearts wherever you are…in a MAISON,in a hotel room, in a guest room, in a library…

  Voltaire:
  “We are all full of weakness and errors, let us mutually pardon each other our follies. It is the first law of nature”

  KEEP ROLLING … I want to smell flowers today !!!!!!!
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 15, 2009 at 10:25 am

  Mr.Hugh Van Es,

  have a beautiful ” journey” …
  Thank You .
• panos skoulidas

  May 15, 2009 at 12:57 pm

  ALL….

  invitation/ REMINDER…. VENICE BEACH…( with live performance )

  for tonights exhibition info click below:

  http://www.ceaagallery.com/index.html
• panos skoulidas

  May 15, 2009 at 1:00 pm

  to ALL LOS ANGELES BURNIANS:…..

  free wine……..between 7pm to 10pm

  ( click for address and info below….free parking )

  http://www.ceaagallery.com/Pages/Artists/PanosSkoulidas.html
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 15, 2009 at 1:12 pm

  VIVA PANOS !!!!!

  BURNIANS , CIVILIANS …
  He said FREE WINE …oime Free wine ??? Is it red…cause Mr.DAH prefers red:)))
  Can you sign burb books there?

  Σου ευχωμαστε καλη επιτυχια !!!

  P.S we hope that you will follow the same path as other BURN exhibitionists ( see Mike,Audrey,ChrisB….)
  Free ouzo …what about baklava or galaktoboureko !!!
  VIVA , life is Beautiful!!!!
• Herve

  May 15, 2009 at 1:23 pm

  Enjoy it, Panos, and hopefully someone will have pictures and movies. I thought of coming down from SF, but won’t unfortunately. All sorts of reasons, none good enough with a little organizing. Today, I am an asshole for not being there.
• david bowen

  May 15, 2009 at 1:26 pm

  panos…

  enjoy every moment and all that jazz… revel in the privilege of sharing

  GOOD LUCK… likke til.. wishes for a long and lively night from norsk-way-land.

  show us yer snaps.
  enjoy
  david, beate and top cat.
  x
• Gracie

  May 15, 2009 at 3:09 pm

  david b,
  was stirring my chocolate shake, chocolate powder pieces were gobbly.
  my 5 yr old ethan said:
  ‘oh look, youre making a tornado.
  them chocolate people (the pieces) i bet are enjoying it’
  dizziesssss… and he twirls…

  tor capa… enjoy him.
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 17, 2009 at 3:23 am

  I am gonna ask the BURNING question:

  ARE WE THERE YET !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExigIpJ286w

  yeeeeeeeeeew haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 17, 2009 at 3:27 am

  TRAUMA CENTER will be open 24 hours 7 days .

  Hotline Number : Toll free: 1-800- BURN-aid
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 17, 2009 at 8:54 am

  My apologies but
  Anton and the others…Tony, Kerry, MikeC, Bob…etc, etc…are BURNing and the lines are NOT working.
  Please , do NOT call the above 1-800 number …
  Thank you for your patience
• Gracie

  May 18, 2009 at 5:30 pm

  (psssffftttt, katiecakes, are you there?
  you and i are never gonna be published here on burn…
  damn, arent these people so good????
  1st epf finalist blew my mind… did you see it yet?
  psssssffftttt, get ur head out of the piles
  open your lids and stick up some ‘picks and watch this
  friggin slideshow of them little people in the grass
  and watch them before they float away…)
• david franklin bowen

  May 18, 2009 at 5:38 pm

  gracie-cakes.
  you must have a cracker of a shot of master ethan..
  or something from somewhere..

  it´s far from scary-biscuits to show people photos..
  it´s addictive as sugar coated jelly babies..

  did you do any of the project idea you had?

  civilian.
  your presence is requested in the front of the bus..
  the buzz buzz driver knows you are back here smoking cigarettes and
  he´s getting too busy to read the road map..

  pea´s
  davidxx
• Kathleen Fonseca

  May 18, 2009 at 7:43 pm

  Gracie

  Yes, very fast..saw it this morning..will be back later to see it again like for really to see it and not just do a fly-by. Maybe we won´t ever be published but we can try hard..i´ve been working my little photo phingers to the bone..i have a project on every burner and the work is flying off my camera s fast as i can press the shutter. BUT, i don´t have little chocolate covered munchkins running around so it´s a little easier for me. Still, uh, well, you might be right about us but we CAN dies trying, can´t we?

  Never say never, Grace-fully..

  Civilian…

  HEY YOU…you smoking back here, bub? Get yo shapely Greek butt up to the front of the buzz..er buz..er bus..you been summoned…capice?

  back later, oh later, oh later never cumz!

  kat
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 18, 2009 at 11:28 pm

  Davidb, Katie…

  STAGEFRIGHT…
  I got stagefright…Mr.Atkins you are so right !
  Yes, I am the first to be admitted to the Trauma center.
  But you two, my “dark “forces, my inspiration fuel, WTF are you doing at the Trauma Center !!

  P.S LOVE, LOVE, LOVE…all we need is love
  DavidB amazing…your links…Beate and Tor Capa should be proud too.
  Katie…Your man, your mama&papa ,Juliette and I know there is a boy in the family…should be proud

  P.S I am a joker:), I am a smoker :), I am the midnight walker :)
  FOCUS…FOCUS…
  I am in the Emerging Photographer Fund – Finalists…one down…nine to go !!!
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 19, 2009 at 7:17 am

  BOB BLACK,

  We really, really admire you and love you…
  We wish you the BEST …and HAPPY BIRTHDAY …

  only for you…you deserve it…!!!

  The Beatles play Happy Birthday(VERY RARE)
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7QxOllK0VU&feature=related

  VIVA BOBB !!!
  VIVA Taurus !!!
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 19, 2009 at 10:48 pm

  TO ALL,

  if you have more birthdays to report,please Do Not hesitate to

  BRING IT ON !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  It’s our party
  and we love it!
  it’s our party
  and we will BURN it!!!
  LOVE U
• A civilian-mass audience

  May 28, 2009 at 3:35 am

  david alan harvey
  May 28, 2009 at 12:09 am

  exactly at what point should a photographer become a finalist or given a grant???

  hmmm, let me think of the criteria you seem to suggest…somebody who is good , but not quite as good as someone else , but better than most , but well not too good but not too bad, well sort of in the middle, but better than middle but not really so good as to make everyone else feel not so good and discouraged???

  please gentlemen , get a grip…

  none of these finalists has a book…none have an exhibition set…none are collected…few have agents..they are just among the best of their generation of the ones submitted…..period…i see it that way and apparently so do others….

  i just looked at the pictures…i had no idea of their past awards….nobody submitted a bio in advance, and it would not have mattered anyway….if a photographer in a particular generation is making much better work than the others, then they deserve what they deserve….photographers who blame their lack of success on schmoozing and lack of contacts etc etc for sure will never never rise…..

  you might not see some of these photographers as emerging , but i sure as hell do…they are certainly not established as per stated above…you might be more emerging than are they..in which case this should give you something to shoot for …any other attitude will take YOU down..not the finalists ..not me….but you…think about it….

  i wish i had the funding to give at least 10 more grants…i am working on exactly this and you know it….if you do not know this , then please go back and read at least 20 posts where i have described exactly my goals for you with regard to funding….can i promise it?? no …am i trying like hell, yes….so a bit of support from you gentlemen for whom i am trying to find support would be appreciated…thanks..

  and continuing to call it straight…many many thanks for the one comment per essay idea..so simple, obvious, and i just missed it..it works…you have given us the most constructive idea yet….i had struggled for months trying to figure the comment conundrum out ….a very big high five to you for this…

  cheers, david
• Joe

  May 29, 2009 at 6:04 am

  Instead of Friday’s Wandering, Here’s Friday’s ‘Wondering’. It did take me a bit of wandering to assemble these three links.

  i think Simon Norfolk’s

  Advice Here

  and the response to that advice over here is a worth-while read.

  Is Simon a false prophet? or Darwin’s messenger?

  personally, I think a little bit of both. I think the photography business is spending too much time focusing on the supply side of the supply/demand curve and not first exploring demand, but what does everyone else think?

  Also, are we going to lose our pedigree PJ’s to Citizen PJ’s in the future and what consequences could that bring?
• Ara Ayer

  June 18, 2009 at 8:57 am

  CALLING ALL CARS !

  David,

  It’s Ara. Know you’ve been buried. Sent you an email msg last week.

  Give me a sign of life.

  A

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