The village is a walk through ferns, following a goat track. I heard the goat herder’s wild animal cries at sunrise and the passing sounds of bells, bleats and hoofs sure-footed on stone. But I have no desire to go to the village. Instead I go to the waterfall to wash the city from my body and remember the sweet caress of the sun.
This heat is driving me wild. I roam the island like a feral goat. Bones cracking like sticks under a cloven foot. But it is the antlers that capture me in this moment of abandon. They are only twigs but I am surely a deer.
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!
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.
There is tenderness in the ruins. I know the story before it unfolds but I have nowhere to go but trace the heartless path with my ink.