Reclamation

greenhouse roof

“Nature abhors a vacuum . . .”
—Henry David Thoreau

Continuing with the theme of derelict buildings, I took this photograph at a greenhouse long forgotten. There’s some irony here, with nature now taking root in the very structure that tried to contain it.

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Inert

relay box

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Burning Within

red light of death and destruction upon a world deserving of night

“I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

When small, innocuous items in your apartment become art.

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

The Unknown

cave_wall

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear. And the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

—H.P. Lovecraft

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Afterthought

Flesh

“At that moment I felt that I had my whole life in front of me and I thought, “It’s a damned lie.”  It was worth nothing because it was finished . . . I wanted to tell myself, this is a beautiful life.  But I couldn’t pass judgment on it; it was only a sketch; I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing.  I missed nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had disenchanted everything.”

— Jean-Paul Sartre, The Wall

A face gazing at you from the past. I took this photo at the Musée Fragonard d’Alfort in France. The body was prepared by Honoré Fragonard, a French anatomist who was eventually labeled a madman for the creation of his écorchés (flayed figures).

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Longing

nature, bitch!_wm

“Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest.”

— Jack London, Call of the Wild

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Periphery

circles_wm“My new hypothesis: If we’re built from Spirals while living in a giant Spiral, then is it possible that everything we put our hands to is infused with the Spiral?.”
— Maximillian Cohen, from the movie, π.

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Entombed

Chain_wm“Act without hope.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

s c o r c h e d

I attempt to locate the path hidden beneath my blistered feet, beneath layers of leaves decayed, beneath the surface of an aged and cracked earth.  I fling these words like fire against the ubiquitous black that plunges down from the void far above these trembling trees shaking with the canticles of cicadas, far above these scattered clouds glowing lucent in the dim moonlight, far above those distant and lonely stars.

I quicken my pace as I feel the weight of watching, of unblinking eyes hidden deep in the folds of a heavy night draped like a threadbare cloak swaddling distant and jagged peaks, entrenched in age and infused with fossils, those hardened echoes of struggles lived and forgotten and buried in perpetual darkness.

Orion AboveThe sharp crack of a branch long dead signals my advance as I cradle this brittle light that burns hot in my scorched hands, luminous words I scatter to the wind like fireflies that weave their way through the surrounding pitch if only to be witnessed—if ever so briefly—by others who sojourn these pathless woods as they attempt forge their own fires, their lined faces flashing transiently out of this ubiquitous darkness, framed in yellow flame as they look toward me and nod with the knowing of weary vagabonds searching desperately for destinations long vanished and vanquished by time.

The cicadas cease their bickering, and I stop to see those wide, greedy teeth, burning white before me against the flickering flames held in my hands.  Soon it will shed its cloak and cast itself forward to extinguish these words, these embers that glow and burn and perish beneath the void, this endless ballet in which only the death of reborn fire lives on.