The ford near Cieneguita, 16 October 2012.
A ford is not just a ford. A ford is a metaphor for those difficult yet critical phases of life that we all encounter.
Let me suggest this. It would be a good idea to record in a notebook some of this profound shit that I say. Then store that notebook in a safe place. Old Stephen is not going to be around for you forever.
I have added three links to yesterday’s entry regarding Atotonilco that should have been there from the outset. “Atotonilco” is now linked to some of my old snapshots of the place, which are neither here nor there really. “Father Hidalgo, the creole pistolero priest” is now linked to my more extended account of his adventure in one of my pages, which is equally neither here nor there. However, for those of you who found that architectural style interesting, you might like to take a look at the unhinged quebecois’s exterior photos of last June: Le sanctuaire d’Atotonilco. Or you might not. I never recommend anything to anyone, and I certainly never attempt to impose my will on others.
Furthermore and sur rien, when Michel turns his camera on people instead of architecture, he can be awfully good in that context, too. I have been fond of his portraits of the mother and son done in their little store in Atotonilco from the first time that I saw them: Mère et fils, Atotonilco. (Again, I do not recommend that you click on that link.) I find it difficult to explain the appeal of those portraits to me.
The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. I am always alert for pretexts to quote dead intellectuals in my blog, the longer dead the better–Blaise Pascal in this case, an intellectual who has been dead for 350 years and 96 days as of the date of this blog entry. Tomorrow he will have been dead for another day.
With that then let me leave you with this thought for this day. We feel ourselves freer agents in this world only at the point that we cease residence in the prison that we have built according to someone else’s design. It is incumbent upon anyone who values the illusion of freedom to design his own damned prison, build it, and then move out of the old and into the new. It will at least feel less like a prison. (That should go in your notebook, too.)