The Ever Rest Syndrome

We live at the bottom of the mountain
Demons in our living rooms
Dining with us
They push our carts at the grocery store

They enter the soul
And blindfold our eyes
So we may watch television
The ultimate brain wash
Cleaning out all those nasty thoughts
With the broom of dissatisfaction

Never enough, 
Of anything
Including self worth
A perverted truth be told
That bleeds
From seductive tongues

So we must prove ourselves
And look to the mountain
For worth and achievement
It mustn’t be the mountain in our village.
No
We must climb the highest peak
To be worthy

Embarking on our quest
We make the journey alone
Oxygen bottles and Sherpas
Lie frozen dead on the trail
And they build our camp
So we can sleep on the ground
And impress ourselves 
With our own bravery

Finally
We reach the pinnacle
After many days of hardship
Alone, we have mastered our own destiny
We view all we have conquered
And feel the rush
Of accomplishment

Surveying our world
The wind singing its notes of approval
We meet eyes with the Sherpas
Their ruddy skin eating the wind for breakfast
They smile and raise their hands in celebration
And fill us in this singular moment

With so much more speed
We find ourselves back home
At the bottom of the mountain
In our living rooms
Changed little
Save for the mountain top selfie
Hanging on the wall

Alone at the top.

Accomplishment is rarely achieved without a support system.
(2) multiple exposure photographs stitched for a wider view

Restless

Closing my eyes
What do I see?

I see the wind,
And the sun chasing shadows

A day, once a resounding choir
Now, only whispers

One of my favorite photographic spots from 2012. It still is a favorite. I’m pretty sure it still is. It is now a forbidden zone. It’s a dystopian nightmare, when people with power, so utterly gripped by fear who lead through fear bear down on the masses with ridiculous decisions.
I miss this place terribly, there is a hole in my heart.

Three photographs stitched and heavily edited.

DOTS

Water lapped against the jetty
A helicopter roared at the Naval base
Jets blasted their goodbyes behind me
A million people sat down to dinner

As dwellers scurried in their walks
Their runs, their yoga, their fishing
Suddenly all time stopped
As the moon rose from behind the curtain

And reminded us
How small we really are,
That there are things much bigger
Than the sum of all of us

A throng of phone cameras ensued
The old man with two more generations fishing
Even the walked dogs
Stopped and were silent

It was all just too much
And just the right amount

Moon In The Garden

The mask comes off
Compliant to hide
Without shame
Or justice

In a world
That now looks like
An old western
Stage coach robbery
Instigated
By the masses

Perhaps
We should all
Wear black hats

At this stagecoach stop
I find fences.
Like masks,
They let in a little light.

There are spots
Of floral beauty.
And up above
The moon grins wide.

Falling into a trance
With camera in hand
The transformative flush
Rushes through my brain
Like waves
Crashing on the beach
Cleansing out
The sticky muck
Of stress

Soon
The garden
The light
The moon
And I
Dance

The camera allows one to dispense of reality, and create new realities. An abomination for many purists. I have never thought for one second that photography can make one pure. Neither does its practice originate from a pure place. That does not make it impure. Seemingly a contradiction, only for those with chains and closed minds.
All photos are in-camera multiple exposures.

The Set: