Tim Barrus

Cinematheque Films

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[voidic3ntity]

& it's within these deformations of my frail horns; I choose to heal.

[watchoutforthorns]

beautiful find on pinterest

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I have discovered one powerful trick to deal with grief. I dance on my abusers graves. I do not care where they are buried. I will travel any distance to find that grave, and I have found them all. All my abusers are dead. Plural. Just being autistic means people will victimize you with no hesitation whatsoever. The teacher who made me do stuff with other boys is dead. My parents are dead. My bosses are dead. There are more. Years of making lists. I stopped making lists of names. I tore them up. Why make lists of the names of dead people. I cannot believe I outlived them. One of the things that makes autism so livid (for me) is that I believe what people tell me. When the swimming coach says he wants to offer me extra time in the pool, I believe it. When the boss says he wants to take me out to dinner, I believe it. When your parents beat you up -- every single day -- you know for a fact you are worthless. It does not end. What ends is life. Autism is hard to live with. I ask questions. I fight for my voice. It is all I have. My battle is to not grieve because these people are gone. I lose that battle every time. My brain wants to focus on what life could have been. Maybe we could have had happy moments. When you are eleven, and someone pours hot food on your head, it's not a happy moment. There are no happy moments. There are only cemeteries. I play my music loud. I dance and dance and kick and reach and rock and roll. The police arrive. I leave. There is nothing to regret.

[enablesomething]

Guzmania Hope

Sony A6400 / Sony 35mm f1.8 Lens / K&F Concept Nano-X Black Diffusion Lens Filter 1/4

[enablesomething]

Euljiro in April 2026

Sony 35mm f1.8

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My gig with this is to explore particle physics and then attempt to communicate the ideas physicists see as a numbers game, translating into metaphors that imply, movement, the dramas of homo sapiens, but at the same time, I feel obliged to do that while the entire galaxy is flying away from every other galaxy at the speed of light. Causing some of us to cling to the notion we are still the center of the universe. We are at the center of a lot of monstrous things, but the universe is not one of them. There is only one question in the universe. What is predictability. What is predictable. What is not predictable. The rest of it is silence.

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Reportage is when you attempt to describe something absolutely inanimate, and then, the thing stands up, and starts singing Madame Butterfly.

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Reportage is a long-form argument with reality, conducted in the open air.

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Reportage is bringing the periphery so close that it burns the center.

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Reportage is the mapping of human geography using a notebook instead of a satellite.

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Reportage is the antidote to the instant; it is patience elevated to a literary genre.

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Reportage is a resurrection of the immediate past, dressed in the prose of the present.

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Reportage is a slow-motion replay of a moment the world has already forgotten.