#canong10

Sad news, folks.  My trusty Canon G10 has died.  Here we have her last picture.  :( Try as I might, I couldn’t get her to accept commands, so she wouldn’t focus properly or switch between functions.  While I like the picture, and often try to get the crisp background like this, I would have preferred it to be on my terms.

Don’t cry for her.  She had a good life and saw many amazing things.  Her passing is just a part of the cycle, and the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.  Some might see this as a bad thing, but I like to remember that I’m around to take pictures and I’m taking pictures of things I create.  Take solace in knowing she was a boon companion for more than a decade.

With the post-holiday slump in sales, it might be awhile before I’m posting anything of the goings-on here at Three Rivers Forge, but I’ll continue to post images of wonderful hand-forged ironwork of days long gone.  As soon as I’m able, rest assured that I’ll be back with more original images of things crafted on my anvil.

lapland/the very north of finland

All night I hear the noise of water sobbing. All night I make night in me, I make the day that begins on my account, that sobs because day falls like water through night. All night I hear the voice of someone seeking me out. All night you abandon me slowly like the water that sobs slowly falling. All night I write luminous messages, messages of rain, all night someone checks for me and I check for someone. The noise of steps in the circle near this choleric light birthed from my insomnia. Steps of someone who no longer writhes, who no longer writes. All night someone holds back, then crosses the circle of bitter light. All night I drown in your eyes become my eyes. All night I prod myself on toward that squatter in the circle of my silence. All night I see something lurch toward my looking, something humid, contrived of silence launching the sound of someone sobbing. Absence blows grayly and night goes dense. Night, the shade of the eyelids of the dead, viscous night, exhaling some black oil that blows me forward and prompts me to search out an empty space without warmth, without cold. All night I flee from someone. I lead the chase, I lead the fugue. I sing a song of mourning. Black birds over black shrouds. My brain cries. Demented wind. I leave the tense and strained hand, I don’t want to know anything but this perpetual wailing, this clatter in the night, this delay, this infamy, this pursuit, this inexistence. All night I see that abandonment is me, that the sole sobbing voice is me. We can search with lanterns, cross the shadow’s lie. We can feel the heart thud in the thigh and water subside in the archaic site of the heart. All night I ask you why. All night you tell me no.

https://www.instagram.com/l.for.limbo/

THE WIND WAS BLOWING FROM THE LEFT