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.

1 comment: said...

Rain made the road drift away. I like the pictures, they are so lively and refreshing. Makes you relax a bit. Pictures always add color to the article.

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