I’ve been pretty sick and housebound for the past several weeks, so I’ve been enlisting pets and yard disasters for subjects.
Some photos almost feel like injuries, self-inflicted ones – this one I had an actual dream about, some sort of a pruning apocalypse, everything at head height hacked by the light and the ballistic pattern of its shadows. The shrub itself describes well enough past abuses. As a general rule however, a blade must be made of a substance which is harder than the material it is intended to cut, and this thought provided a great deal of anxiety in the dream. As it turns out this was mostly fever. Anyway, the spell was broken the instant I remembered it, and now I’m just left with this toy photo mixed up with all the melted Kleenex.
Others are more external, like this half-hearted circus act, where the principals have succumbed to their own dark thoughts and maladies during the performance. My own attention wandered, even while taking the photo. As if in a waiting room, torn between the annoyance of symptoms and the dread of diagnosis,
wandering to a glove hung in a shrub that caught my left eye, a raisin-like remnant of a heart in a ribcage, or better yet a fruit forgotten from last autumn’s harvest and pruning. The glove is actually a remnant of re-roofing the house last summer, and oddly went unnoticed all winter until the shrub started to bud anew. The narcissus and tulip bulbs around the yard are still dark and taciturn, so better still I’ll take a blossom view of it until proven purple, or is lost among the creative slag of a ripping good fever. Hey, if the mountain won’t come to me…
I will go to the mountain.