Transitions
To speak of life, death has to be on the table. These are the impossible axioms of our dimensional realities.
Because so much psychological and emotional energy gets poured into my photographs, I recently realized how difficult my writing was both to read and also to extract from my bones.
Though I had invested in a fruitless pursuit, as what turned out to be a dangerous experiment of unselfing, my life was embedding in the exposures.
Without my realizing it, I already died a 1000 times. And probably at least several thousand times more.
Thank you true friends who say and do in congruence. There have been a few faux cheerleaders, which strikes me as odd as this Cookie Jar has never been about sport or church. It’s more like collage or quilting. Gathered scraps from the painful beauty and richness of experience life generously offered, the pieces that cannot be set out to waste, weave back together into the (mostly) weekly posts.
In a cultural desert of abject objectification, I feel remiss recording such words. Because once said everything has changed, or so this is the lie I tell myself. Yet I’m stunned how little has changed. The forms go on forming and reforming themselves.
Anything here really must be owed homage to Plato and a restless pursuit of birthing creativity of the heart and not the “dark alleys of the mind” as a dear friend once put it. Or svakti put, every time, as I learned from my family in Santa Cruz this autumn. The fundamental basics of life remain, in place, always, in time.