Lines and Spaces

What is the moon but a mass of rocks hanging high above our heads. So many people choose to romanticize the seemingly floating object, yet it is nothing more than a lifeless place; we cannot live there, we cannot survive there. I twirl the pencil between my fingers and sigh a defeat sound and grip the object tightly once again.

Under this tree, under this moon, I rest with nothing more than a pencil, a pad of paper, and my thoughts. The air is still, the clouds are blocking my needed light and three bats circle above. I wonder so cynically to myself if they were attempting to see my state of being. Was I dead, was I asleep, was I a snack? Bats are not so dark however thus I earned yet another sigh from myself; this time it was more playful than disappointed.

The cloud continue on and finally I am meet with the cold light of the moon. I bask for a moment, by face turned upward to the object so high above. Again, I think of the many poems, many stories, many writings about the damn thing. Always the thoughts roll of it being this great adventure, this original idea, that the moon possesses. But I know better and like to think that those others, those writing, do as well, but it is far too enticing with all the chatter from the masses. I do not hate the moon, however, I do not wish to write so fondly of something that I will never touch, never know despite its constant watch. I’d rather focuses on what it does, why it is there, the science of it all, but that is far too boring. So again, I twirl the pencil, attempting the rack my mind for a spark of inspiration under this dying tree. I must write, I must compose, but I must avoid the “original idea” of the most romantic moon.

When people pass away, there are things that they don’t tell you to be prepared for. Yeah, we hear the lines of “the grieving will take time, and that’s okay” and “it will feel so strange, and they won’t look the same” and everything else with those inflections that make you just want to duck tape their mouths shut; they’re like a record stuck on a loop and it just happens to be your least favorite album once it play the tenth time in a row. What they don’t tell you is seemingly more profound. And, yes, this is not to make lightly of the grieving processes and he feeling of being numb; they are wildly important, but funerals and death are such a strange experience, but profoundly beautiful.

When someone dies, the family tree explodes. There isn’t a dull moment, everyone is up and about in all the different places from which they come. You hear from those cousins that live thousands of miles away, and from those so very close to your own home. You don’t sit and brood, as many people might lead you to believe. It happens quickly; the prep, the gathering and, ultimately, the dirt to the coffin or the sealing of the urn.

And the beauty. Everyone forgets the beauty.

Death is not pretty, but the processes of being put to rest is a most impressive thing. They never talk about the intensity of family. The warmness, and closeness, that you feel once your all tucked tightly in one room. That cousin, the one that you never agree with, is polite and greets you with the greatest hug you might ever know. Old family feuds are laid down and the uncles that are at each other’s throats during a typical family get together are exchanging their deepest fears and most profound memories of the one that brought them together.

And everyone else – all those people that the family knows, all those people that you remember seeing around when you were little but never really knew why they were at your house in the first place – come out of the woodwork. They bring fond memories and treats. You don’t cook or bake or anything during these events. You are surrounded by the “extended” family that isn’t related that wants nothing more than to hear what you have to say about whatever you want to talk about. They listen and respect, and are like your best friend in those small, fleeting moments.

And the objects – all those things that are not edible that are just so beautiful. The flowers that are shipped in from around the area from people much further. They stand tall, despite their fragile form. They twist upward and bloom such extraordinary colors. They bare notes of such deep rooted love from those that can’t make the journey despite they’re unconditional love for the family, for you. These flowers show so much with so little.

Death is not such a beautiful thing, but it makes for a beautiful event. For without death, we would never know the value of those that are truly there. We would never know the value of those flowers.

Humans and trees bare such a strong resemblance. They grow, they change with the seasons and they bend with the wind. But yet, they never just crack. They feel the weight of the world, the weight of the fierce winds but never simply fall. Trees are a beautiful thing. A beautiful design of nature that are mighty and dignified. Humans are just the same. They reach higher with ever passing moment, they breath in deeply the world around and wish for the world beyond their reach. But yet, just as the tree, the roots keep them stable, give needed grounding in the world so that they may always have a home to return to. The roots are what support both the human and the tree alike when things look troublesome. Trees and humans bare this common trait. The tangled complexity of its beginnings. Some parts are the main support; they put at bay the ever pressure of the winds and rains. Others are a burden as they are pushed up by other forces such as stones or human activity, or even other trees that get too close. For you see, nothing is perfect, even for the tree, even within the roots. Nevertheless, strength is found here, even if it is not where it will continue to be brought from. One day, the strength with come from within. The leaves that collect the sunlight, the dense bark that will protect the soft center. Trees and humans are so similar. They rely on the roots before all but will always gather strength from within the core, and will always weather through the storm, even if they are alone out in a lonely field.

One day, I will go there. I will go beyond the stars. I will go beyond the extent of our known universe and I will escape. I will escape everything that is and everything that will be. There is nothing but experience, out beyond our stars. There is nothing but adventure and a life to be had far beyond the reach of my hand, of those trees, of our tidal locked moon, of the stars. And though I think so freely, I search so willingly, I cannot help but lower my gaze and remember the vastness of our existence. I feel, I know, that I reach too far into the unknown. I am searching far beyond what even man can comprehend. I want to go there, I want to see whatever is past the glowing lights in our sky, and I may never want to return. Again, I lower my gaze. I am far too little to comprehend, just as my fellow men and women here. I will never understand the science, the creativity, the vastness of the universe I wish to explore. Simply put, I am merely a child in comparison to the sky above; the sky, of which, that has lights that have yet to reach us, lights that my never reach us before the ending of our short existence on the pale blue dot.

But still, I raise my hands high once again, my back scratching from the cement I rest upon as I gaze upward. I still wish to know what is beyond. I can live as I do, a small fragment even upon our world, and still have wanderlust twinkling in my eyes. For you see, leaving life up to the small insignificant details of who one will be in the record of time, is far too mechanical, far too human; records are so lacking in true appeal. Wishing for the grander things around us will lead to great things, to great interest in one’s life. Desire for adventure, desire for something beyond your reach, can lead to such immense self discovery.

I reach not just to the stars to see beyond them, but, rather, I reach for someone inside of me that strives for the great beyond my simple mind.

I freaking hate geese. Alright, so that sounds a little dark, but really, I do. They beat the ground senseless until nothing can grow, they whine for food outside your steps just inches away and, gods forbid, you get too close. These danger birds will rip you limb from limb if you’re not careful enough. They make a mess on top of everything else. I always watch from above as they pull at their feathers they no longer want. I roll my eyes as the leave behind their last meal from earlier in the day. They tear at anything they find on the ground. Let’s not forget the ducks either.

The poor things stroll up the hill from the pound just the same as the geese, even the one missing the end of its beak. They settle down under the cool branches of the tree and pick at the bread crumbs left behind by the many people around and do nothing. They are simple and less destructive. Then the geese see them. The geese glare at them. It is almost as if they are calling out “hey, what are you doing here tiny birds. Get out of here. Geese only.” There’s squawking and ruffling of feathers and the harsh sound of wings beating too hard. The poor, tiny birds and shoved out like some kind of trash and the geese resume their destruction.

I absolutely hate geese. They are not pleasant. They are not friendly. They are the enemy of people and birds alike, and share no interest in being kind creatures. No one will ever tell me that a goose can be good.

Apis mellifera. The western honey bee. In a symbolic sense, the bee is a sign of productivity and a good work ethic. They say so faithfully that it symbolizes the ability to work together, like a colony, to accomplish all that needs to be done. I find this to be near nonsense. I can only scoff at the idea as I align my lens on the perfect specimen before me. He is a beautiful shade of yellow with powerful wings and powerful legs. He is working hard this fine morning when the wind doesn’t even whisper or tangle up the bushy plants; it seems to respect the work of the honey bees and wishes not to disturb them. I wouldn’t say it aloud, but I respect the damn thing too. Enough so, that I wait for him to get comfortable upon the white plant I had just become acquainted with before adjusting all the little parts of my camera to possibly gather the perfect shot. The mount moves forward, the aperture closes as the number goes higher and I make sure to check the ISO that had been causing me problems with my last collection of the daunting bees. Everything just ended up whitewashed in some amount or another, and since the darn things never sit still too long, I never really captured their form in a descent fashion.

Click. The exposure is caught in an instant and the little creature floated away like there were no cares in the world when I heaved myself to my feet.

It was like a bittersweet call. When the door shut behind her, the room was engulfed in an all consuming black. The only thing that withstood the darkness was the ominous red glow of the exit sign. For some reason, unknown to myself, my eyes would focus in the dark. I couldn’t see the hall before me, nor the stools and rusted locker row that seemed so out of place. All I could see was that daunting text above her way out. I thought for a moment about maybe, just maybe scrambling in the dark toward the door. I would attempt to remove it from its position and retrieve what hid behind. But that darkness. What could be beyond? A trap, maybe. There could be a hole in the floor now that the lights were gone. I could plummet a thousand feet down. I would either break my neck, or, if, by some miracle, I survived, I would die of starvation. It was not a pleasant outcome, if the floor were truly gone. There could also be bear traps or caltrops scattered about. One would grip my by the ankle and I would no longer be able to walk. The other would bury itself deep in the arch of my foot and would sever my nerve endings. What a morbid little thoughts.

I have not moved a muscle since the thoughts began. I was too fearful of what could be ahead, and, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I was ready just yet. I couldn’t follow her, it was my conviction. I was trapped within my ways. But maybe one day, I will travel across that minefield, open that door, and put forth the words I have held to tightly to my heart.

The warm summer breeze. It feels like a life time ago that we experienced something that hugs you so softly with ever pass. The trees bow gently to it, as if a bidding it to return again and again so that they my spread their own kin that will shade the land in years to come. The water ripples below it as if attempting to expand on its horizons and to cool down under the hot, summer sun. The dusty terrain participates in a dance so entirely improvised that it seems to become something less boring and something more fascinating.

The gusts bring life to the ever sill world, where the only thing in motion of its own is the geese, squirrels and the occasional human that finds its way off the beaten path. Before the winds, the motionless world seems to be frozen in time, caught in a cycle of never truly being free; stuck without guidance and without color. Then the summer returns and, with it, a wall of motion that will bring about the life not experienced in the early and late parts of the year when everything seems to have lost all hope and bares only variation of grey. All things seemingly burst to life and give a heartbeat to the land when the wind tumbles through. Many cheer for this peace and gentle color, others are caught in a whirlwind of memories, all those that are so easily remembered with the taste of the summer air and all those that are always on the tip of your tongue, fighting for your attention because deep down they truly are important, you just can’t remember why.

Again, the winds will fade. The colors will strip from the land and we will face the grey lifelessness of our environment once again. However, remember as we will, summer will once again return, and the whirlwind of life will grace the lands. Remembering all that will be and all that we look toward will always brighten the gloom and bring color to our world.

As I stare beyond the wood, into the endless white, I wonder so many thoughts. Who are we? The question has plagued our people for millennia. Where are we going? What are we meant to do? I contemplate where I should take myself now. I am but simple creature, nothing like the birds that chatter above destinations planned only when needed, or the two squirrels that play tag up and down the hard woods as if a vehicle would never come to interrupt the fun.

I lean back on the grey hood of my rusted out car. The hunk of metal feels out of place in this ominous world, but I pay no mind. I pay no mind to anything but the tunnel of trees and the thoughts that plague me.

I could move forward, I could move into the unknown beyond and test myself, see if I could survive. It would mean leaving so much behind. Maybe even the old Chevy that I sit upon currently. That wouldn’t be so hard. But what about everything else. What about the people that I care for, who seemingly care for me? And what about all the material things I call my collection? Surely they will give me value in the future.

I could turn around.

I could turn around, climb into the warmth of my idol car and return to where I began. I could move backward. I could focus on what I currently have, and seek nothing else. Comfort seems the lesser of two evils. I wouldn’t be pressured to come out of my own hole that I have dug for myself. I am on the edge now, and all I would have to do is reorient my car and drive the fifteen minutes back the way that I came. All I would have to do is climb that half flight of stairs. All I would have to do is be entirely selfish.

Who shall I be? The one that moves forward, into the unknown, or she who cries for comfort?

I shove away from the car before patting down my jeans that had captured a dusting of the fog. I round the front end, unlatch the driver side door and soon push the engine forward. I am headed only one way. Beyond the wood.

Welcome to my blog. For this site, I will be exploring writing through photographs. All pictures and writing will be of my own creation. I will be focusing each week with a different theme, using different emotions as the standard. My goal will be to convey emotions with one image that clearly represents said emotion while the second would not necessarily be clear to how it relates until the writing portion. I want to create a sense of depth that will allow people to view images with a different perspective.

Lines and Spaces

Romantic Rocks

The Art of Dying

Tree and Life

Beyond the Stars

Birds Suck

Apis mellifera

Exit Here

The Color of Summer

Beyond the Wood

Welcome!