A. Murray Photographs: 2007

Saturday, March 3, 2007

Hetrick's Barn

I hate this barn picture. I am not bucolic by nature.

Bu col ic–adjective Also, bu⋅col⋅i⋅cal.
1. of or pertaining to shepherds; pastoral.
2. of, pertaining to, or suggesting an idyllic rural life.

Give me grungy city streets any day.

It's true.

Please Click Image to Enlarge.

Thursday, March 1, 2007

Once upon a time...

Please Click Images to Enlarge.

The sky melted like a tear of milk. The people too were saddened, and wept.

You could still see the old sky if you looked quickly out of the corner of your eye. The people were amazed, and heads turned like toys on sticks, as they tried to see the old sky entirely.

A new sky appeared without warning. The people were displeased. But it was too late. So they learned to live with it. After a while, the people forgot there ever was an old sky, and went back to TV for their pleasure.

The "Once upon a time" series is dedicated to Jigs Javier.

Crazy Sky 2

Monday, February 12, 2007

Barbara King - As Into A Dream

The Boots of Barbara King

Entrance Into Wood

Entrance Into Wood
Pablo Neruda

Scarcely with my reason, with my fingers
with slow waters indolently swamped,
I fall into the realm of forget-me-nots,
into a tenacious air of mournfulness,
a decayed forgotten hall
and a cluster of bitter clover.

I fall into the shadows, to the core,
of shattered things,
and I see spiders, and I graze on thickets
of secret inconclusive woods,
and I pace through soaked, uprooted fibers
at the living heart of matter and silence.

Oh lovely matter, oh rose of dry wings,
as I drown I cling to your petals
my feet are burning with fatigue,
I kneel in your harsh cathedral
beating my lips with an angel.

It is because I am myself
faced with your color of world,
faced with your pale dead swords,
faced with your united hearts,
faced with your silent multitude.

I am the one facing your wave of dying fragrances,
wrapped in autumn and resistance;
about to take a funeral journey
along the ridges of yellow scars;
I with my lamentations that have no genesis
hungry, sleepless, alone
arriving at your mysterious essence.

I see the course of your petrified currents,
the growth of frozen, interrupted hands.
I hear your oceanic vegetation
rustling - shaken by night and fury
and I feel the leaves dying inward - to the very core
fusing their green substances
to your abandoned immobility.

Pores, veins, rings of sweetness,
weight, silent temperatures,
arrows piercing your fallen soul,
beings asleep in your thick mouth
shreds of sweet consumed pulp,
ashes filled with extinguished souls,
gather to me, to my measureless dream,
fall into my bedroom where night falls
and endlessly falls like broken water
and bind me to your life and to your death
to your docile substances,
to your dead neutral doves,
and let us make fire, and silence, and sound,
and let us burn, and be silent, and bells.