DAYLIGHT
DAYLIGHT BOOKS
I cannt even tell you or explain how photography (it’s probably a stim) has touched its hot breath into my life not unlike a tongue you want that tonge in your mouth because the immediacy of whatever it is that holds humanity together by images – hands on walls of stone where every last image ever made in history is a calling card to a single moment and there it is. No photographer lives like me. My photographs are diffuse. I screw around with them – I will walk on them – because at that point they have value to me in terms of what I perceive and what I choose not to ever see again. I do not care what anyone calls it. I can’t. I don’t know how. Social stuff is hurtful and beyond me because I don’t understand what Homo sapiens want. Not a clue. But I know what a photograph is. All of them. Freeze me. These books rocked me on my butt and the temple (my friends are laughing) of photography where I dwell in both shadows of the day and at night where the beady pinky eyes stare at me on the porch and ones staring yellow as the sun on an Aegean rippling seductively calling to you, it’s calling to you in that pure gone slipping back to our second selves wetly daring one moment belonging to you, and whatever, and whomever, you photograph, you will have such deepness found all around some kid in knickers playing basketball. Discovery. I really can’t pinpoint one book as being better than another because my autism prevents me from making those kinds of connections or distinctions as is more complexity as defined by physics in the complexity problem that maintains all systems eventually – like entropy – lose relevance in a universal context because the proletariat that has kept the machines running night and day, has lost the ability to fix anything because no one knows where anything whatsoever is. Tim