January 7, 2010



This was a place of once dreamers and lovers, artists, writers, mothers, hand holders, hat wearers, storytellers and history makers, all lying still beneath mounds of earth. Here, marble headstones jet up from the ground with an ironic vitality, revealing names and dates deeply inset a perpetual mass. The depredations of time had wreaked havoc on most of the plots, staining the markers and wearing away the graves - just to prove that nothing lasts.

I wandered through miles and miles of lives laid to rest, some for hundreds of years. It made me think a lot about what little time we have to use for living, and how most of our lives are actually spent being dead or not yet born. The world goes on for eons and eons, and in comparison our lives are a blink of an eye, a mere fraction of a fraction of a second. I don't want to waist any more time.

{Canon ae-1. 35mm. Kodak 400}


  1. "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for. I know, however, of a young chronophobiac who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth. He saw a world that was practically unchanged- the same house, the same people, and then realized that he did not exist there at all and that no one mourned his absence."

    ^^ that's the opening to Nabokov's "Speak, Memory." and one of the reasons he's in my top 5 authors of all time. It's a book that takes me a long time to read as my mind wanders hopelessly off into philosophy and self reflection.