Hurtling homeward hastened by the heavy hanging of my heart. Resignation once ruled but renovation removed the residues of related history.
More and more as I mediate and the malevolent tendencies mix in with misunderstood madness, my mind gets tied up and twisted, telling tales, talking truth tinged with delicious delusion. Split decision delayed- delinquent really. Days and ideas have displaced decisive action.
Dutifully doe-eyed and descriptive, dogma, dew, and discussions of delicacies push through decay. Slideshows, and a sloth-like systemic suspicion slink under my skin. Savant-like speed read of signals and simple smiles.
Slide over and slip under with me.
So this, my dear friend, is the truth in its horrifying entirety, and we shall discover together what exactly it is that we seek. The intention here, is to tell my story and to purge all existence until I stand pure and full of light, face forward.
5.26.2009
Doe-Eyed // Dogma
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
days,
dogma,
favorite,
home,
landscape,
prose heart,
texas
5.25.2009
(Backflip)
1600 some odd past.
2000 plus present.
Fast forward
Settle the score.
Make me weep
Help me sleep
Cruel to be kind
Flip it back
Force rewind
Jet blue skies
Thunder rise
Lightening strikes twice
Surface temp rise to
Swim in the skies.
Muse mis-use.
Sway and swallow whole.
Fit me in force me out.
Settle on selection
So that the rest can
Forward fast and
Rewind force.
Backflip.
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
poetry,
self-portrait,
skies,
swim,
texas,
thunder,
time lapse
Ritual // Scavenge
Satie and surf. It's time to return to the water.
In my less than ritualistic life it's nice not to think about anything but the water. Yet as soothing it's surface tension seems, under its veil is just as much activity as under my own. Life, death, scavenger. Feed from the particles that surround us, bleak lights in the dark, sparks of emotion and a generic cooperative spirit. But on the surface the in and out of the waterline ever moving, changing, eroding.
Let's erode it to the bone.
And it's as though our Spring may never come, and when Summer hears of this perhaps She will shy away too? The boats are docked and wrapped, the marinas lifeless as the enveloping grey decays movement, we live suspended in our nuclear winter.
Contrite and obnoxious Winter halts all rebirth cycles-the buds are too shy to raise their sleepy little leaflets to the sky, and the does search for life within their womb.
I search for reassurance in these symbols of isochronality and none exist - retreat to the water, where at least her voice is there lulling the rest of the world onward.
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
Connecticut,
favorite,
flowers,
lighthouse,
ocean,
prose,
satie,
sea,
sea-life,
seasons,
shells,
spirit,
spring,
summer,
water,
water voice,
winter
5.24.2009
Whistle // Blow
In my cowardice, I flee.
I fling myself toward the answers hoping to catch up or at least catch on.
The steam rises and the whistle blows, exposing the pot I've been watching boil, but have thus far managed to keep a lid on.
I am impermanent-- a scent that evades your thoughts and sends you back to an unexpected happiness.
Sometimes the ideas are too big for me.
Bubbles of existence on the boiling pot, soon to burst.
I fling myself toward the answers hoping to catch up or at least catch on.
The steam rises and the whistle blows, exposing the pot I've been watching boil, but have thus far managed to keep a lid on.
I am impermanent-- a scent that evades your thoughts and sends you back to an unexpected happiness.
Sometimes the ideas are too big for me.
Bubbles of existence on the boiling pot, soon to burst.
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
happiness,
ideas,
prose
5.21.2009
Curtains // Kitchens
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
muse,
my apt,
nude,
square,
suebee
Heart // Song
I've been neglecting you, sweet vocal chords of my timid heart. Tell me a story. Lead the way.
Restore balance and bring light to this cloudy day.
Illustrate the crepuscular resonance within my soul and set me free.
Forgive me for quelling your sweet illumination and send me swimming in soul-shine.
I sing the simplicity of my solitude.
Lesson learned regardless of the invidiously tempting stagnation that has skulked in my shadow and had intercepted my clarity.
I am a force, a great wind, come to sweep the spider from the web- I am no longer prey to the diseased carcass of my sophistic self.
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
heart,
illumination,
my apt,
Occupy,
prey,
prose,
sign,
sing,
solitude,
story
5.19.2009
Sleepwalk // Streetwalk
LatchKeys:
abstract,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
portugal,
sleepwalking,
street photography
5.18.2009
Rigid // Ridges
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
chair,
inanimate,
street,
street photography
5.13.2009
Eminent // Domain
The ventriloquists beside me with their womanly shaped strings to pick demonstrate my own symphony to the tune of Mars Volta; My headphones allow for the world finally to be my stage.
It's my adventure.
It's my adversary.
If you aren't there then where do you go when my voice lifts and soars across the particle proliferated space? Is it not an arrow strait to your heart?
I, like man's best friend, wait in anticipation at the alarm of your speech.
LatchKeys:
brooklyn bridge,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
heart,
manhattan bridge,
NYC,
prose,
rain,
spring,
winter
5.07.2009
Drop // Dig
My little raphaelite-
Gentle soft sweet ache.
Same as the voice which
designated you soul entrustee, that
voice again beckons,ordering to
Drop everything and come to thee.
Feet a flurry and heart,
in hushed whispers, sings.
Come into the garden and
dig deep down into me,
seek asymmetrical physiology.
(Its right there.)
I wander
lost in living through you,
circulated in my journey.
Look around,
see through me,
speak to be.
Paint the wind
surging through my hair.
In through me,
stir of the winter floor,
my path emerges through the
overgrown skeleton keys.
See in me
intimate imitations of
thine idolatry.
Capture the sweet secrets
mine eyes speak t'thee as
sparks
inside moments of infinity.
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
door,
favorite,
macro,
minimalism,
poetry,
rhyme,
secret,
wind
5.06.2009
War // Crimes
Sept 15th, 2007, the A.N.S.W.E.R Coalition stages a march on Washington D.C. The day started out behind the White House, and many separate groups came to feed the anti-war juggernaut prepared to make the mile march to the Capitol. It was agonizing to see the men and woman who were parents of those overseas, or those who had survived, and those who had grown up in a time of war, probably parenting a soldier and surviving a husband.
I stepped into the day wearing a coat of neutrality. There were spectators from both sides of the political fight, and ironically those who had come to SUPPORT the war were vehement and angry and nasty to those who were seeking the peaceful retreat. Another eye-opener was the amount of youth that were there- many of whom were no older than 15, some 18, but none the less a shocking number of youth who are active in the politics of our day. It was reassuring. You hear so often that life is wasted on the youth, and I don’t believe this generation plans on doing any of the wasting.
There has been for some time, in my opinion, a renaissance of sorts in the art world- not necessarily in the art itself, but in the sheer amount of those who consider themselves 'artist', and seek refuge by painting or writing or photographing their own reality. I was excited to see that this renaissance also echoes the sixties in political concern as well. Passion hasn't existed in large quantities in the United States for a long time, partly due I believe to commercialism, but mostly due to complacency. I wouldn't wish the war on anyone- friend or foe- but I do believe that the ‘awakening’ that has resulted from it will benefit us all- artistically and politically- for a long time to follow.
I stepped into the day wearing a coat of neutrality. There were spectators from both sides of the political fight, and ironically those who had come to SUPPORT the war were vehement and angry and nasty to those who were seeking the peaceful retreat. Another eye-opener was the amount of youth that were there- many of whom were no older than 15, some 18, but none the less a shocking number of youth who are active in the politics of our day. It was reassuring. You hear so often that life is wasted on the youth, and I don’t believe this generation plans on doing any of the wasting.
There has been for some time, in my opinion, a renaissance of sorts in the art world- not necessarily in the art itself, but in the sheer amount of those who consider themselves 'artist', and seek refuge by painting or writing or photographing their own reality. I was excited to see that this renaissance also echoes the sixties in political concern as well. Passion hasn't existed in large quantities in the United States for a long time, partly due I believe to commercialism, but mostly due to complacency. I wouldn't wish the war on anyone- friend or foe- but I do believe that the ‘awakening’ that has resulted from it will benefit us all- artistically and politically- for a long time to follow.
LatchKeys:
Bush,
Capitol,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
Iraq War,
photo-journalism,
politics,
war rally,
washington dc
5.05.2009
Collaboratus- Tyler Keeler
- col·lab·o·rate
- Pronunciation:
- \kə-ˈla-bə-ˌrāt\
- Function:
- intransitive verb
- Inflected Form(s):
- col·lab·o·rat·ed; col·lab·o·rat·ing
- Etymology:
- Late Latin collaboratus, past participle of collaborare to labor together, from Latin com- + laborare to labor — more at labor
- Date:
- 1871
1 : to work jointly with others or together especially in an intellectual endeavor
2 : to cooperate with or willingly assist an enemy of one's country and especially an occupying force
3 : to cooperate with an agency or instrumentality with which one is not immediately connected
--------------I"ve taken a recent liking to Chuck Close's work. I'm a big fan of Philip Glass, Richard Serra, and Chuck Close, independently, and have recently seen a fabulous documentary on Philip Glass (that you can see part of here. Support your local PBS) that spanned their relationship with one another and their art's relative connectivity. They are the modern equivalent of the Picasso-Matisse square that was often influenced and in direct competition with their other companions- Degas, Rodin, and a host of contemporaries.
Whilst I certainly don't feel as though Close, Glass, and Serra were in direct competition as they are all masters in separate fields, I, luckily, also don't feel as though I'm in competition with my artist friends- though there is a sort of camaraderie and playfulness that enters any two artist's relationships with one another. It is the nature of the art to be inspired by those you admire.
So, to honor our relationship and to honor the relationship of the artists whom have shaped our world: Glass, Serra, Close, Matisse, Picasso, and many more whom have struck long term relationships (this occurs a lot in writer-land: Dickinson and Wordsworth, Whitman and Emerson.) I wanted to explore this myself.
you can see tyler's work at : TJKPhotography
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
chuck close,
collaboratus,
dickinson,
documentary,
emerson,
friends,
ongoing series',
PBS,
philip glass,
richard serra,
study,
Tyler Keeler,
whitman,
wordsworth
5.03.2009
Jelly // Synthesis
LatchKeys:
abstract,
aquarium,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
jellyfish,
macro,
portugal,
sea-life,
soulshine
Magnetic // Properties
LatchKeys:
abstract,
aquarium,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
long exposure,
portugal,
sea-life
4.30.2009
Confrontation with the Dark City
An essay from my first visit to the East Coast, and the impression she left on me.
I arrive a hop-skip-and-a-jump, seven hours in and out of the heartland, racing towards the origin of the rising sun. Within landing I’m taken into three different states, and at twenty-four hours all deliriousness has eroded into giggles and glee.
In the deep darkness faltering Philly reeks of the apocalypse, as if the city that practically began it all could be its own ultimate demise. Its age is apathetic and dirty- all aesthetic is coated in non-apologetic chaos. I feel as though I’m locked into a dream- a nightmare- a flash forward, as if this fear, this empathy for the wandering bohemians is a stark warning of the impending catastrophe to flood the shores of any remaining decency and prick any Achilles heel available. It laps at the shores and I leap out of its way…apprehension pumps through me. . .
And by day it is back into this decrepit delinquent place to fester some sort of creativity- which satirically is quickly translated through a loving memory of Manson meets ape and the Antichrist superstar of corporate conglomerate is consummated in a lack luster doctor’s office, surrounded by the cloistered creative collective.
A third trip all too swiftly follows the second- with the lack of sleep day is blending into night. This excursion into raw relativity is far less eventful, aside of course from the car just ahead of us deciding that the street lamp no longer serves a purpose, as neither does his right driver’s side axle and tire…it was all so unreal that none of us could speak for fear that it did not entirely happen and that the lack of sleep had finally taken it’s toll and turned deliriousness into hallucination. A noise that unnerving can never be something so trivial as a simple hallucination. I continue to observe the feeble facets of corporations, and feel sick as there is not nearly enough food in my stomach to absorb the disgust in the pompous decomposition.
The next day is predestined early on with an altercation, which sets the mood for a day of excruciating mental and physical detriment. We now shift our attentions on New York City. The big sister, the archetype, the machine.
The energies of the large place leaves me feeling like a foreigner in my own country- no rhyme or reason- just labyrinth after lair with only small cryptic portals to explain to you the destination of the maze into which you descend. You emerge from one distinct civilization to another fairly symmetrical and synonymous, yet inexplicably foreign entity.
Not being able to push through the barrier I wince at every shiver the frosty wind shatters me with, conceiving merciless ripples of agony.
It’s as though the chill that clings to our bones is a purposeful reminder, an assurance that the city knows of your presence amidst the millions and the masses and the melancholy. You are not forgotten, the city does not forget. It is a place where you are acknowledged, yet completely invisible; like a vampire it stalks you, counts every rhythmic breath and step and sinks it down into a collaborative syncopated heartbeat.
The fear has left me now. I have released my spirit to this mechanical mentor. I write to remember the girl that hides inside, lost, but not forgotten. She is still safe and warm as the automaton coats me in it’s thick frost. There is a bridge in the harbor that rotates to allow for the barges to pass the waterways, cutting off passage to the land. Such is the pass to my heart, the girl safe and warm my passage operator. Fear for the day a great wave- a surge of sensation – that will flush out the passage and wash her away.
When the doors slam shut and the cloak of invisibility disguises our ego, we are moved once again by the magnificent mechanism of the city. We stand and sit and sway in its current like seaweed in open water. In our prefabricated shell, conceived on a conveyor belt, manufactured ‘a los manos’ we are isolated and ignorant of anything outside of our immediate environment until a flash of light signals a rebirth into the number and letters that signify our bearing in this world until we dive back into the great current of innocence to ride and sway with the mechanical ebb and flow.
LatchKeys:
antichrist,
brooklyn bridge,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
manson,
mechanism,
philly
4.29.2009
The Jilted Generation's Manifesto
I am angry.
I am scatterbrained.
I am scared and scarred.
I am nervous that this is ALL there is.
I am an over-achiever.
I am anorexic, but I eat anyways, so
I am guilty.
I am an addict to something, but
I am not sure what yet.
I am lonely even though
I am completely surrounded by people.
I am selfish.
I am genuine.
I am capable of many things, but
I am careful in my choice of words.
I am empty and numb.
I am overwhelmed.
I am craving a musical outlet.
I am hesitant.
I am untrusting.
I am vulnerable.
I am diseased.
I am tired of having things to complain about.
I am sick of responsibilities.
I am a hopeless romantic.
I am blessed, but
I am lost.
I am so many things that you never see.
Somewhere, inside of me, is the truth. It is spectacular and overwhelming and omnipotent. I feel the need, repeatedly, to dig deep, “hunker down” and process. I also feel the need to scream, but cannot find the voice, nor the sentiment. Instead I sink down, and nest in, fighting the storm. This “truth”, this fossil which I have discovered is quickly dispelled by any new colorful distraction to my hands and mind in good company, or some newfound irrational fear. But it is there: screaming and silent, mischievous and melancholic. It is something I battle and struggle with- often overcome with grief. A frustrated restlessness overrides my senses and suddenly I’m thrust deep into my nest of temporary sanity. I dig and press and push, until it screams out at me again, and thus: I purge. So, there it is. I know the truth- in its terrifying entirety. I’m sure that you are just dying to hear it- this girl, this naysayer, what could I possibly know about the truth? And, you may ask, the truth of what? Your questions, I’m sure, are many, and your doubt heavy and hazy and thick. But then again, I know the truth, so….I must know how you feel about my own admittance. Well, I have disappointing news for you, and you may not choose to read any farther, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I know the truth, I know it’s there; I just haven’t found it yet- much to my own dismay, you might imagine. Trust me. (Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t- this is, after all, my story.) The time has come, though, to quit hibernating, time to stand up and dust off- as one would say where I’m from: It’s time to “cowboy up”. So this, my dear friend, is the truth in its horrifying entirety, and we shall discover together what exactly it is that we seek. The intention here, is to tell my story and to purge all existence until I stand pure and full of light, face forward.
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
church,
doubt,
favorite,
film,
I am,
jilted generation,
manifesto,
NYC,
prose,
sculpture,
Truth
DELETE ME 7

Here's a link to my Blast Magazine author's bio. It has, at the bottom, all of the active links to my travel photography articles.
Enjoy!
http://blastmagazine.com/author/coneil/
LatchKeys:
article,
Blast Magazine,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
travel
4.28.2009
Tunnel // Migration
The tunnel runs forward ahead of us and I wonder where my sun is? Is She out there. Will I ever break back into Her wash? And then-She is there. Steady and objective. All the white cars like doves fly with us on this road, fanciful flight towards migratory grounds.
Forward frozen
Hesitant time stamp.
Collapsing into environment
Re-rooting.
LatchKeys:
abstract,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
cars,
fly,
poem,
prose,
road,
sunset
Wrestle // Waste
The smell, the pavement; The rain, the people. Worlds biggest stage. You come to get lost and end up watched. You float above or grind through the middle. Underwater.
the submarine.
Suspended and hanging with no one or everyone but your thoughts. still and languid seaweed forest.
Hip forward balance and god on the loudspeaker. Destination determined. Just rush.
Swarm.
Pollinate.
Swim upstream.
My days are not long enough to gather my thoughts. Day makes it's impression as night erases Her from me and again I am left to gather my thoughts. Librarian of the muses I clip and catalog.
Stay with me as I wrestle with my day. Sing to me when the sleep has forgotten my face. Be ever present. Ever near. Form like fog around me and blind the atrocities. Leave those to wander confused in my midst whilst our path be clear.
And lo, though I may waste away I melt into the atmosphere slide particle to particle so that you may breathe it in and be new again. Free of me and complexity. Though the vines will wither in the weight of the berry the birds will sing heavy songs of duplicity: tragedy and empathy.
Run from these words! (These ghosts.) Harken not to their haste and vile influences.
the submarine.
Suspended and hanging with no one or everyone but your thoughts. still and languid seaweed forest.
Hip forward balance and god on the loudspeaker. Destination determined. Just rush.
Swarm.
Pollinate.
Swim upstream.
My days are not long enough to gather my thoughts. Day makes it's impression as night erases Her from me and again I am left to gather my thoughts. Librarian of the muses I clip and catalog.
Stay with me as I wrestle with my day. Sing to me when the sleep has forgotten my face. Be ever present. Ever near. Form like fog around me and blind the atrocities. Leave those to wander confused in my midst whilst our path be clear.
And lo, though I may waste away I melt into the atmosphere slide particle to particle so that you may breathe it in and be new again. Free of me and complexity. Though the vines will wither in the weight of the berry the birds will sing heavy songs of duplicity: tragedy and empathy.
Run from these words! (These ghosts.) Harken not to their haste and vile influences.
LatchKeys:
birds,
cab,
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
favorite,
ghosts.,
long exposure,
NYC,
people,
poetry,
prose,
time lapse,
weight
Wven // Villegas
LatchKeys:
Carly Erin O'Neil,
CarlyRocksPhotography,
collaboatus,
NYC,
portraits,
tattoo,
Wven
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)













