Words submitted by Howard Des Chenes

These words come from Jorge Luis Borges’ short story entitled El Zahir. For this I imagined a coin that flips forever. When asked where the words came from, Howard Des Chenes quoted Borges:

Money is abstract, I repeated; money is the future tense. It can be an evening in the suburbs, or music by Brahms; it can be maps, or chess, or coffee; it can be the words of Epictetus teaching us to despise gold; it is a Proteus more versatile than the one on the isle of Pharos.

Words submitted by Amy Stein

These words were written by Franz Kafka. I read them and looked around.

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

Words submitted by Oliver Wasow

Word submitted by Eric Rickert

Words submitted by Oliver Wasow

Word submitted by Saleem Kamandy

Found as-is on the sidewalk in the West Village.

Words submitted anonymously.

Words submitted by Howard Des Chenes

These words are a reference to a poem by Rumi. His ‘Egypt that doesn’t exist’ makes me think of the creative process and the role of someone who is compelled to create. Heart and imagination are the only ways to get to this ‘Egypt’ and, in this case, why not go there on a paper airplane?

An Egypt That Doesn’t Exist:

I want to say words that flame
as I say them, but I keep quiet and don’t try
to make both worlds fit in one mouthful.

I keep secret in myself an Egypt
that doesn’t exist.
Is that good or bad? I don’t know.

For years I gave away sexual love
with my eyes. Now I don’t.
I’m not in any one place. I don’t have a name
for what I give away. Whatever Shams
gave, that you can have from me.

Word submitted by Eric Rickert

Word submitted by Peter Ross

Words by Masood Kamandy

Word submitted by Lupus Garrett Lupus

Words submitted anonymously.

I write the line
And a veil drops.
A sea cloud lifting
The unfolded nature
Of limitless breath
Towards the liquid realm
of tumeric salt drawn
from tree stumps
bursting through skin.

I write the line
And a veil drops.
Steady earth holding
Hidden glass panes of
Flat sand rising west —
Three marks down
A spindled staircase
Descending into a
Chalised river marsh.

I write the line
And a veil drops.
Sapphire disks of
Laughing solemn reflections —
Like unstitched quilted
Wounds of sanctified
Prayer counted and spoken
Along the wood grain of
Guarded school chairs.

I write the line
And a veil drops.
Forested mist drifting
Among the gate keepers —
Bordering shadowed light
Reaching through moist green
Lips parting effortlessly
Within an allowance
Of perfect thought.

I write the line
And a veil drops.
Lying backwards on
A gilded slope —
Falling from forms past
And equations distant
Into a crimson pool of
Boundless and unbridled
Corinthian melody.

I write the line
And a veil drops.
Windless desert stretches.
White capped entropic islands.
Chaotic ruminations.
The great mountain encircled.
Sun starved Demons.
Incoherent vibrations from
Screaming inkwells until —

I write the line
And a veil drops.
Entering the room
Of seven words once
Told and spirited away —
Kept within and waiting
For the One veil after
The One line that hides
From the last barrier.

Words submitted by Terrance Grace

Word submitted anonymously.

For this image I decided to dig through my archives and go back to one of the first photographs I remember taking that felt truly poignant. It’s an image I took when I was 17. I traveled with someone very close to have him admitted to a mental institution. This image of the ashtray at the entrance of the facility is the only image from that trip that is permanently stuck in my head after all these years. 11 years later, this person is stable and getting married soon. Fate and destiny are two very different things, and for this person understanding the difference has been a lifelong struggle.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I love photography so much lately and what creates meaning in a photograph. It is the humility of the act of making a picture that has always intrigued me: the idea that taking a photograph of a detail so easily overlooked can carry the weight of a life-changing experience. Does the meaning carry through in the photograph? I’m not certain that it does, yet it holds within it a reminder that life is a fragile and tempestuous thing that resists being controlled. Photography remains for me a humble act of anthropology — an interpretation of what we see and experience and a melding together of symbols to create a language entirely different from that of written words.

Words submitted by Robin Cameron

Word submitted anonymously.

In the novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote, Holly Golightly called her bouts of anxiety “the mean reds.” In the film, she described “the mean reds” as a feeling of being afraid, yet not knowing what you are afraid of.

A rather opaque look at the morning papers seemed like a good way to visualize her ‘reds.’ Information overload… not being able to put anything into context… not seeing the whole picture… it all adds up to anxiety.

Truman Capote seems a popular character around here.

Words submitted by Julia Moburg

Aligatorcorn: An aligator with a unicorn horn.

A snake with a really big head.

Dragon

Words by Masood Kamandy