I have no idea what is ethical [in photography] any more.

And I've been told (you know!) that I can't distinguish ethics from morals.

Also, I've been writing poems again. That perhaps aren't terrible. That are in collaboration.
I have seven books on my desk. They are not my only partners in this.

I began writing this blog post last night. A phone call deleted every word written.
After the call, I wrote again, this time on paper with pen.
One sentence:

The figure-self is always retaliating.

It might, in other words, prompt a dare-opaqueness that always already exists.

The difference between what I like and what I impulse toward is glowing like a highlighter in the dark,
meaning not at all except when I imagine it.

I made a book. I gave it away. I gave it to better hands than mine, hands I love in spite of history.
More so because of history.

I had a crowded weekend with saltwater and a monopoly of will.  I could feel the bare bone edges of its sea.
Everything turned into singsong and increasing sense of overflow and undertow.

I recognized my closest friend in the distance, recognized their body in the bayouqquietdark
out of the thrust of flatness.
It was second a.m.
Vast material of coincidence!

Freud writes, "It is really only because we know so well how to explain it that this attitude does not seem to us pathological."
This was about the hysteria of mourning, whether sublimated or exasperated.

I am lots of this too.