(warning - very artsy-fartys entry)
After a four month drought in my writing, I can feel it coming back. It's hovering just beyond. Patience, and will come. It has the heavy feel of monsoon clouds.
While I wait, I'm exploring other erotic visions. Right now, unless they grip me in unexpected ways, I don't want to deal with words, so I'm looking at photography. I'm enjoying John Santerineross' Dream: The Exploration of the photographic image as a manifestation of dream inconography and Jeffrey Scott's Visions from Within the Mechanism.
Interesting to me, and probably only me, is that it's the black and white photography that grips me. I have almost no interest in color. Santerineross' and Scott's images are not easy to look at. Yet they are compelling. Unfortunately, I lack the vocabulary to discuss what I'm seeing. But I have that feeling that what I'm seeing in those photogrpahs isn't what's there. I have that same feeling in Catholic Churches and voodun shrines. I mean, when I visit an altar, I see a candle. But to someone who understands the faith, that candle isn't a candle. It's something else, something more. Or maybe it isn't. I don't know how much of what I see is fate or personal touch, and how much is symbolism. If there's an orange feather on an altar, is it there because orange means something, or is it there because the feather store was out of every color except orange, or maybe the offering was made by someone who just liked the color. And see - I'll never know. I'm not even sure how much of trying to understand is pointless. Which all comes around to this - art isn't always meant to be understood, deciphered, and read. Sometimes, it's just meant to be experienced on your own terms.
That's the frame of mind I want to be in when the words come back.