Sunday, December 23, 2012

First light, second light.



There's probably few times when we struggle more than against the first light of day. Our perspective is lost in the less than half-light, our footing is insecure and our confidence is still gaining ground from the ebb of the blackness. How comforting it is to see a familiar landmark, feel the grass beneath our feet and the moist air on our face. This is a time to remain steady, wait and watch as our mind comes to grips with the topography, and our fears abate, along with our hunger for the day to begin. Out there, in the grey of the day is everything we left behind and all that lay before us, waiting to be woken by the scream of a gull or the explosion of a wave against the rocks. We wait back just a little before we step into the day, fearful of stumbling, searching intently for signs of the jagged, precipitise edge  whose white face beckons for the light to mark the way.
We've seen this before, you and I, back when. We were younger and intrepid, pushing our fears aside and stepping into the light as if to bring it forward, defiantly, daringly, somewhat foolishly wanting to loose our footing and feel the ground beneath our feet move to a fate where we could go, then laugh into the dark and into the light of the new day coming.
Now we wait for the second light, the reassuring light that comes as we ponder the dangers ahead and anticipate our less eager actions. Nothing foolhardy for us now. The end of this next day draws as close as its beginning and we are in no hurry to meet that time head on.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Waking from a dream

I know I'm old when my dreams no longer contain images of nubile wenches gyrating frantically before me with lustful intent.
Now I dream about photographs - of Grass!
One of my students asked me the other night how do i come about taking a photo. Where does the idea come from? What is it I think about before I take the shot? She was particularly looking for a technical answer with regard to choice of camera, lens, exposure, PoV, etc. She got that but it set my mind into teacher mode.
I know there is a routine, almost a ritual, I will waddle through before I am content with the shot hanging on the wall but I haven't analysed it all that much. It sort of goes with putting my left sock on before my right and always sleeping on the door side of the bed. Today, with the internet down and the world reduced to shouting distance I put the extra time I seemed to have gained to good use.
This is a typical scenario.
On Sunday, Christine and I were out for a drive. Bored with waiting for Telstra to return our contact with the world we decided to take a look at it head on. On our wanderings we passed a small patch of rough land not far from the Botanic Gardens which seemed quite overgrown with grasses. A few native trees poked their way through the undergrowth like hikers out for a walk. It was a fleeting glance but it buried itself deep in that bit of my brain reserved for trivia.
During that night I was restless in my sleep. Images of long grass waved in the breeze and the smooth bark of gums flashed brilliantly in the sun. Distinct images, framed in black mahogany, begun to hang before me. I walked throught the grass among the trees in my half-sleep until I had a number of images clearly before me. I had, in a sort of way, worked out what I wanted to photograph and how it should look. I also decided there and then what I would need to get that in terms of gear, timing and PoV.
The next morning I followed my dream, so to speak. The feeling of expectation is quite high at this point. I don't know this place but it takes on a familiarity in a deja voi sort of way. After all, I was here last night, all night. As I walked I looked for the images in my head. There they were, just as I had designed and anticipated. I can move quickly into position and shoot without faultering. I do keep my eyes open for things I missed in my dreams, and there are usually a few, but generally I am happy with the few shots I had come for.













This sort of shooting doesn't require much processing. I know how they will look and I know how to get there. Within a few minutes they are ready for printing. I do some 6x4 proofs and print at least one for framing.

The answer to all questions

The light seems further away today, as if it is retreating to new ground and leaving the cold behind. If I peer into the dark from here I can see nothing but a fading memory surrounded by the noise of darkness. The line I stand on is that which separates one life from another, the old and the new, the past and the future, what we had and what we could have. The present is a thin knife edge between the two. We balance ourselves on this ridge with either precipice facing us. If we step back we slide into a chasm of semi-darkness in which fragments of our existance entangle like the straw and mud of a swallows nest. If we step forward we are blinded by the light of the unknown, terrified by the facts and figures which can change our very thoughts and beliefs, releasing us from one life and shoving us full frontal into the next.
In the half light of today, we can only wonder and wait. Tomorrow we will still remain in the half light of the present. One more day will fall into the abyss and another will gleam in the brilliance of the new light.
We are truly alone.

Closing down sale

It sounds so final. Closing down sale! The goods are no longer of any use, the register is no longer cashed up, the shelves no longer bare the burden of better times, the customers have found new fields within the sprawling mall of commerce. In a last ditch effort to reap some fodder from the dry stalks, we open the doors to a final rush. Tomorrow is no more, is the cry from the crowd. This is our last chance to lay claim to unwanted produce. But why? Yesterday it was worthless and tomorrow it will be discarded, yet the tenacity of the purchaser is to fight for every last thread of whatever waits in stock. The crowd will strip the carcass bare and lay the bones out for the creditors.
Is all this a metaphor for a life? Who will pick us dry when the time comes to close the doors? And who will be our creditors? What will there to show for a life well spent in the pursuit of satisfaction gained and lost, purchased and discarded, bought and sold? And will the mourners come at the last minute to salvage what they can in an undignified rush of sensual spending, only to discard the corpse and move to the next sale?
Keep your eye on the sign. I'm closing down.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Consistency in change



I've watched grass grow. It doesn't; until you turn away. My grandson never grew until he went away and came back. I never age until I look in the mirror. The city in which I live grows only when there is an election. The toothpaste tube never runs out until there is none left. Milk never sours until it is poured into a cup of coffee. My clothes always fit until I am about to dress for work and the car is always fueled up until Christine is about to go shopping.
Change is sudden. It will happen when we least expect, while we are inattentive, not watching. One moment the pods will be full and whole, and the moment we turn away the place will be scattered with the new.
Pay attention, my friends. Tomorrow you will be older, the cat will have left home, your partner will no longer open the door for you, your children will have children of their own and the lawn will need mowing once again.
Grass does grow, but not while you watch.

Knowing Darkness



In the half light of decay I can see no further than my next thought and listen only to the sound of the last word spoken. I am no longer blinded by the light of others or deafened by the profanities they speak. Every answer has a question, every thought a need to clarify, every vision is seen through an aging mist filled with mournful sounds and cries for help. Yet none of this is of any importance to me. I hold the next breath as one might grasp a rope at the edge of a precipice. The next heartbeat is the last. The next thought is the lingering remains of a lifetime of experiences. I must hold this inside, away from the dragnet of the reaper. Hold the visions as if from a waking dream. Retain only what is relevant for the next moment. If I cannot see I cannot be seen. If I utter nothing I cannot hear. All that is left is what I hide behind these broken hands and no-one can know who this is.

Friday, November 23, 2012

Elsewhere


.
Nothing equates to the pain of wanting to be elsewhere. This futile yet fundamental human endeavor devours us on a daily basis only to be usurped on the odd occasion by shopping and mowing the lawn. Like shopping and lawn mowing transportation by thought processes should be avoided at all times. We have seen the result of such endeavors in various fictional works such as Star Trek and Dr Who and we both know how that turned out. My suggestion is to choose more conventional means; even an aircraft if you keep your fingers crossed during the flight. Although many experiments have been carried out in the hope that one day we will be able to move across large expanses of water just at the mere thought of it, I suggest you try a boat otherwise the result of all that heavy brain work will simply result in sitting on a cold concrete wall for a very long time.

Feeling secure



I sleep easy these days knowing I am being watched. By whom I am unsure but it is nonetheless reassuring to know that when I visit the Waterfront Precinct to enjoy yet another sunset, I will do this unconcerned about the marauding thieves and vagrants that hide in the shadows. Why, it was only yesterday a small, but ugly, child swooped past me as if running from the law, and carrying a choc chip, double vanilla ice cream cone he had most likely stole from a little old lady after battering her with his state board.
I do feel protected by the very presence of these security cameras, but I do wonder if there is someone out there checking the monitor for trouble or the taski hasn't been outsourced to a university student somewhere in Mumbai.

Stratosphere



Lumps of metal filled with fat bums and bad food are not meant to fly. Gravity was invented to prevent this sort of thing from happening. I know if they keep moving forward the Laws of Physics will keep them up there but what if we got something wrong? Just what if Bernoulli was a bit off with his calculations? What if the engineer misread his slide rule? What if carbon fibre decided it just wanted to behave like the plastic handle on my spatula and break off unexpectedly?
I try not to think about these things too much, especially when I am one of the fat bums eating the abominable food served by smiling stewards, all with their fingers crossed behind their back as if they know something I don't.
Nevertheless, I am thankful they do fly if only to stand with my feet firmly planted on the ground and observe such a beautiful sight.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Worlds apart



How many worlds are there? Count them. These fragments of the Solar System orbit some central point without colliding. They are satellites of a universe where gravity exists and the centripetal force keeps each at bay and at large. Life exists within and then there is space, void of all things necessary to sustain a living thing until the next spinning mass. Occasionally a cursory coalescence disturbs the cosmos and the stratosphere of two celestial bodies is shared. Then time and the speed of light pulls them apart to become a star somewhere out there in the blackness.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

A Love Story



Is that how it is for us blokes (and sheilas as well); man and the machine?
We spend a great deal of time thinking up these monsters and then we become so attached to them we can't let them go, even when they have well passed their use by date.
For some its hard to part with the smell of grease and burning coal. Its even harder to part with the memories.
I watched as he fondled and patted his pet, caressed its curves and stroked its steam laden pipes. He does it all day for no more reward than that of a promised return tomorrow. He and the machine will be no closer to completion at the end of the day. For 50 years he did this. Then he retired and his heart died until he could find her again and be close once more. This is truly a love story.

Individuality




The path of individualism is strong among the youth. During those formidable adolescent years each young person will strive to find their place where they can be seen and recognised for what they are; unique human beings with a will and destiny to be fulfilled. Gone are the pre-pubescent days when following the crowd was acceptable, almost necessary. That was a time of learning through mimmicry, seeking the mentor in an older sibling, deriving recognition from conformity, being one of the crowd. Now the crowd has dispersed and each must stand alone, a statement of independence, a new voice among the roar of the 'madding crowd's ignoble strife'. Individuality comes in many guises and manifests itself in equally as many forms. Expectations are great among peers. One must belong and be unique. It is a challenge. Not everyone succeeds. Those who do, blend in nicely. To the outsider, the difference may be barely noticeable. Individuality can be subtle.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Modern dreaming



We will often find we are where we do not want to be. Then we dream; new places, new life, new fortunes, new future, new present. Even the past is dreamed in a new night, a different light. Everything fits. Nothing is left unfinished, the sun shines the air is clear and fresh, and the garbage never needs taking out.
There is a time for dreaming. It is when you are asleep. The rest of the time keep a clear view through your umbrella so you don't step in a puddle. Dreaming with wet feet is not recommended

Crossing the line



Are you game? Go on, just a bit further. You want to, I know you do. Quick, while no-one is looking. You deserve it. More than anyone. More than him anyway. It's yours for the taking. It's not like he needs it. No-one needs it more than you. All your life you've worked hard to get what you need and now it's time to take what you want. It's always been you at the end of the line, last to be fed, missing the bus, too late for the last chance. You gave in. You gave it away. You let it go. You lost your chance. Now there is a new chance and you can take it.
That's enough. You wouldn't want to go too far, would you.

Patience



How much patience we need to get to where we are going. The waiting room, the queue, the departure, the arrival, the time in between. Next please. Wait here. Move along, your turn is coming. We are doing the best we can to ensure your safe arrival. Come back tomorrow. We will be ready for you then. There isn't room for you yet, did you make an appointment? The doctor is busy. Everyone is on holidays. Try that counter, fill in this paperwork, pay your dues, collect the token. Here, while you wait you could be doing something else.
What else is there but to wait?
Live.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Expectations



When we place one foot in front of the other we expect the ground beneath to be firm and yet forgiving. We find the shade of a tree will provide shelter from the searing midday sun, the cooling of a breeze to ease the pain in our head, the strength of a crooked stick to support our aging bones.
Without some expectation we seemingly have no future, no rest from the angst of doubt, no reality to face tomorrow. We base the outcomes of the future on what we have experienced in the past. Like the cliches they are, we expect the sun to rise, the rain to stop and the apple tree to bare fruit.
Yet there is one expectation we often deny ourselves; that of death. Without it there is no life but with it we see an end, an expectation we would prefer to live without. That itself is a dilemma and contradiction we find unexpectedly at the end for all of us.
So what do we do? We learn to live with it. As the man walks forward, shaded by the trees and cooled by the breeze, he lives as he expects; with life before and end. It is the life we live, not the death. Keep walking with expectation and caution.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Eccentricity



Just when you thinks its safe to turn right
Turn left.
Breathe in not out; whisper, not shout, Disgression not flout
Build a bridge not swim or walk
Don't sit, get fat
Keep a toad not a cat, be nice; twice
Sing in the street when there's no-one around
Act the clown, wear red, in bed
Carry a spade you had hand made; in Buxton not Spain
Talk really fast about bottles and last weeks news
Poke your finger in pies and old ladies eyes
Then wink at the girls and pat the boys
On the bum for some then giggle when you read the obituary
Never say please or thank the attendent who wants your ticket
Be wicked and smile, then fart and be vile.
Then when you least expect
Turn right not left.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Year, right!



Like, he was right there, you know, like totally mental and like he wanted to do it right then but I said fuck off like he was really surprised. He's really fucking game. Like I was going' to do it with him. Like he had no chance. If he tries again I'll take his balls off, right.
Yeah, right!

Head space.



All a man needs is a few crayons, a bit of new concrete and enough light to see by. The feel of sand between the toes and a taste of salt on the lips helps in developing the artistic mood. Self expression is so importantly at an early age. Bloody girls! Do they have to scream like that? Puts a man right off his game.

Life is a blur.



The only thing that is clear is that nothing is clear. Life is a blur. There isn't point in stopping to enjoy it. You stand still for too long and everything passes you by. Before you know it you are the only thing stationary. Someone or something is bound to run right over the top of you. Life's brisk pace slows for no-one. Our measurement of time is arbitrary. Our life might seem long and arduous at times until we come to the end of it and suddenly we are very conscious of the volume of the ticking clock. The next time you hear someone say ' I can't wait until tomorrow' suggest to them they might reconsider if they knew how quickly tomorrow will come.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Bird dreaming.



From our very first breath, we learn to dream. These are not fanciful wishes but aspirations; places to drag us screaming from the first step to the next, the first word, the first beating of our wings. We dream of running with the herd as we stumble nervously beyond our first steps. We aspire to poetry and soliloquy as we babble our first, almost indistinguishable words. We look to the Moon as we flap our feathers in the warming Sun.At first we hear the applause of others as they encourage and cheer us on. They are with us all the way. We feel their ambitions, their hesitation, their wanting and waiting. Then we hear the voice inside. 'Don't go there' it says. 'Be content with where you are'. Others hold us back, defying our eagerness with a blanket of safety and security. We might give up our personal ambitions for the sake of others. 'They care about me' you tell yourself.
Today will be different. today I will make it. Today is the day I take the second step, the second breath, the flight to ........

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Monday, June 4, 2012

Leroy was here.



He came and went, young Leroy, and left his mark for all to see. He brought a friend but she was shy. They drank together, shared a few joints, ate the left over of a Big Mac they had bought earlier and had childish, playful sex. The only light was provided by an iPhone and the smoldering tip of a reefer. For a moment the world stopped and they were in love forever. Leroy is 15 and his friend is 14. It's their first time. It was clumsy and exciting and ended in a giggle and a tear. Their love will last until the morning. Leroy's name will last a little longer. The hut has been here for a hundred years and witnesses many Leroys making their mark on the world, growing up, becoming men, loosing their virginity, giggling and shedding a tear with their new found love. The hut, Leroy and his friend will remember this moment. We also bare witness and know that Leroy was here.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Do dogs have a god?



Just us, I guess. Praise the hand that feeds me. Glory to those who provide me with shelter. Blessed are the blind for they find virtue in me. Give thanks to the kid who pats me as they pass. May I live without biting too many people or pissing on the wrong grass. Keep my breath at bay from those I might offend. I shall remain chaste and faithful until the end as long as my testicles remain intact. I will spread the barking among the rich and the poor alike. There is only one god, His name is Fred. He will carry me to my grave among the other pets in the back yard; the parrot, the rabbit, the cat, one by one.
He beckons me to come and I obey. He releases me into the park to run wild. He watches over me with a small spade and a plastic bag least he is summoned by the council to pay dues. All this is true as my god is my witness.
I just don't understand one thing. Why does he leave me out here when he goes to his god?

The other side



Whichever way we look at it, we are always on the other side. Be it a fence, a political point of view, a bit of religious fervour or an arguement about who's turn it is to wash up. We spend a good part of our waking hours and quite a bit of the sleeping ones dreaming of what it might be like over there. Greener, they say. Lush and forgiving. Luxuriant pastures I have heard. Fat cows with creamy milk. Warm days with cloudless skies. A better life awaits just a brick away.see how tall the fence is, though. I might need a ladder to get over it. I guess I'll just have to stay here a little longer. Who mows the lawn over there?

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Far horizons



Some days the horizon seems such a long way off. If the lines of convergence meet at infinity, that's where I'll find it; that mystical and elusive junction between sky and ground. I can trudge all day and it doesn't get any closer. The same smooth line stretching from somewhere to nowhere. The tide doesn't carry it any closer, the Sun doesn't warm it to me and the black evening sky only hides it from view until the Moon rises. Clouds seem to fall over it's sharp edge, ships appear from nowhere, a dry hot wind pushes the sand from under my feet. Everyone has their horizon, every place, every sky, every sea, every piece of land on which we stand. We can look from afar and dream or we can move forward, either way this strange junction remains precisely where it has always been; just out of reach.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Spotlight



We stand centre stage at the end of our performance and wait for the applause. Blinded by the light, struggling to see beyond, into the blackness, we feel the pregnant pause, the eternity between completion and the complement; time to contemplate for both actor and audience. More than a note has been played, a word spoken, a step danced, a ball juggled, a wig worn and a costume changed for the sake of this performance. Little does the audience know that this has been the performance of a lifetime, filled with drama, laughter, tears, pain and the odd lost script line. Act after act, scene after scene, the show went on and the performer gave what he had; never more, never less but always enough. He has paid his dues and broken more than a leg or two. He knows nothing of his audience, only of himself and they also. yet they come to see him perform his art. They expect to get their moneys worth. They are not disappointed. Still he waits. Then a pair of hands come together and the applause begins. The light fades. He takes a bow and leaves the stage into darkness. He's done his job. He is pleased. There is no encore. The theatre empties for the next performer and a new act. The dust settles on on the stage and silence waits.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Silence broken

It's eight o'clock. Once again the house is quiet. I can hear the tiles shining in the new light. Fragments of last movements glisten in the shadows. An ant treks across the kitchen floor looking for remnants of rain from heaven. A thud penetrates the glass panel through which I can see the rest of the day. A dove lays at the foot  of the door, dazed and lifeless, a feather flutters above it like the halo calling it away. Stupid bird!
I can feel the silence at my back, calling me to shake it loose from its cage. Not yet. I listen to nothing. It tells me all. The restitution for living is in the stillness of silence. It bares witness to my thoughts and reconciles them with peaceful solitude. One thought, one moment; separated by the emptiness of quiet.
Gone! Time to move.
Manring, Metheny, Mehldau caress the walls with rhythms. Soft and warm. The silence is broken. Not broken, stirred; gently. Notes split the air and leave the space between for long enough that it can be heard again. I search for the silence again. It's there, blending with the life of noise. Its music and I am surrounded by it. It will keep me company through the day until the dust is disturbed once more and the silence rests until tomorrow.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Back stage



Any building has a back door as well as a front door. It doesn't have a welcome mat on which to wipe your feet or a chime to greet you. It's not adorned with flower pots, numbers and the name of the resident. The back door is for the tradesmen, the peddler of goods, the kitchen hand. It is purely functional. Back doors don't encourage us to enter. They suggest austerity and defensiveness. They are secure. A deterrent to the passer by. Shapeless forms in a solid defense. Abrupt frames with little indication of what lay beyond. There is no path to guide us, no light to illuminate the way. Just a door in a wall. Yet we all have one; a back door. It's the other place. The one we use more often than not. It's the familiar place of home and work. We let the dog out in the morning, bring the groceries in, enter the garden, attend to the refuse, find our refuge, take our friends, leave open when we are home, secure at night for the safety of those within.
'Have you locked the back door?' is a catch cry of any neighborhood in the late of any evening, before we settle to our slumber.
It is our guardian.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Crossing over


Every time we move forward we cross over from one place to another. There is no going back. Time has taken care of that. From the old to the new, the physical, mental and social destinations beckon us forward. Our vision provides us with a new perspective, new dreams, new friends, new adventures, new space to stretch, strengthen and test ourselves. If we look back we see the old; changing, shrinking like the streets of youth. We might look longingly or with rejoice at moving away but we cannot go back and change that. It will change without us.
The gap in between is sometimes shrouded from our vision. Times of torment, trepidation, anxiety, mistakes, learning and re-learning are easily forgotten as the new adventures spread out before us like a carpet of new grass. Without the space between we have no past and there is no future. We all must pass through somewhere. Others will see it for you and fear for you. They will want you to follow their path. Be guided, but draw your own map. Take water from them and eat from their basket; then welcome them into your world on arrival. You may be on your own but you are not alone.

Another way



200 years isn't a long time in the history of an art form. Photography is an embryo compares to most forms of artistic expression. We are still trying to figure out how it works, what we should include, how we should interpret the results, even learn the language that has yet to be invented. We get tied up with the technical aspects and revel in the complexities of the New Form. In blinding ourselves with the external parameters of the process, the image within us can be lost.
With a single strand of reed from a billabong and a few jars of paint, Eric is able to weave a tapestry of his life and that of his country and ancestors in a slow and patient rigor that is beyond most of us. When he paints he is painting for a culture, his family and his decendents. The image forms is clear in its meaning. The story is as old as his culture. It is his dreaming which was that of his father and his father's father. His son's will dream in the same vivid way: he hopes.
He also paints for the tourists. He, like all artists, need to eat as well.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Cultural divide



Framing and context isn't everything in a photo but it sure goes a long way to getting a message across, whatever the message is. The world around us is sharply and savagely edited by the incisive boundary of the viewfinder. we include and exclude to achieve our goal. And like the spoken word, the contents, once recorded, are there for all to perceive and conceive. But it doesn't stop there. We then place the photo in a new context; the hands of the viewer. The new setting, that of the viewer, renders new colour to the already existing hues. The photographer may ask 2 questions: 'what do I include within the frame to get my message across?' and 'where do I place the photo for maximum impact?' The photograph does not bare witness to reality, only the actual will do that. The photograph bares witness to the power of the photograph and our own misgivings.

Monday, May 14, 2012

The guitar player


_
D301223, a photo by tom.dinning on Flickr.
'He's really good, grandpa'
'He is'
'I bet he practices a lot'
'He does'
'If I had some money I'd give it to him'
'The music is free. Go tell him you like it. That's free as well.'
The young man smiles at the guitar player and the guitar player smiles back.

Cultural divide #2



What fence doesn't divide me from you, us from them, enemy from foe, neighbor from neighbor? 'Keep Out' screams the barbs and locks. The air and light is free to cross. Seeds from the grasses, birds seeking a nesting place, something small and furry scuttles under the bottom strand. I can stand here and see what you have and it's no different to mine. So why do we squabble. There is room for us all. My gate is open. Drop in for a cuppa any time. Let your sheep graze in my paddock. We'll keep the fence but keep it low enough that we can chat over it.

The sand beneath your feet



There is no path that takes us nowhere. Each path moves us from and to another place. With that journey we take with us what we learned from the past in preparation for learning in the future. We step lightly yet carry a heavy burden. Our pulse races with anticipation of some loss yet there is nothing to be lost. With every step we gain ground. There is only growth in following the path. Something or someone will be at the other end to greet you. You will be among friends. One of those that bring familiarity to your new home will be yourself. You cannot leave that behind. Self is what holds our hand and comforts us as we dig our heals into the sand that leads to the shed at the end of the path.

Pillow talk



What goes on here?
This can only be the remains of an event that is far from my understanding. A child's game, a rendez-vous, a grollo for prayer, a pile of refuge. I have not doubt that whatever it is it is of great importance to the people involved. This is no accident. Great care has been taken to ensure everything is in its rightful place and on leaving, nothing remains except the objects of play, pray or lay.
I can't disturb this. This has memories that will outlive me.
We all have our sacred places. Please do not disturb.

The shadow line



I wish I could draw.
Its such a graceful process; drawing. Each line so purposeful, so meaningful, so delicate. It is as though the face grows from the end of the pencil and spreads like oil on water over the paper. Tones appear from no-where, form and structure blend in harmony. The actions of the drawer are equally harmonious but with an added tension and intensity that takes them away from where I am, causiously watching the miracle unfold, and to a place they can call their own. What entices them to do this? Are they doing this for us? I doubt it. This is their world where they can create order out of madness. They can mirror the world as they see it. We need to stand back and observe. Our task is to admire and not to interfer.
How I wish I could draw.
I guess I will just stick to taking photos.

LFBF754



Who will remember the Amelia C? After a lifetime of trawling the Gulf this bulky beauty, with her current make-up of rust and peeling paint will be scuttled and become a home for the animals she helped capture. There is no irony here. This is the way of the sea. Death comes gracefully. What is taken can be returned. Tomorrow a young man will take his tinny out to the reef and cast a line down to the decaying frame. He won't remember her name. He doen't have to. She will welcome him anyway.

Playground



William Eggleston knew how to capture the everyday occurrences of his home. He recognised the beauty in its ordinariness yet he had no intentions of recording beauty in the conventional sense. He gave a strength to his world that is punishingly real and equally recognisable.
Eggleston can help us all see what we miss.

Flight



I don't mean to be scary. I understand you must preserve your freedom. But stay a while. I'll just watch from here. You do what you need to. If anyone comes I'll alert you. Please stay.
I do know how you feel. Trust is everything. Some days I wish I could fly.
Maybe tomorrow I can get a bit closer.

Page #3



What lies behind the wall at Number 90? Something we should not see, I suspect, judging from the formidable barrier provided by the residents.Perhaps a fortress guarded by savage dogs on long chains, hungry for flesh. Maybe a cortisans court or a den of iniquity where bare breasted nubiles flaunt themselves before the glaring eyes of the lechers who covet them. There may be secrets behind this wall that we should never hear. Whispers of deviance or dalliance. MI5, CIA, ASIO and other acronyms of mystery and intrigue.
Number 90 is telling us: 'Move on. There is nothing here that concerns you.'

Plug



Its a miracle! I plug the chord in and this marvelous machine sucks the dust off the floor, along with a small toy, a beetle, 2 spiders and their web and a button I have been searching for. No-one else in this house seems to be able to do this. 'Tom, can you do that thing with the machine that makes that funny high pitched sound?' is the pathetic request from 'Her Ladyship'.
It's called a vacuum cleaner and the act of using it is called vacuuming.
My sister brought a young man home to meet my parents many years ago. My father said her appeared to have the intelligence of a vacuum cleaner. The young man must have had a retractable chord for I saw no sign of a 3 pin plug protruding from his rear.