ASYNCHRONOUS PROCESS

Facing my part

chris jordan photography

I found this link/website following up something else. I felt it to be something shocking, sad and in some ways beautiful.  The images not of what they are, there is no beauty in what we have done, but beauty in the fact that someone has spent time energy and skill telling a little of these precious lives and their preventable deaths.

As I looked at the images I felt there is beauty in the way the Earth has transformed such gross desire for instant throw away gratification by many - look at all those plastic bottle tops mainly from water bottles no doubt, in tableaux worthy of regard; transformed by the skills of a man whose hands like mine have at some time probably been part of the cause of the deaths in the first place.

For me I found the shapes and textures, away from the reality of the waste and pain I may have been part of without knowing, made me think of richly textured wall hangings placed in homage and celebration of the possibility of change. 

A life counts

It is the time of year when I always find my thoughts turning towards where, how and why I live in the way I do. Often it’s just a fleeting glance but sometimes a longer harder look is needed and sometimes a grinding halt is called for and new layout of days and place are craved way beyond any want or idle wish.

I have found the last year harder than many of recent times. The disintegration of thought process, physical energy, emotional strength have ripped huge holes in any sense I had of my fulfilling each days potential within my own small world and experience. As days slipped in to weeks and weeks in to months here I am in the final moments of the year doing something I rarely do, looking back.

The wasteland I glimpse is not pretty, the wreckage of days and long nights of confusion, despair and disrepair are piled high in to a mangled pillar, a monument to a life less lived, rather more survived and too often absconded from completely.

How dare I step in to the New Year in a few days time when the barren and bleak of this year wraps around me like a knotted rope and a chair to stand on feels easy; a push away in to space and a forever moment. But then if I do not dare 'WHY?', 54 years as recorded by man will just be the point at the top of an anonymous obelisk.