So heres a selection of other photos I’ve taken.

WE WERE IN MY HOME, looking at different parts of it. The last part was very lush and colourful. There was a field, and it was very green. Healthy green. Summer green. There were very few trees and bushes and shrubs, but there was a gentle slope. It led to a room. The room was not mine, but, rather, where a girl (KT) I went to high school with lived. She was talking about how her room symbolized Newfoundland (she is not from Newfoundland) and she talked about “how they did things” there. Inside the room, it becomes apparent that she wasn’t talking about Newfoundland at all, but rather Australia. She makes some joke like “you see Russell Crowe walking around every day here…no, I’m just joking” in a fake Aussie accent. This cuts to a discussion between Crowe and Lindsay Lohan about how to play a certain part in a certain film. About how he should play it, or how he should attempt to play it. First he has a beard, then he doesn’t, and at one point he is wearing a New York Knicks jersey with, I think, David Lee’s number/name on it. Crowe and Lohan have a conversation the words of which I cannot remember but the gist of which was that they are absolutely, positively regular people and the media blows their lives apart. That they have the same wants and needs and desires as everyone else, and the same neuroses, but that the media doesn’t let them be that. Lohan talks about her breasts and how they’re not as large as people think or large as they would need to be to pull off some porn-ish sex manouver. The last part of that segment Crowe and Lohan are going to work, driving down the highway, somewhere, on a scooter. Crowe is in costume so as to not get recognized. Lohan is wearing a black dress and has a fifties hair-do. Her face is obscured with either a helmet or oversize sunglasses.

Before that, I was in the field, but I wasn’t me. I was Bruce Wayne. But not like, the way he is, or, rather, the way that humans are and look. I was Bruce Wayne from the animated nineties version of Batman, where everything looked like it was the forties and everyone (especially Wayne) had the squarest of square jaws. The Batman that is associated with Mask of the Phantasm. That one. Also, it wasn’t so much a field as it was, like, a trainyard, at night, all shadows and see-your-breath-in-the-cold. I’m Bruce Wayne but I’m not able to avail myself of the Batman outfit or toys or gadgets or weapons, so I have to come up with some rudimentary costume to scare a bad guy into giving me information. I play tricks on him with the sound and the dark and get him to become my amigo. He doesn’t know I’m either Batman or Bruce Wayne. He thinks I’m just some two-bit thug looking for help/muscle/information.

Previous to that, I was suggesting to someone that I was going to let some bird’s eggs/young be eaten by something/someone else if they didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. This actually might have been a scare tactic from the Batman part, but it feels like it was before that. I was basically going to feed these eggs to something/someone if I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear. Upon getting the relevant intel, I recall that I didn’t quite spare all the eggs, leaving some out to be eaten.

Before that I was in some kind of a store that was selling greeting cards with prominent Canadian musicians in/on them including Emma-Lee and Hey Rosetta! There was something very sad about this part, which also had to do with Newfoundland. It was something about getting these artists to come to your town by sending them weird, sappy cards that featured them.

Before that was the dream I was into and out of for much of the night/morning. All that are coming back are flashes. There was a theatre, like, a theatre where plays are seen, a playhouse, and its workers were on strike. Some important figure at the theatre turned out to be Tim Baker, from Hey Rosetta!, who are from St. John’s, Newfoundland  (about whom I have to write an article today). The theatre had something aesthetically in common with a train station: lots of greys and, I think, at least one Via train. (I was reading about how the Via strike ended right before bed.)

 ‘Choose Life. Choose a Job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a f* big Television. Choose Washing Machines, Cars, Compact Disc Players and electrical tin opener.Choose good health. Low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a home. Choose your friends.Choose Leisurewear, and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase. Choose DUI wondering who the f* you are on a Sunday morning. Choose a couch watching mind numbing spirit crushing game shows stuffing f* junk food into your mouth.Choose rotting away at the end of it all pissing your last in a miserable home nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish brats you’ve spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose Life !

But why would I want to do a thing like that. I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin.’

The wild, wild west returns to life in this newly added photoshoot.  Shot in a 19th century train yard with coal fired locomotives and narrow gauge railroad tracks, the well-dressed male fashion model, Sean Moyer, convincingly acts out the part of a train yard brawl in progress.  The images from this photoshoot are well suited for a variety of uses from historical or western publications to trendy fashion magazines.  Photos from this series are available under rights managed stock photo licenses.  (note that some royalty free stock photo images are available as well).  Click here to visit the collection.

Old West, trainyard stock photo

Sitting in the twilight in the old truck at the railyard.  The last of the Saturday light fading from the sky.  An unseasonably warm November evening, maybe the last warm night of the year.  Car wheels crunching on gravel in the distance.

Someone asked if this was part of a larger story.  Trite, but yes.  Part of the story of my days and nights.

I’m told that some people recharge their energy by being with people.  Others recharge by being alone.  I’m alone for the first time in what feels like weeks.  I can no longer tell in the blur of motion that stretches each day into an eternity.

I’ve lived lifetimes.  I’ve lived many lives.  And for the moment, this twilight evening, I’m taking a breather.

This evening.  This cigar.  This old truck.  This body.  This world.

I’m fortunate to be me and no one else.  I’m glad to have this life to live.  I’m not sure at all if I’ve done this before or if this is my first time around.  And when I’m gone, I’m not sure if I get another chance, or if this is the only one I get.  I’d be wholly content with that.  I don’t need another go at it, and I don’t need an afterlife.

These moments.  So human.  So animal.  So Earthbound.  All of it.  When I die, don’t mourn.  Celebrate.

Cold yard,
beckons me;
to travel beyond
what’s comfortable;
to discover
the low
and seldom
explored.

Icy morning
chill.
Cool against
my collar.

Sighing, I pull myself
up;
anxious,
but ready

to take the ride.