wide-angle

mother and mother and i am always searching for land. for something to dig my soul into.

i walk across the canal – now, a bundle of frozen clay earth and a dimpling frozen waterbed. i catch my eyes on color – i recognize the season’s hues – the reds showing themselves in roots and shoots, the green holly leaves still clinging to branch, the red twinkle berries still round – nothing else abounds. the greens and reds, occasional – markedly hued against the backdrop of brown and greys. i hunt for my footsteps; my footsteps hunt for me.

I think about how badly I want to photograph the moment / I think about focus; about dilation; framing; I think about the shot; I think about my eyes like raptors; I think about the camera angle wrapping around my skin like a pair of claws ; following me / I sit with the desire to document the moment in a way beyond my eyes.  I sit against the canal, back against the woodline ; face against the ice ;  A man walks by with a huge dog on a leash – he makes a passing comment that I am little red riding hood, and he, the wolf.  I laugh / eyelash / I find folk tale tremors on my lips, in the ice in the melted bits of water / are they melted or did they never freeze /  Have they not yet frozen will the Winter freeze them will I be there to see it —  I think of the fairy tales following me; of the toxic romance that gave me a sick and weak heart –  I think about how important the stories are that we tell; how we must find better ones / I think about the reflection of the branch in the icicle spine that is cracking in the ice

And the Sun still warms ;; well not warmth, but light
the light stratifies every plant, every strand of golden hair rising from the earthsoil; the light hits with a different glaze; a different gaze; Winterises my polarized eyes
the cold codifies
the solstice light sinks closer to the horizon – looks for comfort in the mother – tries to cling close to the skirts of the solid – the sun holds fast, dips quickly, fearlessly, runs to the other side of the world – lights up my beautiful Australia with dripping season of color and fragrance – tips the balance, curls the scales, swells mangoes to fall off the branch. the sun plays with me, with the body of the earth dancing slowly; i remember there is no objective horizon, just the closer and closer from the further and further ; just the memory of an edge of a manufactured boundary ; a trick of sight ; a trick of being a flat vision on a round bauble ; of being a tricked one – an audience member — the show is grand; grandiose; full of grandeur. the show keeps spinning – the curtains hold back the tricks – so we can feel the magic. so we can believe in the magic. the funny sideways horizon line – the trick of objectivity, of subjectivity. it’s summer over there, don’t you know – just behind the curtain. this winter spell is a scene. is a song. this cool and icy distance is just a dance. one pirouette away from the swelter of summer. and all its realities. and the earth is dancing the other way round right now – showering my Australia with late afternoon swims and 9pm sunsets and twirling vistas that glitter with warm blankets of starlight. and here i pluck around the reeds and bones of plants gone dry and try find anything that isn’t a casket. and the showmanship of the horizon keeps glaring at me like a finality – like a rule. but i know it’s only the edge of the frame. the wide-angle camera shot set on a tripod, low to the ground, high shutter speed. i know it’s only the shot – the simple, cheap one-camera set-up. the room is round, honey, and let’s not forget that we’re spinning.
let’s keep spinning forward.
“the world is round, and a messy mortal is my friend. Come walk with me in the mud.”
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