Silent Monolith

 

     How have I come to believe that I am so undeserving of love? Perhaps not underserving, but so entirely separate from it? A monument to solitude, crumbling. And maybe you can see me briefly before the cloud swallows me whole, but seeing is not reaching. There is no touch.

If you jump, the fall will kill you.
If you swim, the ocean will claim you.

Out here there is only me; silent monolith.

 

The Precipice Ahead

    I have no fear of death. I know nothing more about it than you or any other expert on the subject, only that there is a definite trend amongst the living to not continue doing so uninhibited. Interestingly, for those of us who experience these ‘lives’, we don’t seem to have the foggiest as to where we’ve actually come from, if indeed we have come from somewhere in the first place. Perhaps it is precisely as it seems, and we simply materialise, ride it out for a revolution or two and then dematerialise. Easy come, easy go. 
All of this not knowing is a tedious business, for those who tend to consider the edges beyond our tangible beginning and end. So tedious in fact, and so isolating, that loneliness and despair have become rampant favourites amongst the population. Some inhabitants prefer to occupy those peripheries with intricate imaginations, whatever keeps the loneliness out, I guess. The thing is, you can’t keep out that which resides inside of you. 

If only they knew. 

If only they knew that surrounded by a void, we have each other. If only they knew not to bicker over blind spots, to squabble over propriety.

Imagine acknowledgement of the nothing behind, and the nothing ahead, but also the everything surrounding us, moving with us, as we move.

And many soar over the edge, yet the heart always remains. 

Oh fluid heart, I do not fear your waterfall, though I rush toward the precipice. You bring conviction to my inquisitive existence, as you bring me to your edge. 

We rush toward the precipice, and none escape the fall.

 

No One Arrives Until They Depart

     It was a wallaby apocalypse. Which is entirely paradoxical, because you know the wallabies are friendly when both of you get bitten by them...

Mike Hemus and I recently had a little adventure in Tasmania. Mike documents all of his journeys with photographical stories, and has an innate gift for capturing images of humans and moments that are the kinds of images that other photographers wish they had taken themselves. His blog, Departing Friday, is where his growing collection of unique, quirky stories can (and should), be viewed. 

During this most recent adventure, we surfed a bunch, kicked footballs, drove a lot, drank coffees, spoke of Douglas Adams and the universe, took a thousand photographs each, and were both bitten by wallabies. 'imagine perfection' is Mike's brilliant Tassie gallery. This is my ode to the man who inspired my photographical beginnings more than any other - the story of the same trip, but with my own version of imagery: