He’d become accustomed to the Northwest, evergreen and shaded dark. Here he was surrounded by soft leaves, not needles; leaves that carried their deaths secretly inside them, that already heard the whispers of Autumn. Roots and branches that knew things.”
~ Michael Montoure, Slices
everything looked familiar, the trees, the sun had roughly been in the same place last week. the way to the lake was just at the end of the path and i know this because something deep inside said so.
several ‘just at the end of the paths’ later i realised that i wasn’t seeing with my eyes what my mind was: the lake was genuinely not there and never was….quote source
first burn like a sun.
the quote’s from Doris Lessing, i guess that kinda makes me a dummy and that’s ok.
poor guy. an exciting name like Publius Vergilius Maro gets vulgarly reduced to Virgil to what, simplify its pronunciation to the masses ?… anyhow, Publius the Poet wasn’t referring to some schmaltzy romanticism when he wrote that but was a deep understanding of one of the only real boundaries that nature on earth has to offer. shores, whether they be in fresh or salt, in still, flowing or seas are the demarcation point between us and them but its also where the two of us can meet as we’re both inextricably attracted to this boundary each one safely in our comfort zones. sometimes we mingle, sometimes we don’t and that’s just fine because something within told us to go there and we simply did what we where supposed to do.
meh… there i go doing exactly one of the things i dislike the most about contemporary photography and any kind of art in general. something i’ve (unsuccessfully) been (mildly) fighting against ever since i did photo school in 1982:
finding the need to put words to images where the image should tell the story on its own and whatever the viewer sees or not or feels or not is their own private business and not mine. besides, i’m a really shitty writer, i know it. it’s just not my thing and i definitely don’t enjoy it and it shows. i’ll try to not fall into that trap again so,
here’s a shore that had its own story to tell.
Carolyn Gold Heilbrun‘s quote always makes me chuckle when i think about what to do with my own body.
completely indecisive between having med students slice, prod and pry or, having to put the burden on someone to go dump my ashes in some river that could probably do without having any more crap dumped into it, i guess the subject will require a bit more stream-side thought but in the meantime and with my donor card safely tucked away, i’ll contemplate this kind of ash instead.
this 51cm – 20″ beauty from a northern England limestone creek was a special fish, a two fisher fish.
i had spotted it holding in its shallow lie and covered it several times with several generic mayfly imitations but it wasn’t in the least bit interested so after a while i insisted that it was buddy Mark Legget‘s turn to temp it.
several “no, you spotted it, its yours” and “yeah, but it doesn’t like me and i really want you to catch it”s later, he not-really reluctantly gave in and positioned himself while i spotted from up on the bank and two perfect drifts later hooked up. after a good fight from both parties i landed it for Mark and we where able to briefly admire it from close up.
memory’s poor, i’ve always had a hard time remembering numbers, but i believe it was around 1,6kg – 3 1/2 lbs. that’s no record by any means but its really an awesome fish for such a small stream but a lot more than that, this was the nicest catch in ages.
Mark was of course happy but something deep inside tells me that i was a lot happier, reminding me of my youth and Hugo my godmother’s husband who was a ‘second father’ for me of sorts who so frequently brought me along on his fishing trips and who was always ecstatic when i’d manage to bring a fish to the net, no matter its size.
we’re of about the same age and Mark and i of course don’t have the mentor/parental or whatever else connection i had with Hugo but this fish left a similar feeling; of having shared and completed a scenario with its wished-for outcome as a team making it a much greater sum than its parts. the circle is complete.
the contents of a meagrely stocked dream world: a few witty fantasies, mostly wet dreams and agoraphobic nightmares.” ～Susan Sontag
maybe she meant something like this ? i have no idea as something within just tells me to pull out the camera and use it. after that the image is out of the hands that never really held it.
when it comes to artsy stuff, and i know very well we all have the knee-jerk reaction of trying to associate whatever artsy stuff we’re experiencing to something within us, our experiences, emotions, whatnots and what we’ve learned from others through time but that tends to lead to the stereotypical visions Susan describes in her quote.
a more challenging yet much more interesting and enriching approach is to try to wipe the mind’s eye slate clean before any artsy encounter and maybe stab it with a spoon if it won’t listen.
if we can manage to do this, we may still like or dislike or feel ambivalent about whatever it is but at least that opinion will be as close to our own as can be. anyhow, this empty lake made me think of a witty wet dream…
When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots?”
― Shel Silverstein, A Light in the Attic