essay: #100: the other hand

Friends find solace, in the arms of others.
And I, on horizons beyond.
All need to belong.
Politicians, to history.
Humanitarians, to their cause.
Refugees, each and all.
Some words ring truer, than others.
Like these...
For times.
So loud, so bright.

Ophelia, 08.

#transmission ends#

essay: #099: Annie Get Your Gun

c. Bruce Elliott


When a picture paints a thousand words...

essay: #098: Fade Into You

Drowning in the sounds.
Of Mazzy Star.
"A strangers heart without a home."
Haunts me, always.
As does the pomp and pageantry.
Of Beijing's polluted world.
Highways and byways.
Of untraveled roads.
Sweet soundtrack.
For a YouTube world.

essay: #097: Colour me Kubrick

Color me Kubrick.
Here and now.
Google earth me.

Splash me.

With colour and hue.

Zoom in.
Zoom out.
Ethereal eye in the sky.
Ever watchful.

Winter falls.
Blanket like.
Cold, crisp.

Share vino.
Move house.
Shoot the breeze.
With dark knights.

Friends drift in.

And out.

Let the games, continue.

While wheels, slowly turn...

# transmission ends #

essay: #096: Coffee & Breakfast

SATURDAY, 10AM TOWN HALL




From neon, last night.
To coffee and breakfast.
And makeshift movie sets.
Where fires roar.
Smoke bombs soar.
As Nic Cage's Knowing hits town.

And me.
Wandering amongst.
Debris of camera and cellphone.
Click of curiosity.
From paparazzi prone.

# transmission ends #

essay: 095 : Sweet strains of Piaf

I ponder.
With a mind, never at peace.
With itself.
Searching eternally.

Drove, through banks of fog.
6am, this morning.
God, it was beautiful.
Neon suffused.
Oceans mists.
Thought of Berlin.
The sweet strains of Piaf.
Drifting, through my ipod world.

Should I write words.
That make you weep?
Or smile, like atomic suns...

J'adore.
Every.
Last.
Drop...


# #

essay: #094: What lies Beneath

A once idyllic town.
Now a graveyard.
Bodies lie beneath.
Young and old.
I try to imagine.
But, can't...

Futures open up, again.
A big, beautiful blank page.
Path's diverge.
Into something better.

Friends swarm.
Life moves on.
What lies beneath?
I ask.
And I smile.
You either get it, or you don't...

# transmission ends #

essay: 093: Sunday

Happiness is...

essay: #092: Sign o the Times

Storm blows through.
Tail end of a cyclone.
Sultry.
Red sand skies.
And a man.
Lying on the ground.
Face down in metropolis.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

No one looks.
No one stares.
"Why are you lying there?"
I want to scream.
But I don't...

# transmission ends #

essay: #091: Anna's Lament

'Museum of purgatory'

A woman's silhouette.
Lights the treadmill.
By 6.30am's eerie glow.
"Motivation is a habit..."
Flickers the screen.

A man, meanwhile.
Guards a hydro-powered car.
In metropolis.
Tornadoes sweep Atlanta.
Room Service, guns, and Ricin.
Courtesy, Hotel Vegas.

Jakarta's idyllic rice paddies.
Volcanoes and ocean, too.
In my skin.
In my skin.
Scanners darkly and lightly.

Subtropical heat.
For days now.
Desert blowin' in.
An Environment Minister.
Spoke, last night.
Launched a book.
Spread the word.
Color me Kyoto.
Color me, next stop....
Home

# transmission ends #

essay: #090: The Diving Bell

Defunct satellites.
Fall from orbit.
As do stars.
Of the human kind.

Dreamt of him.
Again, last night.
On volcanic sand.
His skin was hot.
And life was good.

Coastlines dredged.
While others flood.
The Diving Bell.
And the Butterfly.
Simple, really.
Coming home, soon....

# Transmission ends #

essay: #089: Graffiti Surf

Surf rolls in.
Across burnished skins.
Graffiti Kyoto Sunset.
Scrawled across our skies.
Beautiful, just like this....



# transmission ends #

essay: #088: on discovery channel

Sultry breeze.
Summer's here.
Cubans.
Tom Waits.
Digital love.

To this.

True happiness is only ever shared...

Hola
and happy surfing
on Discovery Channel!

# transmission ends #

essay: #087: Ivory Towers

"Tell me a story," he says.
As the sun does rise.
So I pick up my camera.
Through deserted Metropolis.
Of cathedrals of glass.
And Ivory Towers for Galilleo.

"Life's an essay," I say.
Suffused with the random.
Summer approaches.
And fog subsides.
From San Fran.
To hemisphere's Southern.
Closer.
Closer.
As time ticks by....


# transmission ends #

essay: #086: Transmission

Stark and eloquent.
Voices of the past.
Distant echoes.
Of the unfulfilled.

"Always danger.
Endless talking.
Life rebuilding.
Don't walk away."

Transmissions.
Of Curtis and Corbijn.
And ghosts of Manchester past.
Closer.
For just a second....


# #

essay: #085: everything is illuminated

c.guggenheim bilbao

Icarus flew too close to the sun.
While Salinger colored it, shades of rye.
Eco-systems, both great and small.
Ruptured in the blink of an eye.

Gehry imagined titanium gills.
And Frida, a car crash of vibrant red.
Basquiat, graffiti for the soul.
And I, charcoals bled.

Infinite possibility.
Everything is illuminated.
For our viewing pleasure.


# transmission ends #

essay: #084 Stories from the Sea

Smudges of Venice.
Across my heart.
Arctic ice melt opens Northwest passage.:
While the albatross slides towards extinction.
A voice crackles long distance.
Night turns to day...
Metropolis of sensory overload.
That is he.

Enough said.

# transmission ends #

essay: #083: Olympus Moon

Step through the rabbit hole.
Onto the other side.
See flames lick.
The winged statues.
Of ancient Olympia.

Doomsday vaults.
Taking shape.
Beneath Svalbard archipelagos.
To preserve.
4.5 million batches of seeds.
A biodiversity bank.
For our very survival.

“So, dear future….”
Whispers someone close.
Orbits my sky.
And blood, red moon.
Halos, all round.
My wings of desire.


# transmission ends #

essay: #082: Satellite Sky

My editor says:
"Spin me a tale, bout the Wild Wild west."
I oblige.
Grey skies on swollen horizons.
Hurricanes upon my lips.
Solar systems.
Within his eyes.

Circa, 2007...

“I smiled and smiled, I smiled until my face hurt, but when my face did hurt I was sure he could tell. Everytime I forced myself to smile, he clearly knew that I didn’t feel like smiling, because he never smiled back. He hadn’t seen many smiles in his lifetime but he had seen yours, enough to recognize in comparison there was something wrong with Mother’s. It curled up falsely; it evaporated with revelatory rapidity when I turned from his crib. Is that where Kevin got it? In prison, that marionette smile, as if pulled up by strings.”

We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver.

# transmission ends #

essay: #081: Motes across Metropolis

Hopelessly adrift.
And without anchor.
Bridges collapse.
As love, does too.
Intimacy.
Yes, there's always that.


This architecture.
Designed to capture sunset's rays.
Motes across metropolis.
Catchers in the Rye.
1001 tales.
Of the city.

Pollock and Warhol.
Obscurity and notoriety.
Side by side.
Strange bedfellows for crayon drawings.
Stretched like skin.
Across gallery walls.

I taste air.
I taste sea.
I taste him.
On the tip.
Of my tongue.
Visions.
Grandiose.
And.
Enduring...

# transmission ends #