Notes On Infinity

"A circle is just a line with a hole in it." -Jonas Holdbeck

The days were spent reading Susan Sontag's On Photography, a book published in the year of J. Holdbeck's death, the year of my birth, 1977. Like Holdbeck, the book has been described as quaint, a once gale wind force now blown innocent in an overexposed generation. Holdbeck himself has been blown dead, while I have become the full, lone, *veyor of his work.

In this post, I spend a fair amount of time polishing yellow glass filters, rubbing wet lens tissue in a circle until it reflects a pure disc of light. I'm in love with that shine, that yellow halo that promises unknown depths and memories encased in glass.

I've been stuttering the word praxis, dreaming up strawmen to dance on film, placing my thoughts abstractly in dark areas, dark rooms, live inside mysterious concepts.

I'm unable to communicate directly with words, I use them solely for myself, little codified symbols that suck me inside the screen, causing little to no disturbance in those around me. It's a funny thing to write this situation, like shooting fish in a bazaar.

It's not nonsense, though it's not sense either. It's the paradox, the space inbetween the one and the oh that disintegrates when I blink and trip the shudder.

* con, pur, sur