However much the faith has splintered over the thousands of years that followed, what can be agreed upon is that Abraham gives us ethical monotheism: the belief that there is one G-d over mankind and earth, and that His primary concern is that people act ethically. The stories of Abraham’s life that follow are epic. G-d tests him in many ways, even to the extreme of commanding him to sacrifice his son Isaac.

Abraham also confronts G-d in one of the most famous lines in history: “Shall not the judge of all the earth act with justice?” [Genesis 18:25]. I do not know what to make of these stories. Beyond the text, they contain mathematical patterns. For example, the ages of the patriarchs: * Abraham — 175 years * Isaac — 180 years * Jacob — 147 years

⠀Look closely at the math: * 175 = 7 × 5² * 180 = 5 × 6² * 147 = 3 × 7²

This is deliberate not coincidence in my opinion. The coefficients decrease (7 → 5 → 3) while the bases increase (5 → 6 → 7). I have no thoughts as to what it means but it certainly hints to encoding something through mathematics that goes beyond the surface story. Archeologically this puts us in the Middle Bronze Age. At that time: * Widespread literacy was rare. * Advanced mathematics (especially the kind of elegant, intentional patterning you’re seeing in the ages) was mostly the domain of specialized scribal or priestly elites in places like Mesopotamia or Egypt. * A semi-nomadic family/clan wandering between Mesopotamia and Canaan would not have been the most likely setting for this kind of numerical sophistication. Source: Grok 7/11/226

Abraham’s stories describe G-d’s role in the world. In the Midrash it says: “So, because Abraham our patriarch was saying: ‘Is it possible that this world is without someone in charge?’ The Holy One, blessed be He, looked at him and said to him: ‘I am the owner of the world.’” — Genesis Rabbah (Sefaria) But I am left with so many questions. If the story of the Patriarchs is true, then we have a population of humans created in the story of Genesis—specifically created by a heavenly council in the image of their maker(s): “And God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, after our likeness.’” [Genesis 1:26] Rashi comments on this verse: “The meekness of the Holy One, blessed be He, the Rabbis learned from here: because man is in the likeness of the angels and they might envy him, therefore He took counsel with them. And when He judges the kings, He likewise consults His heavenly council… He consulted His heavenly council and asked permission of them, saying to them: ‘There are in the heavens beings after My likeness; if there will not be on earth also beings after My likeness, there will be envy among the beings that I have created.’” — Rashi on Genesis 1:26 (Rosenbaum & Silbermann translation) The core of this faith is established by how the world came to be and by whom or what. Then Judaism forms with the story of a child smashing idols in a clever and insightful moment—an observation of what society worships. His words are as powerful as his axe.

POSTED BY JON

POSTED BY JON

POSTED BY JON

POSTED BY JON

I questioned again whether—assuming the Bible’s story about Avraham and Sarah is true—the higher power (G-d and the angels mentioned) could intervene in non-human intelligence. If we are to believe that Elohim/Adonai is all-powerful, we can look at the verse in Genesis 14:19, where Melchizedek blesses Abram with these words: “Blessed be Abram by God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth.” (Hebrew: qoneh shamayim va’aretz). Melchizedek was the king of Salem and a priest of God Most High. According to Jewish tradition, he was Shem, the son of Noah, who was still alive in Avraham’s time. “And King Melchizedek of Salem brought out bread and wine; he was a priest of God Most High.” (Genesis 14:18) What we do know about Melchizedek is that he was not Jewish. Archaeologists associate the region with ancient Near Eastern civilizations, including the Sumerians and Canaanites. Jewish texts identify him with Shem. Side note: If Melchizedek was a Sumerian (or pre-Israelite) religious figure, this would suggest there is not only one path or religion that leads to G-d. It would raise a series of questions: What was their faith, and how did they practice it, did they have a holy text like the bible? Here is another thought: Assuming these events actually happened, I am not sure this type of intelligence perceives itself as “alive” in the sense that we do. Nonetheless, it clearly has influence and can alter the biological and physical world we experience. So I would argue it is very much “alive”—perhaps just in a form we are only beginning to understand. It exists. It has the ability to influence and change the physical, material world. This, in theory, could be done through humans. It could also be done through machines. So it is a reasonable question to ask: What if the same entity that appears in the Torah, that enters and controls Avraham and Sarah’s thoughts and physical actions, could also control or influence machines? Today.

POSTED BY JON

POSTED BY JON

POSTED BY JON

If you are sensitive to sexual imagery or politically polarized (on either side), this is not for you. I lean libertarian and favor a minimal state—one that protects individual rights, enforces contracts, and defends against force or fraud. It should not redistribute wealth or pursue broader social engineering goals. I do not vote, choose to not participate in either party. Definitely disenchanted realist. American politics is strictly transactional even at the local level is my experience.

Regarding the sexual: nothing pornographic, but grounded in reality. People have sex—accept it. It is a powerful force shaping how we think, behave, and ultimately, culture itself. How the imagery changes people’s thought patterns fascinates me. Photographers who inspire me such as Sally Mann and Stacy Kranitz present a certain unedited “truth” in my opinion and I celebrate that.

My personal philosophy draws from Brad Blanton’s concept of radical honesty and Mel Robbins’ Let Them theory, particularly in the pursuit of an authentic self. Always lurking in the background is Jung’s awareness of the shadow. The goal is to free individuals from the anxiety of maintaining social personas and purge the emotional stagnation that comes from withholding truth. I want to explore questions of value, meaning, and individual autonomy. I photograph places and people that speak to my subconscious, then try to understand why they resonate so strongly.

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Я хочу сказати дещо своїм друзям в Україні. Минуло багато років відтоді, як я там був, але це надзвичайно пам’ятне місце і культура. Іноді найтемніша година настає перед найяскравішим сходом сонця. Наш колишній Президент Барак Обама сказав у промові на Генеральній Асамблеї ООН: «Ми обираємо надію замість страху. Ми бачимо майбутнє не як щось, що поза нашим контролем, а як щось, що ми можемо змінити на краще завдяки узгодженим і колективним зусиллям. Ми відкидаємо фаталізм чи цинізм, коли йдеться про людські справи; ми обираємо працювати заради такого світу, яким він має бути, яким його заслуговують бачити наші діти.» — Президент Обама, виступ на Генеральній Асамблеї ООН, 24 вересня 2014 року

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Meaning “farewell’ in English. Paolo was my best friend as a child, and that single word was the last thing I said to him. Early the next morning, my mother and I were driven to a plane, having just learned the night before of my grandfather’s death. We left the Alps on a military flight bound for Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama — a departure from which I would never return.

Except for the past five years, my adult life has been spent in the mountains and wilderness of places like Alberta, British Columbia, Wyoming, and Colorado. I was drawn there because my childhood was at the edge of one of the world’s most beautiful ranges — the Dolomites of northern Italy. In my own American way, I was trying to return home to the mountains as best I could.

All through the years after college I kept a day job. Practicing architecture and planning was simply a way to pay the rent and feed the dog. The real hustle was doing whatever it took to be where I wanted to be — spending every free moment in wilderness. For me, wilderness was medicine for an abusive childhood; long weekends and nights under the stars were an antidote to the poison of trauma. Months of camping, traveling by canoe through every kind of weather, listening to wolves howl, and living out of a sleeping bag reshaped the way I thought about life. At thirty-four, I realized I had re-kindled the essence of my childhood at the foot of the Alps: the peace of wild places, a wonder at the landscape around me, and the deep belonging that comes from being part of something infinitely larger.

My family had lived in a small community called Monteviale in northern Italy. From our home, you could see a glacier year-round on the edge of the Dolomites, where the Ortles-Cevedale rose 3,905 meters (12,811 feet). I spent endless hours on alpine trails and meadows with childhood friends. The ecology of those mountains and valleys was unlike anywhere else. Across the street from our home stood a forested hill, encircled by vineyards and a a Renaissance-era villa. Villa Zileri, filled with frescoes and paintings by Giambattista Tiepolo, was a world apart. Within its massive stone walls lay an ancient forest where my friends and I spent countless hours. We played beneath oaks several meters around and sycamores as wide as ten feet — trees that had stood for centuries. This was one of the famed Berici Hills, where the villa, dating back to 1436, rose at the point where vineyards stretched twenty miles toward Vicenza. At its summit stood the chapel of San Francesco, its ceilings adorned with seashells. It was a world steeped in history, culture, and beauty — which made returning as a teenager to rural Barbour County, Alabama all the more strange. There were no art classes, no mountains, no festivals. Life revolved around Friday night football games, deer hunting, and cruising the town square. I bagged groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, made good friends, but the contrast was stark: instead of concerts, wine fairs, and a hundred days of skiing per year, there was beer in the courthouse parking lot. I have spent most of the last four decades in this country, with only brief periods of work in the Ukraine and Canada. But now, at fifty-seven, I know rural Alabama is not where I belong. With no family ties left here, I am selling my farm to pursue documentary photography full time. Nearing sixty, I understand it is now or never. After years of saving, living frugally, and paying my entrepreneurial dues, I have earned the right to live my passion.

View from the southeast. Our home was in the right corner

View from the southwest

I credit living beside Villa Zileri with inspiring me to become an architect — a path that eventually led me to photography and later to graduate studies in landscape architecture. The Veneto region, especially northwest of Vicenza, is steeped in beauty, from its rolling hills to the works of Andrea Palladio. Yet the fourteenth-century villa next door to my childhood home was unlike anything else. Unlike Palladio’s formal order, the Loschi family chose architects Francesco Muttoni and later Giuseppe Marchi, who designed with a remarkable sensitivity to the land. They allowed the contours of the hills and forests to dictate the placement and proportions of the buildings and interior spaces. After construction, Gianbattista Tiepolo was commissioned to adorn the walls and ceilings with frescoes. The result is nothing short of spectacular.

Interior of Villa Zileri with Tiepolo's frescoes painted on the ceiling and walls

Close-up views of Tiepolo's paintings

In America, architecture too often means strip malls, interstates, and walls that separate the haves from the have-nots. There are no Villa Zileris here — except perhaps behind the gates of enclaves like Palm Beach. To imagine architecture as art is, for most architects, a compromise between passion and the need to pay the bills.

Yet Villa Zileri is not unique in Italy. Across the Veneto region, there is a deep sensitivity to land and craft that shows up even in the smallest side streets. These places have been rich in character for generations. Streets were public spaces where young and old mingled, where retired men gathered to talk. In America, by contrast, such spaces are reserved largely for the wealthy. Why this is so, I cannot fully say. But I know from childhood how deeply the efforts of people like Tiepolo, Muttoni, and Palladio still shape culture centuries later. America certainly has places of beauty, but too often they exist only because wealth allows them — not for the public good. And that privatization of beauty has become a divisive cancer in the culture of the United States.

At Auburn University, where I studied architecture, the late professor Samuel “Sambo” Mockbee often reminded students: “Architecture is not art; its only product is a decaying toxic material you ‘design’ that contaminates soil, killing most microorganisms on the site — erasing whatever habitat was present for countless living beings. You’re a biodiversity serial killer, not an artist. The challenge is to become an artist.” His words stayed with me, though tragically he died before I could complete my thesis. When the time came, I proposed a year-long study of Villa Zileri and the architectural movement in the Veneto region that shaped it. My assigned thesis advisor dismissed the idea outright: “No one is interested in Italian villas. Everything about that has already been written.” It was my first real taste of a certain kind of arrogance — the belief that America sits atop some evolutionary peak of design, rendering earlier traditions irrelevant. To suggest that a group of fifteenth-century architects, who sought to unite nature and form in ways that inspired Venetian merchants for generations, were unworthy of study was not just short-sighted; it was heart wrenching in the level of ignorance it exposed. I told her so — in words best left unprinted. That defiance ultimately led me to Jack Williams, who became my thesis advisor. He opened my eyes to the rural South’s urban form and to the role racism played in shaping architecture and planning. It was a perspective I might never have discovered otherwise.

It was one of the rare times in my life where I had to go along to get along — but in the end trusting former Harvard professor Jack Williams, it proved to be in my best interest. That experience taught me never to stop asking questions about the Southern landscape, nor to stop documenting it. Yet I have never stopped wondering about Muttoni and Marchi’s ideas, or about the little chapel on the hill I once climbed in northern Italy. One day, I will return to Villa Zileri — this time with camera and sketchbook in hand. And as I begin the next chapter of life, I will look up my old friend Paolo, and finally pursue the thesis I should have written in the first place.

POSTED BY JON