There's More Danger In The

Between The Kitchen And The Destroyed Chapel A Door Led Into An Oval-shaped Library. The Space Inside Seemed Safe Except For A Large Hole At Portrait Level In The Far Wall, Caused By Mortar-shell Attack On The Villa Two Months Earlier. The Rest Of The Room Had Adapted Itself To This Wound, Accepting The Habits Of Weather, Evening Stars, The Sound Of Birds.

You Can See That The Care He Took Defiling The Beauty He Had Forced In Them Was As Precise And Clean As His Good Hands Which At Night Had Developed The Negatives, Floating The Sheets In The Correct Acids And Watching The Faces And Breasts And Pubic Triangles And Sofas Emerge. The Making And Destroying Coming From The Same Source, Same Lust, Same Surgery His Brain Was Capable Of. (on New Orleans Photographer E. J. Bellocq)

Moments Before Sleep Are When She Feels Most Alive, Leaping Across Fragments Of The Day, Bringing Each Moment Into The Bed With Her Like A Child With Schoolbooks And Pencils. The Day Seems To Have No Order Until These Times, Which Are Like A Ledger For Her, Her Body Full Of Stories And Situations.

Snap. Lady With Dog. Lady On Sofa Half-naked. Snap. Naked Lady. Lady Next To Dresser. Lady At Window. Snap. Lady On Balcony Sunlight. (on New Orleans Photographer E. J. Bellocq)

I've Always Loved History And History Is Collage, It Is A Juxtaposition Of The Good And The Bad And The Strange, And How You Place Those Sentences Together Changes The Whole Mood Of A History.