Are you warm? said the winter ground to the hibernating animals. No answer. No sound, except those of the crisp rustling leaves.
That is a good way to begin this Share-a-thon, which is really something quite new for me (on this blog, anyhow). Newness provides different complexions. Photography helps me to work on my complexion.
The “un fantasma” (“a mere image”) or that Unrelenting Melt (Sontag).
Self, like unseen dew drops mocking the naked eye.
Rilke: “These trees are magnificent, but even more magnificent is the sublime and moving space between them, as though with their growth it too increased.”
That is a good way to begin this Share-a-thon, which is really something quite new for me (on this blog, anyhow). Newness provides different complexions. Photography helps me to work on my complexion.
The “un fantasma” (“a mere image”) or that Unrelenting Melt (Sontag).
Self, like unseen dew drops mocking the naked eye.
This makes me think of the idea of the “verbal tunnel”—or, as Hamlet would reverb: “I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself
a king of infinite space”
Self-portrait, as if a multitude of oneself could flower beyond the impenetrable lens.
Before taking this, there was a young couple walking hand-in-hand that looked at me briefly with a smile. After taking this, that same couple walked back by as I watched them expecting them to look at me again, but they did not; they just kept walking. Perhaps they saw what the lens would see before I saw what the results were; a kind of Borgesian Infinity and infinite divisibility.
“You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.” (Mark Twain)
Self, as a shadow of things that once were: The color of Spring-teasing nature makes me feel closer to the very roots of the Phenomenon.
Rilke: “These trees are magnificent, but even more magnificent is the sublime and moving space between them, as though with their growth it too increased.”
Walking Upon an Aftermath, I find: two white feathers (still able to float upon the Life of wind), intestines, a stomach, dried blood, animal fur (that still shivered in the wind).
Self-portrait amidst clouds reflecting off of a
stranger’s window on a cold winter afternoon.
Is that really Me in the Mirror, or Light fractured to appear like Me? My hand seems to want to reach out and repair these beautiful malfunctions; the blow-dryer turned upward; the broken soap dispenser, and the running water that someone left on that I turned off right before taking this image.
“perception is a slingshot drawn back to first plasm...”
“A jamboree of the senses jarring us into naming our own circus,
perimeters...”
“The human eye, a sphere of waters and tissue,
absorbs an energy that has come ninety-three million miles from another
sphere, the sun. The eye may be said to be the sun in another form.” (Ronald
Johnson)
What rises inside of me is the beginning of a boundary-free connection that only the Cosmos “knows”—
Sometimes the greatest Euphony is to swallow one’s tongue.
My soul is outgrowing my body; I keep extending by dreaming, like a universe without the law of entropy.
