If you recognize this skyscape you must know Bond. James Bond. Either that or you’ve spent your fair share of time scaling up or skiing down the Bernese Alps near Mürren, Switzerland, parasailing or base jumping in the Lauterbrunnen Valley, trekking the path that inspired Tolkien to write of the Misty Mountains, or have simply ridden the 2,970 meter track of cable car to the summit of Schilthorn in the Bernese Oberland, the peak from which this photograph was taken.

When I think of masterpieces I think of isolation. I think of the artist’s solitude. I think of the silence, the labor, the not wasted time wasted in silent labor to labor towards the master piece.


I think of the precipices of mountains: what it’s like to stand auf die Spitze eines Berges and what it’s like to nod and say, “I like the view from here.”


The Individual


Prompt of the day: Photographers, artists, poets: show us PERSONALITY.


Introducing she: the

overtly sarcastic,

the full of charisma

narcissistic sister,

the Lady Gaga,

the upper-class trickster

who, while sipping champagne

from a plastic drink cup,

makes everyone think up

ways that they could be

individual not made-up

things with shiny bobbles

and fake hair:

French poodles at a state fair

all fluffed and puffed,

all shiny and mucked-up

with pretty-colored itty-bitty

cute bits, all socially sanctioned

unindividual individualnesses

who’ve never worn a ratchet

Kermit the Frog dress or slabs

of meat or bubbles and need more

than a spoon-fed, media-baked

personality fruit cake

with enough whipped cream and cherries

as the public sees fit.

Trials of Hercules

In the gardens of my dream home would stand centerfold a grand mosaic quad depicting, on the border, the Labors of Hercules, full in size, three on each side, with arrows and helmets and owls between scenes, small, but detailed in vibrant colours: the symbols of trials and heroes and gods: imagery that would rival the sagas tiled from the floors to the ceilings of King Ludwig II’s unfinished castle. After The Labors, The Lovers: Orpheus and Eurydice, Andromache and Hector, Pygmalion and Galatea, and Endymion. The deaths of Hyacinth and Achilles. Eos.

I would walk once, twice, a thousand times along the outer balcony of my home: a rectangular platform, garden-encompassing, made of simple white marble, trace the weaving pathways between tree and flower, view the gallery, read The Books, and write.

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