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The Picture Thread

Reflections

Well-Known Member
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samantabha

climbing the mountain of the mind
Company Rep
I am awed by the photos I'm seeing here. It seems redundant to keep pushing 'like', but I'm forced to; they're just that good. Looking at a picture is an experience encapsulated by the very last one here by CarolKing: a peek through an aperture into a vastness. I think it's a metaphor for cosmic consciousness. Our little human eyes, our little human brain, are windows into unimaginable depths. If all of us could get glimpses of something beyond ourselves on a regular basis, would things like Ferguson, MO, not happen?
I know I have to post a pic myself now because this message will get axed otherwise. I don't have a really great one, like the ones here. But I can make a commentary on a humble shot! Here's a puny little bush/weed thing that I saw last winter (the Long Winter of Laura Ingalls Wilder in Wisconsin) clinging to the side of my daughter's school gym wall. I cropped it and merely passed it through a feature for texturizing on a phone art app. I'm not sure exactly why, but I really like the atmosphere of poignancy and delicacy that this simple corruption imparted. The very ordinary and generally unnoticed said to me "SEE me!". I had to acquiesce (naturally). When plants talk, you have to listen! Who knows that the world around us is dancing and laughing all the time?
 

samantabha

climbing the mountain of the mind
Company Rep
Why does cabbage intrigue me? Why do I like to take photos of truckstop restroom drains (that one will be appearing soon), cracked walls, and moisture on leaves? Today I wanted to make the positive statement that "I was born yesterday". That's supposed to be a derogatory phrase. You know, like "I don't have any experience", "I don't know what I'm talking about" etc. But what if I really WAS born yesterday, as in: today is the first day I've ever been alive? Wouldn't everything be so new? It's strange to consider.....that maybe there isn't anything at all old in the world. I mean, there are weathered things. There is paint yellowing, flaking off. There are wrinkles on someone's face. But that's just a component of continual production. Something breaks to create a space for the next thing. The essence is still perfectly novel. The one dewdrop is just the one. There isn't an older one. There isn't a newer one. It's just what's speaking NOW.
Like cabbages. Like color (red shouts, blue shouts). I am perpetually stunned by the immensity and dynamism in the simplest things (as well as the awe-inspiring scenes like water falling through three bridges). Stunned right into silent submission. 'Except that I can't stop talking about it.
 
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