When the Earth falls, fly.
When the Earth falls, fly.
Beauty will drift in and out of your world, the residue of which will remain laced within your heart long after its departure. This is nothing to fear, for you too will stir the hearts of others, though onto your own horizon you will continue.
Do not cling to me, for I will drown - and I gladly avow the same for you. And though closer my horizon with the passing of each day, the colours of those adrift will blend, and deep within my forever, will remain...
You have a gift for the sea.
It is not yours to carry, after all. It is not inherent. You have grabbed at it with glee for so long that it may even be possible that you do not feel comfortable without it. You do not feel yourself, without it.
Oh how agonisingly clever we are that we can convince ourselves of such things.
How strong we believe we are, for the weight we choose to walk beneath.
How proud of our struggles.
How ignorant of our innate peace.
It is ok to release the weight.
It is ok, to release the wait.
Leave your turbulence for the sea.
Let the towering earth beneath your feet lean with you as the updraft
removes it from your grasp.
You are the frequency you send forth from your soul; not the tempest you receive from the world.
Gift it to the sea.
Up is always the direction you are heading.
The only thing that ever changes is perspective.
Of course, the same can be said of down...
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:
I am dissolving. I am no longer violence.
The shapes I take sweep across the ruptured Earth,
Rising with a thousand misting arms,
Swelling with each pulse;
The rhythmic pulse beneath all things.
I am deconstructing. I release the pieces as they fall.
The inverse shadow, innate being - he who needs no voice,
For in silence I am heard.
Fading, it may seem to you;
Though further you could not be from truth.
(Do you not notice those who exist beyond your games?
Do you still bend inside your tiny home, when you could step outside the walls?
What sort of game would it be, without the essence that allows you within it?
Have you convinced yourself the door remains locked to you?)
I am expanding. I have long since raised my eyes.
I dismiss the glut of your conceited terms,
Your arms will pass right through me;
Reassess your existence, oh fortunate brother,
You have capacity enough to yet discover -
The lovely will depart, whilst your finger rides the trigger,
Meaning disappears, behind the walls of gold and treasure.
The statues of our history, cut such a lonely figure;
When acceptance of the greatest ruse, has become our guide and measure.
Again, the night happened. I watched her saunter across the land, she, bringer of hidden gifts. She felt my quiet eyes following her across the sky; timid little human eyes.
And then she undressed. Right there in front of me. She revealed it all to me, the luscious, naked truth of her being. Unashamedly she swam across the vastness that belongs to her, and told me many secrets. She told me to tell you: There is magic here. She bestows us with it in the peaceful dark, enriching us with every visit. And long after she dressed and I watched her move across the world again, I felt it still. She told me to tell you this - and that you too, will feel it soon.
How often did you drop your head, and succumb to the tendrils in the dark? How often did you close your eyes, hoping only to make it through, awaiting only the scars? You never questioned the talons, reaching from the depths; reaching from the heights. You never questioned your standing, your place in the world, never once gave credence to yourself.
I implore you my friend - raise your eyes.
See, and see well: the space that you occupy is yours alone. A space has been afforded your existence, equal to all else that has ever been afforded existence. Though tendrils reach, and the forest warps around you, there is a space that remains for you at all times, that none can invade. And the power that you have given to that which exists above, below and around you, exists for you no less.
It is only dark because you have closed your eyes.
There will only be scars, because you allow the wounds.
My friend; raise your eyes, and see.
To wake daily at the foot of mountains, with a fire still contentedly gossiping in the hearth. Shadows sweeping and gliding across the land hand in hand with icy Northern winds, both turning sharply upwards and racing unhindered skyward, rising as abruptly as the shifting adolescent Earth dictates.
Steaming soup cupped within a relaxed and grateful grip, stepping out into the world and welcomed without hesitation by the morning bluster. Long hair dancing in a gleeful, chaotic flurry, though as with all other morning greetings, entirely failing to garner any of your attention.
For the mountain has you. The weaving winds and busy, dark, sweeping clouds have you. The mingling aromas of smoke and soup arouse and warm you. Nothing stretches beyond you other than the world itself, and what a dazzling platform that is; the Earth to exist upon.
The days are short, and you spend the largest time of it busying your heart in tending to your music, and beside that fireside melodies spring from your essence to the page. A car engine slowly crescendos into your awareness, and draws your gaze out through the frosting window, you are surprised to see that it is near dark outside - had you been so lost in song that another day was gone? As the car pulls up and becomes quiet next to the house, another pair of lights appear beyond it and a second car hums its way toward you.
Your closest neighbours exit their vehicles with hair dancing wildly just as yours had so many hours ago that morning. They too, unfazed by the insistent breezing flutter. You open the door to them and light and warmth spills and tumbles out toward them, accompanied by the hearty scent of fire and soup and warm bread. With jaunty greetings more of laughter than of words, your friends enter the richness of your home, and with them of course, instruments and wine.
As usual, the evening hazes into the wee hours, always in the same order of proceedings: Feasting, music, then chattering away into the night, lubricated with wine, fire light flickering gently across contented faces. Discussion inevitably delves deeper in synchronicity with the night, and in the silent spaces between the laughter, you find your mind wandering again to that dazzling platform, and wonder if there are others to exist upon.
You know that before long you will have your answer, so you reach and find another log for the crackling flames to feed upon, decant another bottle of wine amongst your bubbling, rosy cheeked guests, and again your collective laughter fills the valley, and rises up that mountain with the wind, carried away to who knows where.
Crimson gardens sprawl across a valley in a barren land that you will likely never find. Tended to by a wise old man whose words will not be understood by most in the peopled lands, but who knows enough of painting his world, that even though his heart sings in harmonies of blue, the scarlet creepers must have their place too.