I do this stuff for the suits. On a personal level, I’m just this anonymous guy – nothing special – on a dirt bike passing by shooting images on a GoPro. Of you. And you. And you. Kids want to know why “You’all don’t wear a helmet is the law around here.” Eat me, bitch. I just leave them in the dust. They throw rocks at my dirt bike. There are a lot of us out here in the boons of the Blue Ridge. Just like me. Why. Because we get away with it. We do have contact with the culture at large. Often, we are horribly shy. The kind of shy that disables you. But we put boundaries on the interactions between – everything. We do what we can ourselves. It’s easier and we do read all that zoning stuff. Bring your treehouse up to code. Code for what. What code. You mean that Jiminy Cricket Kiss It or click it. We would never even dream of making art in a treehouse. Maybe, maybe, maybe reflects something of me. But I do not think it does. It’s just the stuff I am around and it can be candid. People are always moving around, movement propels them, and my art students get it that people moving around a room employing any choreography but there it is, choreography. Or just passing by one more lone wolf in the snow. I like to photograph people who are otherwise engaged in thinking. It’s a lost art done by a withering shyness – look at the ground – what is time what is time what is time. There is only spacetime. And how black holes fit into that hungry army of thieves. I keep wondering if it’s dark energy that keeps everything eaten up like ants on meth. I am bored by the clever postcard focused photogodzilla featuring the junior Chamber of Commerce because the Junior Chamber of Fiddledeedee makes me think back to Key West but not on Motorcycle Weekend during the Vegas Psychedelic Festival of Roses. I photograph roses and we have amazing conversations so I guess it’s a relationship. My Roses, My Poses, and your little dog, too. Come Todo. We are betting at the races and we always win.