Shades of grey

So just what is the difference between colour and black and white ? The former is more concerned with the interplay of light on the form. one apprehends the image in some hinterland midway between the eye and the image. There is a strange interaction of the eye reflecting the colour of the colour reflecting the eye.


Black and white is more tactile, it has more depth and is somewhat more brutal. it is about substance. These are the things that are and not as they seem to be. The eye is apart from the apprehension, alone it cannot comprehend. We need to touch the image ...


But, after all, they are but images. Reflections on perception that should inspire one to seek form and substance, that sensual connectivity, wherever one can.

Winter

Cetain etters have refused t wk n my keybard which means that this text is even mre pathetic than ever. S, this is hw he wrte Ridey Waker.



Unti next time enjy the pics !

Twisted limbs and communication crucifix.

What tangled webs we weave and how tangly woven with our own limbs. Seeing writhing human forms in Banyan trees is probably not a good start to a Sunday morning especially after watching the setting of the full moon. And, no, I didn't see the eclipse as it was on the other side of the island behind a great 3072m lump of volcanic rock.





Entangled vines, twisted limbs and lines of communication all on a Sunday. Communion or communication whose is the new god ?


...and then the trees start to walk.


Life is far more tranquil at the rising of the day and the setting of the moon.

KISSING AND HORRID STRIFE - a photographic poem

KISSING AND HORRID STRIFE

I have been defeated and dragged down by pain
and worsted by the evil world-soul of today.

But still I know that life is for delight
and for bliss
as now when the tiny wavelets of the sea
tip the morning light on edge, and spill it with delight
to show how inexhaustible it is:

And life is for delight, and bliss
like now when the white sun kisses the sea
and plays with the wavelets like a panther playing with its cubs
cuffing them with soft paws,
and blows that are caresses,
kisses of the soft-balled paws, where the talons are.

And life is for dread,
for doom that darkens, and the Sunderers
that sunder us from each other,
that strip us and destroy us and break us down
as the tall foxgloves and the mulleins and mallows
torn down by dismembering autumn
till not a vestige is left, and black winter has no trace
of any such flowers;
and yet the roots below the blackness are intact:
the Thunderers and the Sunderers have their term,
their limit, their thus far and no further.

Life is for kissing and for horrid strife.
Life is for the angels and the Sunderers.
Life is for the daimons and the demons,
those that put honey on our lips, and those that put salt.
But life is not
for the dead vanity of knowing better, nor the blank
cold comfort of superiority, nor silly
conceit of being immune,
nor pueriIity of contradictions
like saying snow is black, or desire is evil.

Life is for kissing and for horrid strife,
the angels and the Sunderers.
And perhaps in unknown Death we perhaps shall know
Oneness and poised immunity.
But why then should we die while we can live ?
And while we live
the kissing and communing cannot cease
nor yet the striving and the horrid strife.

D.H. LAWRENCE

Untangled webs and twisted minds

Dreams of a comic reality

Sometimes life is far more surreal than hard. People who have hard lives don't have time for the surreal. Like leisure it has become a somewhat bourgeois luxury. Not that I am one to go around paraphrasing Marx. So, I am not going to complain, merely state the fact that life has taken on a rather cartoonish reality these days. Or is it just Réunion ?


Actually, it is all down to the fact that I had forgotten to charge my two battery packs and had to resort to taking photos on my one touch tribe (wtf?) Why can't you just call it a phone ?


Someone, somewhere, someonce said that they were not sure if their thoughts procured their dreams or their dreams procured their thoughts. I have the distinct impression that my thoughts are currently barbecuing my dreams and this is resulting in a seriously well done version of reality. Of course, your reality is somewhat different and peopled by sane characters and false illusions of security. The interior reality is that the day you start crying soul tears all those watercolour realities will dissolve and you are left with ...

... a soggy tissue. Tis only on disregarding the tissue that you can start to live as long as you clean your nose up first.

Then, make a guacamole with avocados bigger than pineapples.


After all, life is more than just a concept, it is there to be eaten. Perhaps, I should start a recipe page...

Death of a Bread Fruit

Quite what there is attractive about the death of a bread fruit, I have no idea. There is a certain symmetry to be sure, a delightful blending of autumnal colours. Still life or nature morte ?


Still life ? Yes life must. Not that it must go on, it just must and in musting or musking one should rejoice in its beauty, its form and in the joy in tracing that form on those one can behold in their entirety.


I must have eaten too much cari dorade combava or, maybe even hope can grow on old trees.

Seeing the green line ...

It has been said, and I am sure to have mentioned it here before, that, on clear days, as the sun sets a green line can be seen on the horizon in this part of the world. Tis true that I have seen many a setting sun and it is not green. The sun sets and sets very quickly, especially at this time of year - it being winter and all. And, do not contradict me for it is not a fact but a subjective poetical whimsy.


The wind rises at this time of year and the south of the island is a blustery as a good day at Portland Bill. Fortunately, there is the sun, which sets. A couple of days ago whilst taking yet more photos of sunsets that are always different and often better than the last I saw it. The green line that is, not the sun. In fact it is not a green line but a flash of green like that of a port side lamp on a storm-tossed galleon - the Flying Dutchman obviously. That's it. A flash of green.


A flash of green. After spending all those years staring into sunsets I am not too sure if it actually exists or if it is a precursor to blindness. Surely there is a moral there somewhere - a metaphysical metaphor about the humbling nature of existence, the weight of the soul or the stupidity of staring at the sun. It is bright, the sun not the starer.

For I have seen seabows off the gates of St Pierre ...

The pleasures of early Sunday morning as the sun rises and chases the wee folk of the night skittering and dancing into the sea.



Intense the experience if one were only to allow one's emotions to promenade with the eyes seeking greater depth and feeling with all that one beholds.


An awakening suitable for early hours solitary walking. Try it ...

Landscapes of the mind ...

Funny things minds. You take them out of themselves into the great wide world and they construct hitherto unknown Boschian realities that feed on themselves.


So be it. This is a moment for quotations not sucking up the flotsam of the psyche through the navel.

"That I am I.
That my soul is a dark forest.
That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.
That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.
That I must have the courage to let them come and go.
That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognise and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women."

-- D.H. Lawrence: Studies in Classic American Literature, Benjamin Franklin

Words accrue ...

Should words accrue around meaning, I am not too sure what accrues around images. There is a certain depth in a good image into which one falls.







... and falling is a dangerous liberating thing. A thing of which it surely cannot be because it is an action. Too much waffle.

“I cannot cure myself of that most woeful of youth's follies--thinking that those who care about us will care for the things that mean much to us.” D.H.Lawrence

Something in the way she ...

The anthropomorphication of the abstract in Nature

Found Bosch and Dali looking for sand on the beach. Well at least Hockney wasn't there.





... and all this next to a great steaming pile of lava ...