Secluded, but not bored...

Spending time in this little corner of the world, listening to news and working with backdrops and studio lights. I had been planning on doing portraits...  This is a rock from the beach at San Pancho, Mexico. I had to leave 10 days earlier than I planned because of Covid 19, so I set this up to photograph, kind of like a wistful memory thing.

Try your best, do something you never made time for at home.

I posted this poem on FB, but here it is again. Be well.

       THANKS

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water thanking it

standing by the windows looking out

in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks we are saying thank you

in the faces of the officials and the rich

and of all who will never change

we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us

taking our feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

thank you we are saying and waving

dark though it is

W.S. Merwin

A new, old poem, that has even more meaning, for me, now

SONG

Just before dawn,

                              the dense, damp

Morning crept, chilly

                                and comforting

Into our window, waiting

                                      for the wistful sun.

The trees, terrible innocence,

                                               gathered trembling starlight,

Lined it along limbs

                               furrowed with larks,

Or maybe mockingbirds,

                                       heralding morning.

Breathing the slow and silky light,

                                                       the slumbering fields

Awaken, garnished and gleaming,

                                                        in dew’s last glow.

From the window, watching

                                             the world’s new song,

We learn by listening

                                  to the lovely blue

Light, blue mountains murmuring,

                                                      and meandering through

Our love’s dreamings and doings,

                                                       our destinies all entwined.

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Labor Day

Are truly worthy images so difficult to understand and assimilate that they intimidate viewers, make them feel uncomfortable or dumb? A great image is hard work! One has to be willing and able to be deeply affected, and this is both feared and longed for. Intellectually people crave a mystical experience; they read about it, or see an imagined re-creation on video, and desire to be affected (changed?) in some way. But this has to do with the perception of what it might be like, i.e., will it make you feel good? My own experience with this craving started out in a similar manner. What I ended up finding out was that anything that truly affected me, changed me in a subtle but permanent way. Then I had to re evaluate myself in relation to this. My perception had an added dimension that forced me to look at everything differently. This is challenging. It's so much easier just to fall back on the familiar, what you are comfortable with. A real change in perception means that you cannot go back to an old way of thinking or conducting yourself, because it is no longer honest. Integrity will force you over the edge. Then what? Relationships, desires, personal philosophy; in short, everything has to be re evaluated and your position in life, your participation, undergoes a shift in varying degrees. 

Or you can just think about it.

 Perhaps there will be a point that you will realize that everything is different, you have no choice. Sometimes this is a relief; you are forced into it. More often, this is a struggle, an usually an unpleasant one. Why step off of a cliff and go into a free fall if you don't think you have to? Why leave the comfort of the familiar? True change means that you cannot always act and think the way you used to, and this is difficult and time consuming. If you are unwilling, it's also an energy suck. Your basic identity is challenged, how you orient yourself in the world is constantly called into question. Who am I? Have I ever really known? Or did I just use the familiar trappings, fit in with the general consensus, and build my "self" based on what is popular and considered normal?

Being conscious is a concern that never stops. What are the consequences of my every thought, every action? This has created a life far more interesting than it sounds. OK, so I am not a College Professor, but what am I? A photographer? An artist, writer, worker, traveler, wanderer, a yogini? I just listed everything I am, and there is more than that. So how do I identify myself these days? By just being. Every moment is an adventure. Each day is engaged in the work of being conscious. No longer a pawn, I am a seeker. A finder.

This is the best that I can be.

Now back to the challenge of worthy images.

The physical sensation is similar to vertigo. Spinning, dizzy, my mind shuts off in favor of an unconditioned response. A body high, not unlike a sudden awareness of danger, a threat, takes precedence over rational thinking. Sound falls away. There is only an intake of breath. Often there is a buzzing, far off, directionless. A bell ringing, clanging from the inside, or a chill spreading, the hair on my arms stands at attention.

I cannot speak.

Slowly the world regains its former place, and the real work begins; what just happened? 

What am I made of that just turned into a vital receptor?

 Of what?

There is never a concrete answer that I can call a foundation, so what/where is an orientation point?

Is there such a thing?

 Does it matter? 

I feel different, but how? 

What has this artwork done to me? 

All of the known definable positions are useless, but the mind will cling on to some concrete nests and start building a criteria to explain. The mind wants to know, the body is more comfortable in the sensation. Demands sneak back in, jettisoning the little miracle into the noisy background. Self awareness in terms of public space asks "Did I just do something weird?" 

"Did I make a noise?" 

This is fleeting because I just don't care.

Hallelujah, art has found me today.

Now that's work.

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Speaking the Visible

It is here we must begin the breaking.

The bones of hills lay dark against the sky

through trees, and we, our branches filled

with sudden birds, twitter in the rusty

light. We murmur through the tender greening

of quiet fields, rippling in hill shadow,

tearing into another form of blue.

And if we make the world in just one word,

what shall we say it is, that called us here?

Within the light of many suns, of stars

too distant to believe, we clutch our loss

as though we have no choice; though love unbound

flies freely. And in the wake of passion

where is it to go, this bird, this third voice

between us, this one always calling we?

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LEH

The windows alive

and the cold pouring out of the soft

light

remind me of the day I saw you climbing over the mountain,

bringing snow, 

and rain,

and thunder like a drum.

A heart’s drum; stretched tight and tuned by the coming and going

of the monsoon,

and you.

The dun peaks crowded with dust that

settles on my face, my hands,

clash themselves with the pale blue

distance,

and the farther, higher peaks,

covered with last years’ snow.

A dark misshapen wraith I mistook for an animal, some animal,

a yak,

or a Yeti,

proves to be you, grasping down the uncertain trail

that will lead you here,

to wherever I am.

All winter, I waited.

Hot in the belief that you would

return,

I kept to my faith

my not knowing,

my hope.

I couldn’t tell if I still wanted you.

But now, with throat stretched tight

my uplifted head,

the wind still cold in early Spring,

I know that if you send word,

I will go.

Past the gompas,

the white stupas that line the ringing air,

the ragged prayer flags pointing everywhere and nowhere,

I will climb carefully,

not daring to look down.

I will hear your broken footsteps,

tracing the path through the broken

boulders,

the chorten,

the ancient stones that will always worship the sky;

I will hear you coming

and I will meet you on Khardung La.

 

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VARANASI

There is nothing that prepares you for Varanasi. Except within either memory or imagination, neither of which is fully reliable, this city defies any conventional description. Formerly known as Benares, it is the holiest of the sacred cities in Hinduism, and serves as a major hub for religious belief. In the sacred Vedic Sanskrit hymns, the Rigveda, the city was called Kashi, "to shine"; The City of Light. Renowned as a place for learning, it is also thought to be where Buddha presented his first sermon (after enlightenment), in nearby Sarnath. Founded by Shiva, according to Hindu mythology, it is part of the Sapta Puri, one of the seven Holy cities that can give liberation. It is auspicious to die here, and many make arrangements to be cremated along the bank of the Ganges. Temples, shrines, mosques, and old palaces crumble together along the banks of the river, looming over, and entwining with the Ghats, which serve as gathering places for everyone. Only at the hottest time of day are they lightly populated, and even then, the beggars, chai sellers, tourists, cows, and dogs are in attendance. Varanasi never sleeps.

My arrival from Delhi on the new high speed train, mid afternoon, heat of the day, proved to be non problematic.  I realized right away that I was in a different station than last year, but I was not worried about getting to my hotel. I have come to rely on my faith and sense of well being, and sure enough, an older man came quietly up and asked if I needed a ride. I gave him a piece of paper on which I had written the name of the place I was staying, he nodded, said he knew it and would take me there. "How much?" "350 rupees" A fair price for a local, this wins my trust immediately. I followed him through the crush, the heat outside the station took on a dimension of its own, and the tuk tuk with plastic covered seats was like a sauna. Off we lurched into the cacophony, the energy that is unique to this city. Horns blaring, people yelling, loud music, all manner of vehicles competing for space to move in any direction. My driver yells at an old bicyclist, almost hits someone, loudly berates a clump of walking children. The ride is very rough, my butt bangs repeatedly on the seat, as I grip my camera bag, make sure my backpack does not go flying out of the doorway. Sensory overloaded in every way, the ride physically invasive, loud, visually chaotic, the smells overpowering, in an assault so complete and alive, I realize that I am incredibly happy. This is the India of my dreams.

Each morning at 5:30, I climb the unopened gate. It's too early for the proprietor. I tiptoe past his sleeping self, gently hoist myself up and over with almost no noise. The early coolness is refreshing to me, but the few locals are wrapped head to foot, swathed in heavy scarf. I pick my way through the most difficult section, avoiding moving objects, mounds of shit, garbage, burning piles of leaves. Men sit at a stand drinking chai, reading the paper, talking quietly. Dogs howl, chickens flap, a small child drags a goat by a rope. Bicycles and quiet motor bikes sneak up on me, sometimes barely avoiding a sideswipe. In my unsteady self, halting abruptly is an art, a necessity. My exterior awareness is demanded in a uniquely present flow of energy, like I have another as yet undiscovered sense, an ability to "see" 360 degrees. Not normal vision, more like prescience, intuition, my body takes on a weightless glide that keeps me from harm. Vendors shout from laden carts, children yell "hello!", and keep it up until I respond. One very small one gleefully reaches out to touch my hand, and laughs in excitement when I swipe fingers. A shrine is tended each morning by a group of small women who light incense and tiny lamps at the base of a large tree. Encroached by both road and building, it has somehow survived, limbs cut away from the trunk, holes for candles and flowers hacked into the side, a meager top still branching, still flowering in this time, another Spring. A cow mourns loudly, and often. The dust stirs in a wind that jumps over the wall along the river. Shadows are being born in yet another rising sun. Assi Ghat harbors the faithful in the morning ceremony that comes to a close just as the sun shows itself across the Ganges. The older people stand and pray, covering themselves with fire and smoke, go along their way. A gentle ritual, it is difficult to ignore, no matter who you are. Lemon chai sellers labor with cups and a giant kettle, set atop a brazier. I am offered a boat ride countless times. A hundred people spread out on carpets, participate in yoga breathing and asanas led by a Brahmin, onstage, through a microphone.  Music, a sitar and tabla, enfold the already dense atmosphere with sound that transports; I am in another century. I close my eyes, and breathe.

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What a wave looks like...

I waded into the gentle surf at the boulder end of the beach with the intention of photographing just the surface of the water, close, abstract. I watched the incoming waves very carefully, so as not to put the camera in danger. But waves will get you. This one slapped the camera mid exposure. I tried not to panic, got out to dry it off. It's not weather sealed. I got mad at myself for being careless, but there was nothing I could do. The lens stopped working, the camera was fine. I went back later to my hut and tried to see if there was a solution, but no, I had to accept that I ruined my only 28mm focal length. I chalked it up to a very expensive lesson, but refused to let it get me down. It was on my birthday.
I wrapped it up, put it in the camera bag, went on about my work. A couple of days later I pulled it out, put it on both cameras just to see, and it has worked just fine ever since. Lucky me. Lesson learned, and I got an interesting sequence of it happening as well. All in all, it was for the best.