The Flesh and Bones

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I am the muse, the photographer.and the scribe.

Which came first? A reasonable question.

The answer remains mysterious.

Ethereal as the twisted trees in a silent forest.

Shadowy as a room painted with sunlight.

Fluid as a heartbeat felt beneath my naked breast.

 

I’ve been working on this project for a couple of years now and excited about it’s birth into the world!

Sweating Survival Day

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Another year has gone by and still there is no treaty for the indigenous peoples of Australia. So we march again. From the makeshift aboriginal tent embassy, ‘illegally’ planted 44 years ago in front of the former Parliament House, to the present seat of Parliament. I’m sweating, not only because it is a searing Summer day, but because we cross the police line and front the seat of power. It’s nothing new, but this time I’m thinking about the police report required to complete my visa application. Of course this is small fry compared to accounts of aboriginal deaths in custody and the institutionalised racism that the loud speakers aim at the bullet-proof doors. All the same, authority prevails and making waves is a risk. But so is life and upholding ones ethics is worth it.

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Return to the sweet demon

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There’s a summer happening here, in realtime. Greece can wait. The UV is burning and the capital is empty. Everyone has fled the work ethic and dived into coastal holiday mode. I’ve had my share of joyous outpourings and returned to pluck at my canvas. Ah the music is sweet! But first I dropped into a moment of intense solitude, meeting New Year’s Eve with a sober stare and a promise of hanging out another time. I needed to think. Then I dropped into depression. I needed to process. On the third day I rose from these dreamless depths with curiosity. The world still existed post Donald Trump. It was bright and somewhat magical. Politics excepted.