It has been raining since the weekend and the road at the bottom of the ravine has disappeared. It always disappears when it rains, and then it reappears. This is, possibly, a metaphor for something profound; the myth of Sisyphus or Camus' last dog-end. All that torrential rain wantonly destroys and yet it leaves much beauty in its wake - if confounding water with a ship is somewhat an inside out metaphor.
So, it was here amidst the detritus of Haliba that I discovered where rocks are born...
Just how something so poignant, moving and aesthetically pleasing could be born out of such violence is either a result of feverish anthropomorphism or Nature's manifestation of some Bakuninian urge - or just maybe it was something I recall from childhood and a Golden Syrup tin.
Lost in nostalgia of a sweet tooth long decayed I'm still struggling with the desire to create pictures, photos, or whatever, with texture.Well, if music can speak and poetry is some ineffable non-verbal form of communication in the guise of verbosity, surely, photos can have texture and they can be ultimately sensual at all levels.
... and poignant:
At the end of all this, if one is wondering just what happened to the road - it is probably drifting somewhere out in the Indian Ocean; along with my reveries and desires.
