Losing Ground and The Iowa Caucuses

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Tamjyv8fc8&feature=youtu.be — Wednesday, January 20, 1988 James Rutenbeck asked if I could shoot for him in Iowa tomorrow. He has been filming a farmer-family in distress and close to losing their farm. The Ferraris are loosely related to the family in Maranello. Richard Gephardt's campaign people chose their farm for a photo opportunity. I taxied… Continue reading Losing Ground and The Iowa Caucuses

Meditation

I forgive myself. I give myself permission to be happy.  I am thankful for the many blessings of my life.  I try to have compassion for all sentient beings including myself.  I accept a posture of humility in the enormity of existence.   I forgive myself— Beginning with the lustful act in which I was… Continue reading Meditation

The Bushwick Chronical

From the Bishop's journal-June 1996 John Melville Bishop The flight was a red-eye to Detroit. I wanted to sleep, but an unhappy one-year-old in the seat behind cried piteously all the way and kicked the seat back. Nearing dawn we descended low over farmland covered in patches of fog, a mist hung only a few… Continue reading The Bushwick Chronical

The Silver Room

A guy I new briefly in New York died last month. Through the great synchrony of the Universe, I also found this old journal entry written shortly when I took this photograph which has been on my office wall for decades with the tittle—Peter Pastorelli Smoking a Joint in the Silver Room. The room was… Continue reading The Silver Room

Letter to Peter Bishop on the Ocassion of His College Graduation 1982

Dear Pete, I guess there is no way I can accuse you of not giving me enough time between graduations to come up with an inspiring letter. All the same, I have been meaning to sit down and word process you a few lines of fraternal wisdom for several weeks without finding any cosmic theme… Continue reading Letter to Peter Bishop on the Ocassion of His College Graduation 1982

Angels in “The Swamp”

Korrin and I are riff surfers. nice post

ROUGH OUTLINES

I stood anxiously with the others. We all waited, silently, many staring down at bright little screens, to board the long elevator down to the metro. None of us looked at each other, and the man with the sign didn’t look at us either. He didn’t call out, forcing us to acknowledge his existence, pushing us to feel the discomfort of witnessing suffering. He simply sat in his wheelchair outside the elevator with a smile on his face and a cardboard sign in his lap—something about an injury, something about needing help, something about God bless you.

We all boarded the elevator, packed like sardines, yet somehow still unaware of each other’s pulses. I let out a deep breath, and I tried to ignore the twinge in my chest thinking about the man with the sign. I thought about the man from five years ago who didn’t have a sign…

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