The Beauty in the Body

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When I was talking with my sister about this self-portrait series and what I hoped to accomplish with it, she jokingly suggested that I pose nude. Um, no. Nude was out of the question but it got me thinking. One of my primary goals with this project is to explore aspects of myself that I have not completely revealed in the past or that make me feel uncomfortable. So I thought maybe I should push myself a bit and pose in a way that, for me, is more scantily clad because I’ve always had a poor body image. I knew I’d have to psych myself up for it.

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Never Too Late

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In my post yesterday, I mentioned that I’ve been experiencing a bit of a writer’s block lately. So this morning I decided to start a new project as a way of unclogging the creative pathways. A week or so ago, I came up with the idea of doing a series of self-portraits with something written to go along with each one. The goal was (and is) to give tangible form to parts of myself that tend to remain at least partly veiled. My queer self, for example, is given free expression within the fictional and poetic realms but not so much outside of those. My masculine and feminine selves are often at least somewhat obscured by a layer of what is socially expected. And so on. By creating the self-portraits, I hope to push myself beyond those boundaries.

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Heroes of the Revolution: Harold Norse

Fantastic post from my fiend, Rob.

Art by Rob Goldstein

Art by Rob Goldstein Portrait of Harold Norse by Jim Breeden

In 1977 I lived in New Haven, Connecticut.

There are hundreds of reasons I loved my time in New Haven.

One was Manhattanwas an hour away by train.

I took Amtrak to New York at least twice a month to hang out in the Village.

One weekend in the Fall of 1977 I stopped for a drink at Uncle Charlie’s on Greenwich Avenue.

I met a hot guy who invited me home.

He had a studio apartment with a bed, a chair and a nightstand.

On the nightstand was a book of poems by Harold Norse,  Carnivorous Saint.

A devouring saint?

I sat on the bed and opened the book.

I’d never seen poetry like this before.

I said good-bye to the hot guy, raced to the bookstore, got Carnivorous Saint, and hopped the train back to New Haven.

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Surreal Dreamworlds

I’ve been in a bit of a writing funk lately, not getting anything to come together the way I want it to. I’m a slow writer under the best of circumstances. But it still seems like sometimes writing is a fight and sometimes it flows. Hopefully the flow will be back soon. In the meantime, here are a few photo art pieces with a surreal aspect. Perhaps one of these will tell me a new story.


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Signs of Life

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I don’t always find her. And the where of her is unpredictable. On those occasions when I don’t find her, I never know whether it’s her choice to remain hidden or whether she has simply abandoned certain places, finding them unsuitable in some way. The first time I found her always comes to mind with the kind of clarity attaching to events that reshape our lives in some fundamental way, as if the experience is permanently housed in its own moment of brilliant light where every little detail is illuminated. It was like that.

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