I am one of the founding anchors for the Digiso network in Charleston, W.Va. We have been working up a new web program that showcases the varied work and skills of all the anchors. But the challenge was to keep our regular updates to one minute. I just barely made it, borrowing a few extra seconds for the credits. This was made in Final Cut Pro 10.0.8, to illustrate some of the many filters from the ecosystem of FCPX add-ons that is growing up around the program fast. The soundtrack is by that master of electronic sound, The Flow, who I know really well. Check the video out and then the Flow’s Soundcloud page.

PictureThis

You have to wonder. He must have parked his gold-rimmed car just so, there in the muffler shop parking lot in the East End of Charleston, W.Va.. For it is not such a special car as all of that (or maybe it is — an old Pontiac Catalina?), except for the fact he rides around, king-like, on golden spokes. Now, you, too, oh, momentary passerby, can appreciate them in all their glory.

Golden Rims. | Charleston, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com photo | May 2013

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I do not engage enough with this (Photoshopped filtered) scene, which you will find in my second floor office, a pink room where much happens, not just meditation in front of this ceramic green Buddha, his little brother Buddha and — this week — a fresh sunflower from Krogers, which was selling them a half-dozen at a throw. Sunflowers fade fast, a week and a few days and they are flopped like drunken bums, head and chest tipped over. Annica, impermanence, the Buddha called it, this drooping, fading and falling over of all things. The very nature of things, it is, to be golden and showy as a sunflower one day, to be flopped and dead-headed the next. Get used to it and you won’t be so surprised, crestfallen, depressed and overwhelmed when the golden tan of your glory days fades, too. Easier said than done, of course. which is why I keep a lot of Buddhas around the place. To remind me what of I am missing.

Two Buddhas. | Barboursville, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com | May 2013

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If I went to church … But, wait, here’s my church.

Where I go. | Near Barboursville, W.Va., | westvirginiaville.com photo | April 2013

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My 18-year-old daughter, like most of all of her generation, is a native citizen of Digitalistan, the country in which half or more of one’s life force and attention is directed into the uber-shared reality of webworld. This is an un-retouched photo from an upcoming series of photos devoted to young web citizens and their screens.

Macintosh Face. | Huntington, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com | April 2013

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Meanwhile, out in the world of rust and rain, this angel caught my eye while strolling one afternoon in the high, sprawling and wonderful old-school Spring Hill Cemetary which overlooks Charleston, W.Va. I dislike — despise might be the better word — the new fashion in flat-stone cemeteries that make them forlorn, impossible to navigate acres of nothingness. The triumph of the groundskeepers and beancounters. Give me that old-time cemetery, with phallic obelisks, ornate mausoleums and grieving angels overlooking the forgotten dead, fractured by decades of storm and cold. Annica, indeed.

Angelic Prayer. | Charleston, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com photo | april 2013

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westvirginiaville.com photos by douglas imbrogno
licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://westvirginiaville.com.

More PictureThis:

~ Four Variations on Spring
~ New York City Scenario 6: The Sound in the Subway
~ New York City Scenarios: 1 to 5
~ The View form the Philadelphia Streets
~ The Busy Machines That Click and Hum
~ Pictures From a Life
~ Last Man in the Woods
~ Insomnia Album: Pictures for the Pre-Wee Hours
~ Poems Without a Book
~ Six Variations on a Curve in the Road
~ Some Days, Nothing Will Do
~ Still Life with Lines, Leaf and Water
~ Excruciating Pain Report
~ I Got Nuts, Beef, Candy
~ Blue Rooms

Diary

“…  the earth needs a dream of restoration –
She dances and the birds just keep arriving,
Thousands of them, immense arctic flocks, her teeming life.”

Robert Haas, excerpt from “State of the Planet”

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I read the national award-winning poet
to juice my cadences. Maybe to
steal his stately, nutritious,
languorous lines.

For it has been months since a
pen, a real ink pen, touched down upon
the snowy neat plains of my
journal. The one I carry with me
everywhere in my dirt-brown woolen
satchel from Peru, stitched one side
with a narrow, eyeless, pale white
lama.

It is a sort of deposit,
this carrying, I hope will earn interest
some day. Maybe today!
For after all, for the first time in many
months my hand, the fleshy pad
of my right hand, sidles inch-by-inch
and back again across this page
after my few moments with award-
winning lines from the handsome
paperback I’ve been carting,
too, these many months. Unread
since then, until just now.

Yet these are comments upon the
times. And also surety.
For if my precious phone they tell
me is so smart falls dead as a
hockey puck, the thing I most use to catch up
on my news and times, I still have
this honored poet to read inside my sack.
Where my journal also lives.

Should the planet, the town, this
little restaurant grow dark, all its
electricity gone in a second’s fingersnap!
though I’ll need a little sunlight or in deepest
night the nubbin of a white candle
sputtering away the darkness
for a few feet in all directions, yet
I shall be able to write to you,
the future. Still.

I’ll not need the coal-fired zapping of whole mountain
ranges, or the sapping, I should say,
of them. I will, at least until the ink runs out
and pages fill, have yet a lot of room
to have my say. Such as it is.
I could get used to this again!
Used to be all I knew, before the
advent of these vaporous tools
which now, thank you sapped mountains
and vast heaps and heaps of zeros
and ones, are where everything
I have to say now depends

and resides. Except for these
few scrawls on paper on this tabletop,
until I transcribe them into the
vasty deeps of Indra’s web, the
new one my race has built these recent years.

Only two of earth’s core elements can make
these pages I write fragile as that fragile web –
fire, come to to curl this page into blowsy ash.
Or water, to smear and soak
these words into oblivion.
Into obscurity. (I suppose wind, too,
could lift and steal these words,
ripping them from Ego’s proud
grasp, whisking them beneath
the muddy wheels of some indifferent
truck.)

I shall leave it at that,
closing this re-meeting with pen and paper,
happy to have met again. Unsure
of what will last.
As ever.

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douglas imbrogno | tricky fish | charleston wv | may 15. 2013

UPDATE: After posting the item below,  I was pointed to an article that quoted the W.Va. Agriculture Commissioner, noting that West Virginia will not be part of this year’s 17-year-cicada brood.  Stand down, tinnitus sufferers.  But still, check out the video for what they’ll sound like in surrounding states — and part of the din that will be coming in 2016 to WestVirginiaVille. | douglas imbrogno

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Get ready. The cicadas are coming, HuffPo reports:

If you live on the East Coast between Georgia and Connecticut, get ready for the air to be filled with billions of large, buzzing insects known as cicadas, a massive brood of which have been feeding on roots underground for the past 17 years — all in preparation for this one moment.

A small number of the “Brood II” cicadas, which are one of seven different species of the insect, have already begun emerging in some eastern states, according to Magicicada.org, a website run by John Cooley, a cicada expert and research scientist at the University of Connecticut.

By the end of May, the inch-and-a-half-long insects will come out in full force, swarming in massive, noisy clouds up and down the eastern seaboard, reports CBS New York. | Read on

Here is what a smaller brood sounded like last time they showed up in force around these parts in WestVirginiaVille. This is a slideshow and story I did for the Charleston Gazette along with Mary Kay McFarland in June 17, 2008. Take a look and a listen at the return of the  periodic cicada to the hills and hollers around Charleston, West Virginia. They’re just looking for love while making a racket, says Cabell County Extension Agent John Marra:

ThirdEyeNews

CABARET CAM: “Why Don’t You Wanna Go Out With Me” by Mark Bates

Funny songs are great. Funny songs delivered by superior performing songwriters are even better. Here’s a video except (above)  from Mark Bates’ song, “Why Don’t You Wanna Go Out With Me?”, performed live recently at Third Eye Cabaret at The Cellar, 8 Capitol St., in Charleston, W.Va. For more on the multimedia cabaret, which takes place most Thursdays from 7 to 10 p.m., visit facebook.com/thirdeyecabaret.

Mark Bates at Third Eye Cabaret | Spring 2013 | a photo of thewebtheater.com

Check out Mark Bates’ music at (it would stand to reason): markbatesmusic.com.

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IT’S OFFICIAL

Third Eye Cabaret is an official 2013 FestivALL Charleston event, and will be open extra nights during the city-wide music, arts and culture celebration June 20 to 31. The cabaret will be open — and going later than usual –  during our special FestivALL cabaret dates of WED-THU-FRI June 19-20-21 and WED-THU-FRI June 26-27-28. There will be a $5 general admission these nights with reserved table seats (and there are only a few) going for $10 a seat.

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TAKE THIS LOGO, PLEASE

Here’s an officially sanctioned Social Media/Media Release logo for Third Eye Cabaret. Should you, like, need one. For worldwide distributio. Or, hey, we’d be happy if someone would just Instagram it.

PictureThis

This is all I got. A big ole magnolia tree in a full-throated shout of Spring blossoming, a mile from my house in the village of Barboursville, W.Va. The first is the straight-up shot in mid-afternoon yesterday, slightly saturated. The rest are some new filters that showed up in my latest version of Photoshop Elements. Reality — it’s good for awhile, until you fire up Photoshop. No, I don’ really believe that. I like reality. But I’m an ah-tist, in my daydreams. Or at least a filter-user. I don’t think those are always the same thing. Though sometimes they are. You be the judge. | douglas imbrogno

Magnolia in bloom. Version 1 | Barboursville, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

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Magnolia in bloom, Version 2 | Barboursville, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

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Magnolia in bloom, Version 3 | Barboursville, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

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Magnolia in bloom, Version 4 | Barboursville, W.Va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

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More PictureThis

~ New York City Scenario 6: The Sound in the Subway
~ New York City Scenarios: 1 to 5
~ The View form the Philadelphia Streets
~ The Busy Machines That Click and Hum
~ Pictures From a Life
~ Last Man in the Woods
~ Insomnia Album: Pictures for the Pre-Wee Hours
~ Poems Without a Book
~ Six Variations on a Curve in the Road
~ Some Days, Nothing Will Do
~ Still Life with Lines, Leaf and Water
~ Excruciating Pain Report
~ I Got Nuts, Beef, Candy
~ Blue Rooms

DIARY |  april 8, 2013

douglas imbrogno | charleston w.va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

All things considered, and given the demise of the already miniscule audience for personal blogs in the middle of nowhere (thank you very much, Herr Zuckerberg) the value-added proposition for writing a new blogpost is rather low these days. For the 23 or so of you that do stop by today and hang around for longer than a dipthong through this posting — greetings. You are my kind of people. (And who among you knows what a dipthong is?)

I really should be working on my sprawling novel, now sprawled across a multitude of folders within Scrivener. But I’ve just spent hours at the newsroom transcribing notes for a big two-part story I am at work upon, interviewing people up and down America. And failing, so far, to track down an email or phone number for Ric Ocasek, leader of the The Cars, who figures tangentially within what, I must tell you, is going to be a pretty remarkable story. The band’s damn website is promoting a “new album” due out in, uh, May 10, 2011, and I can’t get his agency reps to e-mail or call me back out in California-land. Ric — contact me. You will appreciate this story.

The Cars, The Police, Talking Heads, Patti Smith — don’t get me started. These folks were the soundtrack to my senior year at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Literally, they were the theme music to the (speaking of sprawling) three-day parties we used to have at The Farm, where I lived right over the border in Indiana my final year. A real farmhouse, rented that year of 1979 from a hippie gone trekking in Nepal. Thankfully, he’d stashed a hefty trash bag behind the furnace, full of what hippies do. We sampled from the bag most of our senior year. There was still a respectable stash of the stash when we’d cleared out for our futures. I remember fluffing it up a bit, so our hippie friend might not notice how much we’d borrowed, which I’m sure he did.

It was a 20-minute drive to class, through miles of cornfields flat as a frying pan, stretched out to the four horizons beneath a vast, tumbling-cloud sky. I’ll get to that story someday. Or not. How I left those fields for a magnificent fuck-up in fabulous exotic locales. I mean, if you’re going to screw up, it might as well be in, like, Paris.

david imbrogno | charleston, W.Va., apil 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photo

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Into the Hills

But right now, I want to talk about trekking West Virginia. That’s what I just did with my brother David, who hates it, apparently, when I introduce him as “my older brother.” Being as it makes it sound as if he’s, like, 61 or something and I am only a sprightly fiftysomething, full of vim and vinegar. So, I will note instead that he exited our mother’s womb first-in-line, eager to get to work on his next life. He, too, is full of vim and vinegar. Must be in the DNA.

One of our stops was the undercarriage of the great wrecked space ship that crash-landed so many millenia ago in front of what would later become the Clay Center in Charleston, W.Va. Here is a video I once did, taking in the various vantage points of the piece, which, OK, is not really a starship from another civilization, alas, but an Albert Paley sculpture titled “Hallelujah.”

At night, the thing is even more impressive (I’m a fan of the piece, unlike some other folks in town). And the under-sculpture lighting and gorgeous streaked rust makes for a captivating setting for iPhone portraiture.

We moved onward, into the hills. There are very many hills in West Virginia and within their folds are secrets. And horses. I have one particular horse in mind that a friend was horse-sitting. Not actually sitting on the horse. My friend has a horse of his own to sit on. No, the horse was grazing my friend’s pastures at the request of a friend of his. “He’s a real horse-dog,” my friend told me when I called and said we were on the way. “Comes right up to you like a dog.”

And he did, that horse. We walk up to the porch of my friend’s little house. Horsedog spots us, comes trotting over and without an ‘Excuse me, have we been introduced?’ he’s nose-nuzzling me and my brother. My kind of horse. Listen, you eedjits (as the Irish call you) and kneejerk makers-of-insult at West Virginia’s expense. Go ahead. What do we care? You make lame, un-original jokes about cousin-sex and toothlessness. But we get horses friendlier than Mister Ed greeting us at the front door, welcoming us to the deep outback of the central Appalachian hills, which are pretty damn spectacular.  You get your sorry little stunted, insult-ridden life. I’ll take horsedogs and fresh air. Later, I took out my little blue guitar and wandered off into the pasture to play for the pine trees and chickadees. Horsedog trotted along as I rehearsed Neil Young’s “Birds.” For the birds. Really. For the birds. Ravens. A Great Blue Heron flying high overhead. A Cooper’s Hawk in the pines

 CORRECTION: This post originally got my brother’s age wrong, which you will have noted in the comments.  Fixed now. I am never writing about my brother, older or younger, again. Horsedogs, yes.

OUTABOUT

In the first episode of the new OutAbout in WestVirginiaVille series, we visit Blumie Mountain in Southern WestVirginiavVille for exactly one minute and 23 seconds. Easy as 1:23. It’s a noisy visit, but that is only because noted West Virginia metal sculptor Mark Blumenstein’s work move bobs, weaves, ducks, clangs, bangs and resounds. See more of hs work here: markblumenstein.com

What is that sound? Descending into the Grand Street subway station in Chinatown in New York one cold day in March 2013, we hear a flute and something else. What is it? It is Zong Li Lu, busking as the trains arrive, playing a traditional Chinese monochord or duxian paoqin in Chinese. And a flute. Accompanying himself from a boombox playing some of his CDs. An iPhone video tribute to his duet between monochord, flute and subway train.

Just back from a short visit to the city, this is part of a series of ‘New York City Scenarios.’

Zong Li Lu, playing a monochord in a subway station in Chinatown. | westvirginiaville.com photo

New York City Scenarios

No. 6: What Is That Sound?
No. 1 to 5: Fresh mangos and a walk with Ozymandias

PictureThis

Playing with blocks. | Millennium Tower near 9-11 site | New York City, March 13, 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photo

Just returned from a family trip to New York, a city with which I have a little history. We created some more. Here’s the first part of a mixed-media accounting of some past and present New York states of mind. I decided to leave my heavyweight camera at home and shoot only with an iPhone 4, armed occasionally with an iPhone mini-telephoto lens, pressing the volume key for often random and surreptitious shots. | douglas imbrogno

Vendor man near Union Square. | New York City, March 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photo

1.

Her hands are the thing I notice first, not the sunshine-yellow mangos.

She’s a solidly built, middle-aged black woman with a knife in her hands. The card table full of mango slices first catches my eye from a few feet away. But then the hands, once I come close to her corner stand. She knifes a peeled mango into pieces, then loads a half-dozen slices into a plastic baggy. A half-dozen mango baggies await customers.

“How much?” I ask.
“Three dollars,” she says, her accent Caribbean. Maybe Jamaican.
I peel off the bills, take a bag of mangos. Stuff it in one of my cargo pants pockets.

She has a working woman’s hands, slick with mango pulp. They’re cocoa-dark on top, but with sallow ivory-colored palms and fingers, visible as she turns them up into view to load a bag. Her palms are etched with a network of crisscross lines that would give a palm reader a field day for interpretation. It’s 8:30 p.m. on our last day in New York City. Where am I? I’ve just dropped off my 22-year-old son at a movie theater near the corner of Union Square. It’s a frigid Wednesday night in March. His face had been obscured by his hoody as we trekked to the theater. He wants to see an evening screening of “Springbreakers,” which has opened in the city.

What is this neighborhood? My New York neighborhood mind-map is 35 years old and was never so good in the first place. I got around way back then with an annotated subway map, courtesy of an old girlfriend. She still lives in the city somewhere, but I’m pretty sure has no interest in seeing me these many decades later.

I keep an eye out for her, though, through the crowds coming my way up the Bowery sidewalk. Watching for a short, blonde-haired woman amid the tangled river delta of humans coursing Times Square. Peering past the middle-aged gay couples in black leather jackets, clutching hands on Chelsea sidewalks. She could show at any moment among the mass of the well-heeled in Jimmy Choo boots, the well-poor scouting dinner and plastic bottles arms-deep in trash bins, and the polyglot, camera-strung tourists that part around me as I stride the city.

I don’t know what I’d do if I saw her. Smile, I suppose. Say “Hi.”  I fear what she might do. Frown? Turn away? Walk off.

When it comes to New York and me, it gets a little complicated.

Riding Spiderman | Times Square, New York City, March 2013 | westvirginiavile.com photo

2.

An hour back, I’d said goodbye to my daughter and wife some 30 long city blocks ago. I kissed my wife, as the daughter gave a little ‘ta-ta’ finger role and says: “Peace out!” They strike off for Broadway. All four of us are bathed in the unholy illumination of the aggressive Technicolor glare of Times Square. The girl, an 18-year-old Broadway-holic, had bargained her mother into them buying two $130 seats to a preview showing of “Matilda.” Yes, she promised, yes! She would pay half the cost of the fifth-row seat tickets that the box office had on offer from her mall pretzel stand salary back home.

We leave them to it. She loves Times Square, its near-rabid assault on the senses. I initially enjoy the massive spectacle of multiple, grandiose video screens hung in the sky, each as big or bigger than half a football field. We step from a subway out into the racket of arresting visual pitches for Broadway shows, pink panties on impossibly darling young models, a hundred-foot tall Kevin Spacey with bloody hands advertising “House of Cards.” Down on the sardine-packed streets, there’s a round-bottom, buxom woman in red-spangled bikini and white cowboy hat this freezing day, banging a guitar badly. She’s part of the whole Naked Cowboy thing — a Naked Cowgirl. I pass her ass as tourists snap her chest. There’s Spiderman posing for tourists. A ‘Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat!  polyrhythm pulses across the square, from a man banging drumsticks on can lids and metal pots splayed across a sidewalk. A black man, his face concealed by a black hoody and wrapped in a filthy black sheet with a sleeping bag worn as a cloak, weaves in curlicues through the masses like a dark ghost, taking long strides past women whose black-and-silver knee-high boots probably cost more than a month of my salary.

It’s dizzying, Times Square. Then, it makes me dizzy. I have to get away. I feel a weird suffocation, imagining some future dystopia where corporations decree you are required by legal fiat to be immersed in full sensory advertising. My son says the nearest theater showing his movie is 34 blocks away — he has pulled it up on his iPhone and Google-mapped the walk there. I will walk with him, despite the stress I know this will place upon my bad foot. “Dad, you don’t have to do this,” he says, as we leave the neon efflorescence blessedly behind us. Looking back, the light spills off the square and illuminates the side streets that funnel tourists to Broadway.

I don’t, I know. Have to do this. Which is maybe why I want to. My son is 22. Has strolled home from bars as dawn broke over Rome. Has wandered massive festivals for days from Miami to California.  He’s a competent young man. But, well, I am still dad. I want to make sure that when he strikes off across more than 30 blocks of New York nighttime streets he returns to us later at our Sohotel room in the Bowery.

So, we walk. And talk. Through the dodgier, old-school, porn-shop streets that used to hold sway about Times Square. Through the streets of Chelsea, bulging underwear window mannequins in whitey-tighties and leather straps advertising gay shops. Past Union Square and the mango lady. How did it come up? We are talking about the famous faces on the mammoth screens on Times Square. We’d passed a startlingly accurate life-size model of Justin Timberlake in front of some tourist hangout. We are talking about how everything fades: fame, wealth, power. How you have to keep it all in perspective. New York and New Yorkers, especially the wealthy ones, keep coming at you. Intolerably attractive men and women with $250 haircuts. Power suits. Power dresses, power heels. Limos of power.

And — I have so few at my command — a patch of poetry comes to mind. Shelley and his ending bit from “Ozymandias.” We are passing a vinoteca somewhere, a 24-hour video shop, a Cuban restaurant. I recite as we stride:

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings.
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Later at home, Googling the quote I will see I’ve left out the third and fourth lines, which I’ve added below (take note, Luka!). So, my Dad poetry mojo is not so impressive as all of that. Here’s the correct ending:

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings.
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

When my son does return to us out of the New York night, he has a middling reaction to the deliberately provocative movie, loving it most for its Skrillex soundtrack, a hero to my EDM DJ-performing offspring. I listen to his review in our hotel room as I massage my bad foot, which has been bolloxed by our long journey down the west side of lower Manhattan. Then, he says something to warm the cockles of a father’s heart, whatever the hell cockles are.

“You know, Dad? Years from now, I’ll forget everything about that movie. But I’ll always remember you reciting that Ozymandias poem to me as we walked through New York.”

I will accept these Dad points, gladly and with warmth, from my boy.

And for desert, a slice or two of fresh mango.

Born Again. | Little Italy, New York City, March 2013 | westvirginiaville.com

2.

My dad was born in a house on a hillside in Calabria. So, Little Italy, of course, speaks to me. It makes me an offer I can’t refuse, you might say. I like to wake early when in big cities, to hit the streets and see how the streets wake up. I head to Little Italy, just down the street from the Bowery. Know this: there appears no place to get a cappuccino at 7:15 a.m. in Little Italy. The place is a graveyard. A few restaurant workers have arrived to set up shops. An eight-foot-tall, snow-white polymer replica of the statue of David standing outside one establishment is about the only pedestrian on Mulberry Street, his penis greeting the dawning light of the new day. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Yes, young students of writing. If you work hard enough, one day, you, too, may get to write the line ‘… his penis greeting the dawning light of the new day.’). The other thing to know about Little Italy is that it is especially little these days. Chinatown has been expanding its boundaries at a speedy rate, carving out new territory and new outposts from Little Italy, the Bowery and beyond. I find a baby Jesus in a religious supply shop, arms outstretched to its diminishing Italian neighborhood.

3.

One guy’s morning in Chinatown:

Chinatown morning. | Chinatown, New York City, March 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photo

Another guy’s morning in Soho:

Soho Smoke. | Soho, New York City, March 13, 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photo

5.

I am not averse to rubber-necking in New York City — the consummate tourist. There is as much to see looking up as looking straight ahead.

Old School, New School | Near Times Square, New York City, march 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photo

Ho Yip | Near 9-11 Site, New York City, March 2013 | westvirginiaville.com photos

Fire Escape Still-Life | Near Little Italy, New York City, March 2013 | westvigriniaville.com photo

To Be Continued …

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More PictureThis

~ The View From the Philadelphia Streets
~ The Busy Machines That Click and Hum
~ Pictures From a Life
~ Last Man in the Woods
~ Insomnia Album: Pictures for the Pre-Wee Hours
~ Poems Without a Book
~ Six Variations on a Curve in the Road
~ Some Days, Nothing Will Do
~ Still Life with Lines, Leaf and Water
~ Excruciating Pain Report
~ I Got Nuts, Beef, Candy
~ Blue Rooms