got the Kansas City blues
wishing it never happened
waiting for closure
aggressive power puncher
weaknesses and flaws
hidden in shadow
light cannot reach here
the shadow is my dark-side
the wild unknown
the monster inside
a vision in a dream world
dark and exotic
my everyday persona
protects me from you
the tattoo-faced kitty-kat
a sad expression
open handed strikes
take downs, sweeps, throws and joint-locks
bombing the city
doorways are a main target
For some reason I always gravitate towards Colfax. I wonder what that means? I come back to it repeatedly and just wander the avenue. It always gives me a sense of exhilaration and nervousness. Maybe I am addicted to the rush you get when you’re in dangerous surroundings. I grew up just a few blocks away from here. My family has all left the state by now, I have some Uncles out here, but my life is far removed from theirs. My real family, the Nuclear Family, mom, dad, and two sisters, this is where we cut our teeth. I’ve lived in many places in my life, but this place just feels like my home. A 26 mile stretch of road in the middle of North America, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. I love this place, it reminds me of myself. Strong, proud, not without its flaws, but inherently good. It’s the one place in Denver that still reminds me of Denver.
A dilapidated structure looms along Highway 285 in the South Park Valley.
I remember this moment. It was quiet, the air was cool up here at 10,000 ft. above sea level. I took a stroll through this sleepy town after driving for hours. I’ll never forget this trip because it was the last one we took with our bus before it kicked the bucket. We camped in the dispersed camping along the Arkansas River. We just hung out, picked up trash, stuck our feet in the water and watched the world go by. I met a transient man who reminded me of Pig Pen from the Peanuts. His face was completely covered in dirt, his clothes were tattered, and he was pulling a cart on his bike that looked like some sort of shrine to all things junky. He kept asking me for weed. I told him, “No man, I don’t have any weed,” and he would just say “But, you just look so STONED.” I had to always be on the lookout for that guy, he just always seemed to be creepin’ around our campsite.
We also met a family traveling across Colorado on their bikes. They had their whole family with them, three kids, a dog, all their gear, the whole nine yards packed up in bike trailers and backpacks. They were an interesting and inspiring crew.
A stranger with a penchant for Golden Retrievers chatted me up about his dogs, the town’s annual river fest, and his disdain for all tourists like me. “We want you to come and spend your money for a few days, then we want you to GET OUT OF HERE.” I often wonder how many others who have passed through this area have encountered this man and endured that speech. I’m willing to bet that it is more than a hundred.
I’m looking for images to send to a gallery show that my photography instructor insists I should enter. There is no theme, but that has me stifled as to what images to send in. This is one of those images that I contemplate often, I keep coming back to it. It must be the moment that is appealing, the memory of that moment.
I’m swimming through so many images, I look at them until my eyeballs can’t take it anymore, I come away from it feeling stressed out. I’m feeling that pressure to keep taking things up a notch. I’ve done three smaller gallery group shows. I’ve spent the money, provided the prints, and attended the openings. I’ve had the gallery show experience and received positive feedback, but I still somehow find a way to let the self doubt creep in and take over. It doesnt last that long before I remind myself that it doesnt matter what other people think. I’m going to die, before I die I’m going to try and become a photographer. Now if Icould just muster up enough energy and intellect to come up with a good story.
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By Lisa Smith Molinari
Le frontiere, materiali o mentali, di calce e mattoni o simboliche, sono a volte dei campi di battaglia, ma sono anche dei workshop creativi dell'arte del vivere insieme, dei terreni in cui vengono gettati e germogliano (consapevolmente o meno) i semi di forme future di umanità. (Zygmunt Bauman)
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Brussels based, cat loving, shoe obsessed, photography lover
Welcome to the home of PenButNoPencil-Photography
Musician, writer and professional over-thinker
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