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!
Nothing is too deep, too difficult, too impenetrable. Well that’s what I’m telling myself as I apply for the artists’ visa in France.
Thanks for the photo Tia Fereti
She leaned toward,
Not knowing if the shoulder
Was strong enough.
She held herself,
Knowing that she was.
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.
And here I find Paradise, nesting as omnipotent eyes in a fugitive’s crown. I am one with the Goddess for she dances regardless of time grasping beneath her feet.
The sun flails my flesh with his ardor. I know nothing of time. I balance between two worlds, willingly giving myself to the salt on his breath.