Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Foetal Floods

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.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Wet, wet, what?

There's a certain joy about rainy days that revolves around cake. I have no cake! Please send cake...

... and then we get back to colour. Or, should that be illumination? Beauty, a sense of the aesthetic is dependent on light and this is probably why many people make love in the dark.
The joy of being out in the rain is sensual, especially when it is warm, it is agreeably so.

Wet illumination is far from being a damp squib..

Sunday, March 01, 2015

Sailing a pea green boat upon a wooden sea in a world turned upside down

Of course, writing about the Datura without a photo is all but unforgivable. So, if the mighty Datura was to turn its gaze upwards what a fine goblet it would become. Sterile perhaps... A good reason to open one's soul to the earth, let the ego without and the Earth within...

As for the title, should one go East or West?

... and to think that the sky never gets to see just what is hidden within the depths of that great pendulous blossom whose perfume only comes out at night to seduce the unwitting and torment the unwilling.

hot rock mantis