I cannot depict what I see in my head with any accuracy but I cannot stop trying to find the metaphors. The randomness of existence is the only rule left. And that used to sound demoralizing to me but not anymore because everything I experience seems beyond my capacity. Everything slips through my skin. Nothing is contained. Gravity is the only temporal bond. Movement is existence. Light splatters on wet ground. The ground becomes the light. The light brings the darkness yet darkness is not mere emptiness. Emptiness is not alone. Emptiness has the greatest potential as that from which any patterns emerge. Each image can only be an iteration of something never whole or complete. What is caught or exposed (for lack of a better word) between these iterations is the point of stringing them together. The wall space is the wet plate.
Down by the concrete river, the spirits arise from patches of datura where the spiral that became a pinwheel stretches itself again to take on the form of ghostly plant emanations pollinated by the consciousness of any wanderer who lingers long enough for the vegetal spirits to unfurl their psychoactive shapeshifting tendrils and guide the awareness toward the unity of all things through the merging of forms and the collective existence of iterative semblances.
scattered on the old river flakes of light flutter in the breeze like passing thoughts a seed finds purchase in such barren ground some crust as thin as an eggshell divides waters details flutter in the belly of the mind, why?
until the crooked hand rests reeling displaced movements spin the stone of silk into a fetal position old form full potential
untraceable reactions built up in the filaments of this mature form intertwine with the forgotten origins and vanishing responses of other bodies fruiting amnesia
The hoodoos left behind in this amphitheater of erosion wear the costumes and masks that disguise randomness as they sing the chorus about the illusion of essence with labels of purpose so easily shifted by angle and light.
These curtains of erosion hide the absurdity behind them, for I raise my camera and point the lens at what it pretends to capture: eternal formations defining my mortal position more than the immensity of randomness.
This curse of the fixed image (and labels) and its fate as a screen made me think of this interesting observation made by Albert Camus: “In Italian museums are sometimes found little painted screens that the priest used to hold in front of the face of condemned men to hide the scaffolding. The leap in all its forms, rushing into the divine or the eternal, surrendering to the illusions of the everyday or of the idea – all those screens hide the absurd.” -Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus (p. 91)