A Gift For The Sea

    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.

Always and Ever (Upward)

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...

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:

The Lovely Will Depart (Upon the Wings of Our Own Terms)

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.
 

She, The Night (Bringer of Gifts)

          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.

Your Space in the Dark (Or the Light)

    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.

A Dazzling Platform (The Earth To Exist Upon)

    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.

The Colour Of Your Harmonies

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.

The Laughter At The Bottom Of The World

      They do not cling to their vessels, though the ocean rises, twisting, folding and contorting before them. They do not swing madly to the port side bow, in vague attempts at fleeing icy eruptions at the bottom of the world.

If you were not here this day, you would imagine roaring, thunderous detonations of oceans upon oceans, and oceans upon jagged earth. But I was here this day, and all I could hear was laughter. The  insane, perverted laughter of madmen?

No.

The laughter of those who live at the bottom of the world, who never quite feel at home, until the world rises up around them and asks the questions, the questions only they can answer...

Some Other Place, Some Other Time

Deep amongst the ghost notes, in the belly of a dream, straining just to see - what is this fog that coats the glass?
Then intake and the window clears, and it halts your very breath;
The streets below all splashed in warmest sepia light, lit by infernos in the west sky.
A city alive with silhouettes, and alive with something more;
It takes a moment then you grasp it - 
There is no anguish here.

Like the moon that pulls the oceans, a shadow in the distance slowly draws your gaze.
Your eyes come to rest upon such grace as you've never seen before.
Oh how softly do her feet fall; they hardly touch the ground. Her hips kiss the ebony of the softest flowing  gown; hypnotising, pendulous, she pulls you deeper with each and every fluid step.

It seems as if she moves toward - is she coming just for you?
Toward you like a wave she swells, and owns the entire space around her.

Exhale - Then rushed with panic as she disappears into your fog.
But with a blink you're on the pavement, and still she moves toward you like a tide.
You're mesmerised.

Her intention washes over you; her conviction liquid warmth;
You offer no resistance (it has no place when you've chosen to dissolve)
She stops just before you, and your breath shares the rhythm of her rising, falling chest,
and she peers into your eyes and you know she sees it all.
You know, because you, too, see all of her.

And there's no need for your words, and there's no need for your time.
Just liquid warmth and amber eyes; those amber eyes that saw you and then shone.

You're suddenly aware of a thousand gliding shapes, wheeling far above you, and beautiful jet black wings unfold from behind her and a rift inside as your heart slips, but she calms you with a knowing smile and away into the sepia light she flies...

Away, she flies.

What a wondrous world to live in, you muse, where truth is all that is. Where there is no need for shame, and no place for despair. Then sadness as she rejoins her winged and graceful kin, and all begins to fade.

You wake with a sense of beautiful loss, and images of silhouettes above a golden city, and you embrace the lovely melancholy that falls upon your heart. Your girlfriend shifts in bed beside you, sensing your sudden wakefulness, and in a gentle voice of silk and night, asks you what has stirred your sleep.

You sleepily recount your dream, and explain how curious it was that everyone had such strange, beautiful, dark wings, and only truth was possible in that majestic city bathed in sepia light.

She giggles next to you and half asleep you wonder why she is laughing at you. Then slowly she rolls over with luminous, amber eyes, and climbs on top of you, smiling as her legs slide either side of you. Wings unfold from her slender back as she moves up and down upon you, an ocean of liquid warmth swelling inside you, and you dreamily remember where you are, wondering why you have such strange dreams.

Dreams that make you wake, thinking no one can fly, and truth is lost and fragmented within a sea of flailing desires. Dreams that for a moment leave you grounded, aware of some other place, some other time; perhaps some place you have been before..?