Every image has a story
Reaching out, pulling, pushing, driving, seeking. The tendrils of emotion writhing and squirming in patterns balanced by their opposition. Cradled, guided, caressed and carried toward their goal. But question the goal you must and feel the movement of the current and see where it may end.
Feeling strength and weakness in all that stretch, shrink, collide and separate, that burn and calm the racing of the heart.
I have thoughts of things that I would like to do, the thoughts make my body feel a certain way a physical reaction to the imaginary scene.
Then sometimes I live out those experiences and try and capture the moment, either with a photograph or with a print upon my mind.
How many times does the body feel the same in the moment of the experience in comparison to the dream? I am not sure it is ever the same.
But after when I look back, the experience and body’s reaction seem to fit back into the dream. The story you tell about the experience is explained with words you learnt to think before you actually lived out the thing.
But how did the body really feel? how was it in the now? how did you feel with the fire upon your face, to look at the stars and let the mind race. To be lost among your thoughts, to drift and die and conclude naught. Just sit and feel and lie awake to let nature consume, devour, sedate.
Sometimes the picture does all the talking for you. It’s simply beautiful. Roots intertwined with rocks hovering over the water, reflections formed through the sun and shade, stillness and movement all rolled into one. Just look at it and enjoy it will arouse your eye.
In front of me I have three glasses, one full of beer, the middle one empty and the third full of water.
Let’s take the beer to start with. I like to think of beer as a representation of the essence of the experience. It represents the bodies physiological response to the moment you enjoy and that moment can be anything, sex, laughter, sport, fear, enlightenment. Whatever, whatever moment that makes your body shake, form goose bumps, chicken skin, arousal, sweat. Anything that makes the heart beat faster.
The empty glass, that’s you and for the moment that’s empty.
And the third glass, well that’s water, that’s comfort that’s the easy path those are things that make your life easier, that’s things that help you pass difficult problems. That’s the internet, that’s a hover, those are things that ease the arousal, slow the heart beat.
We pour a little beer in the empty glass, it feels good, if you haven’t had it in a while it’s even better, we pour a little more in, but then we are shaky the body overloads, so we add water, we balance the beer.
But then we start to learn, there are tricks to get more beer with out the fear, there are ways to get more beer inside without the overload, so we fill up we add the water, the clip stick the panic draw, the ai, the insurance, the Burberry wallet. We now have all the ways to cope with more beer, but then we take a sip and we realise we are just drinking water, our beer has been diluted.
Goose bumps come from feeling, whatever thought inspires those bumps has to have an element of jeopardy it has to be beer and the more we learn to use water to fill up on beer the more we forget the taste.
It’s strange, sometimes you just know, you pick your head up and see it. The picture is clear it says something to you straight away. You look them in the eyes and instantly there is a connexion. But then, all the shit gets muddled, the perception of them, the self perception of you and the ‘what’s the right’ just gets in the way, so you stop. You reach the end of the road and that’s that. The eyes don’t look the same, the feeling in the heart is different and there is just a little sadness in the mind. What might have been, what could have been done differently, it all moves away.
I wish I would really seize the moment, capture it, act on it, stretch out that first flash when you saw the picture, when you felt the bite, like the tickle on your teeth when you bite down on a perfectly ripe nectarine. Or maybe if I did it would be awkward and bitter and the reality would be much worse than the thought in the imagination. Maybe the teeth would just find the stone.
Good morning – said the voice from somewhere up above, good morning squeaky replied with a little yawn. He rolled over in his little bed, scrunched up his little face and let out a looooong sigh. And who will you be today the voice continued. Squeaky paused for a moment and then let out his reply.
“Today I want to be squeaky” he announced proudly.
Squeaky lived in a little hole on the north side of moss valley, he had lived there for as long as he could remember, and he loved his little house, it had a little bed, a small stove, (that he frequently bumped his tail on) a set of shelves and of course a cupboard for all his clothes.
However despite squeaky being a happy sort of a fellow there was one this missing from his home, his mummy.
I remember playing with the kids, I remember what it was like to step into a room of children and feel their expectations. They were always ready to have fun and cause mischief. But the greatest thing about the children is that they didn’t carry any of the adult shit their heads, their minds were simple and they saw the beauty and excitement in everything.
That’s what inspired my journey, that’s why I left the city I wanted to look and to stare at the simple things, see the beauty in the ugliness, see the beauty in all the small things that we ignore. I wanted to look at things with a child’s eyes, to not worry about what everyone thought, to turn the brain off and kindle the excitement inside me for the world and the people in it.
… and so I did, I stopped to look at things and found Dragons.
The beat flowed, the bodies followed, it was steady, continuous, but fluctuating. The rhythm held the dancers, kept them still for moments and then released them, allowing them to express their own interpretation of the music.
Hands united, eyes focused, pupils widened. Those that played were lost in the beat, those that danced felt the sound waves, felt the music as if it were an object hanging in the air. As they danced they moved the sounds around like a giant Rubik’s Cube, twisting and turning, spinning and falling. They played and danced till the sun had gone and returned. They smiled and laughed and the next day they thought. They sat and watched the horizon, mind stumbling to find last nights clarity.
Life From the Dirt 