45SURF HERO'S JOURNEY MYTHOLOGY PHOTOGRAPHY's photostream  

It's cool to surf, but sometimes you've got to cowboy!

Hey there flickrites!

Thanks for enjoying the 45surf photostream--we passed 15,000,000 views not long ago. Thanks for all the encouraging comments--will be adding more video in 2010!

Life always keeps us way, way too busy; and there is never, never enough time for all the bauty that surrounds us--I hope I served you in catching a bit of it and sharing. :)


"I love your photography." Autumn said, sitting at Ranger's Linux
laptop. "You're good."
"I just stand behind the camera—that's the easy part.
It's all you."
"It's not just me—it's all those girls in Charleston. And the
classical architecture. Pretty, pretty girls. You're good—damned
good. When'd you start?"
Ranger ddn't answer so quick, just staring off. "Long time ago. . . a
friend gave me her camera—shot her riding horses back in Ohio. I
don't have copies, and I hate myself for it, as they're the best I
ever shot. So when I got this camera, I've been trying to shoot
something as good. . . catch that ungraspable phantom. . . that'd be
fun to start a modeling site—charlestonmodels."
"And a fashion line." Autumn said. "I want to start a fashion line.
Could you help?"
"You're talkin' to the wrong guy—all I wear is t-shirts."
"We'll make t-shirts—Autumn Rangers t-shirts."
Autumn whipped out a pen and got to work—she drew two crossed swords,
and worked in an A and an R at the cross.
"Cool." Ranger said.
"The A is for Autumn," Autumn explained, putting the marker to a blank
t-shirt. "The beauty of the fall. But she would be lost without
Ranger. She would be lost without some rugged spirit to witness her
pretty ways, to desire the burning beauty of her fall, to yet see her
innocence at the center and circumference of original sin, and to pen
poetry in honor of the burning leaves—the raging inferno just behind
her immaculate beauty's façade, flickering forth from her eyes. She
would be lost without brave poetry to rescue her fleeting beauty from
nature's ephemerality and render it immortal. She wants to be wanted.
She wants to be rendered. For in being rendered, she is really
rendering the poet. Ranger's Autumn is really Autumn's Ranger. And
the R is for Ranger. The rugged, rambling spirit. The renderer. The
lone poet who would be lost without the autumn, utterly lost without
the fall's bittersweet splendor, who could never know his immortal
soul were it not for the end of summer, were it not for his mortal
body's lust, longing, and love to range through autumn, to venture up
virgin mountains where no paths have been blazed, to voyage forth
where none have walked before, to win her heart, to win her soul, to
have her, to hold her, to know her, to describe her, to render her
spirit, her soul, her semblance, to render her as she would want to be
rendered and remembered by all those romantics yet to be born who will
read of her in his piercing, prevailing, poetry—poetry which will
spark their passions from the very embers of that long-ago burning
fall that so inspired that long-ago rugged ranger—poetry which will
reach back through the generations, on back to Shakespeare and the
Bible, and then about face and reach forward through the generations,
trumping every politician and pomo poseur, becoming an unbreakable
bridge to the classical Truths, igniting the spirits of tomorrow's
lone poets, fusing and forging them in the renaissance of eternal
souls, bolstering natural convictions, and granting courage to every
lone reader to join eternity's army in seeking the sacred
ideals—classical ideals which so many temporal men are scared of,
which so many little people—in their contemporary, fleeting
majorities—scoff at, deride with irony, belittle, castigate, and
impugn, because they are made to feel small beside the classics'
grandeur, and must seek revenge. But tomorrow's poets shall know the
renaissance. They shall read of Autumn's Ranger and Ranger's Autumn,
and seek the classical ideals for themselves, as the ideals are as
real as they are free and true, and like God's freedom, they naturally
belong to all those born into this rough world. And those who seek
them shall find the sacred romance in the pretty faces of their own
Autumns. Separated, as they are in pomo society, Autumn and Ranger
are lost. But united as Autumn Rangers, they walk this lonely earth
as God intended. Autumn made Ranger but only because Ranger made
Autumn, but only because Autumn made Ranger, because Ranger saved
Autumn who save Ranger, and so it is that you could never know one
without the other--they're Autumn's Rangers. That's it. Autumn
Rangers equals American Renaissance."
"That'd be one helluva shirt." Ranger said.
"Reckon so." She sighed. She'd finished the design—she'd simply
written "Autumn Rangers" in cursive on blank shirt. And then she
wrote "Truth's Beauty," on a second. And "Ideals are Real," on a
third.
"Maybe we could do lingerie too."
"Oh—and one more," Autumn said. And she wrote 45Revolver on a shirt,
getting the western font perfect. "For your software thing."

Best to all on your hero's journeys into epic art!!