It was late, 12:34 AM to be exact. Walking through the fog-blanketed streets of Portland, breathing, smoking, dwelling. Who is a man if he has not walked through hardship? Be that self-induced or by mere chance. Who is a man who has not suffered the pains of sin; the humility of grace? Walking, breathing, wondering: is it HE who ultimately pursues us? Like a hungry lion? Or the Shepherd who claims his lost - His wandering fearful flock? Why, I wonder, does HE pursue so vigorously? Love? How do we as humans even understand true love? True, grit your teeth, take a bullet, love?
Walking, late into the mist, late upon the Portland streets, breathing, smoking, dwelling. Who is a man to be worthy as to be cut and carved out of pure marble? Who I ask are those that greatness thrust itself upon them and they rose in integrity to live in that greatness. Through toil, through hours and moments of agony. Loneliness, heat, cold, great sweeping plains of nothingness. Who are these men who rose to Greatness? So much so that years later other great men of craft cut your being out of stone! Yet, as the Great King Solomon dots upon his journals, "Everything is Meaningless." Meaningless when one's life is completely void of God. Running, Running, Running, all of us are! Running to stand still! Oh people of this modern age! What has us in such a rush? A rush to fill our pockets; a rush to build capital? HA! Capital? What good is Capital when the little nephew throws flowers, wilted ones at that, upon your grave as men with work gloves and cigarettes lower you into the deep, into the sleep of a thousand sleeps!
Walking, breathing, smoking. It's late, yet it doesn't matter. For being alone is one of the greatest things a man can do for himself. Photographically there are a million humans, objects and landscapes to capture. WHY? Why do we embark on its craft? Well, why not? As the sculptor cut these great men out of stone, so we embark to capture these great men and the stories of this great toil through this medium; the modern medium of film. And we do it to ask questions. Who are these great men? Who are the ones who rose to shrug off mediocrity; to answer the call and push forward. No matter the hill, no matter the mire. No matter the slander and selfish nature of others. No matter the scoff or the hate. For to resist the call is to suffocate one's throat with the worldly roots and ultimately imprison ourselves till ashes upon ashes.
"I Fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I Fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter."
"Ah, Fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."
Photo: Portland Art Museum, Portland OR, 2012, J.W. Zirschky
