I have his hands
I used to gaze at them, deep and strong
Broadening at the knuckles.
Thick fingers extend like trunks.
Bronze of pigment.
Mine, soft and transparent,
Their bones are his.
The last time I saw them
Gold faded to green
I made sure of it.
It is not enough to know that we are gazing at the same night stars.
Each day that I cannot search your eyes our distance grows more austere.
I see what before I did not.
The way the lights on the hills shimmer.
The way this city has become my own.
The ducts prepare tears
for an ache thought forgotten.
They stay behind eyes.
Something I wrote stopped me.
I couldn't think or write any more.
'It was the way I felt when we were together,
and then when we weren't.'
I like walking at night. This project documents an inner city landscape after dark, a series of vignettes which, while appealing to the eye, are fleeting and trivial, like many of the thoughts and feelings that enter and escape the mind.
skin shimmers, as light make its way through the stirring foliage.
my world is green, gold and soft blue.
under my arms, around my waist the thin air meanders, sensual and transient.
my frantic mind is subdued.
a longing soul surrenders.
Yesterday, while emptying an old sim card which I hoped to reuse, I came across some old footage which I had taken on my little silver digital camera when I was around the age of 11. None of it was particularly enthralling, mostly capturing inane scenes of day to day life or images my friends and family. But I find it beautiful captures the excitement and purity of a childhood on the cusp of the digital age. The subjects are innocent and undeliberate, fascinated by the camera, whether in front of or behind it. After filming, we would all gather around the tiny screen to watch the shaky, hand-held image we'd created, often ending up in fits of laughter.We would film anything and everything.
With the way in which technology and digital photography has become so widespread, it makes me wonder whether we've lost some of the childlike authenticity in the way we interact with the visual world, in our gaze.
In Eastern Christian belief, the icon is not merely a depiction of a holy figure; it transmits the light of God, captivating and otherworldly.
I have always been drawn to Christian religious imagery. I remember from a young age being taken by depictions of martyrdom and divinity, rendered in deep, striking hues, illuminated and golden; crimson blood on pale bodies, soft, angelic faces, scenes of chaos lit by a single beam, the gentle gaze of Virgin nursing the child Christ, her gentle tears with the dead body of her son in her arms. I was baptised and grew up around religion, and for a long time tried to reconcile the powerful reaction I felt to representations with a genuine need for faith in my life, or belief in a higher power. But that need just never came. I've realised that I don't believe in God; I believe in the strength and compassion of the people around me.
I'm still not sure exactly what I feel when I see these images, whether it be sympathy, artistic admiration or simply aesthetic satisfaction. But now I'm sure it's not the light of God.
Returning home to Queensland after my first semester of university in Sydney has in some ways been a surreal experience. Going from complete independence in a completely new and unfamiliar environment back to the place that I grew up in, back to family life, has been eye-opening but also comforting. I've realised the ways that I've changed and the ways that I haven't, and the advantages and limitations of both of my new and old homes. Stepping into the bedroom of my childhood was the the moment when I realised that I've moved into a new phase of life. The place where I would feel safety and intimacy, the hub of my adolescent development.
Everything was exactly as it had been left. Sitting on my old bed under the amber glow of my lamp, while having a changed perspective, I still felt the warmth of being home. It will always be there.
and the places they've taken me.
hot wednesday night
march, ten fifty
station empty, filled
by the air of the city
cigarettes and concrete
carbon dioxide, cooking meat
history dying beautfully,
from circular quay station
A dollar eighteen
all with eyes to a screen
with an opal
am free as a wave
that wears at the ancient headland
that the queen to us once gave
these tunnels are the portals
between class, lives and times
equal in our silence we ride
all heading somewhere
to each other, unknown
yet this small space we share
for 13 minutes, like a home
we listen in on each other's conversations
rent, problematic children
and romantic depreciations
we never dare ask of the other's world
we sit, we gaze, but never unfurl
the ball of fermenting tales of the days events
or the anguish inside, which we so yearn to vent
but once did i see
this film of inner city alienation
fractured by an infectious joy
on the night of gay celebrations
an elated young woman, immune to train rider muteness
burst into song, and then a thing of beauty
blossomed as the carriage of commuters
lay down their pride
and joined her in a chorus
but there are times when some talk
when deeply unwanted
those who are cold,
to humanity absconded
with new found strength from the oblivious tunnel
their tongue as a fist
the weak they pummel
for the the clothes that they wear or the race of their mother
for their ancestral faith, for being an other
those of good heart speak up and defend
a recording to sunrise a bystander will send
On we ride
under cool white lights
under streets silent
subdued by the night
an announcing voice calls
a familiar name
you pull yourself up
you step off the train
you are yourself again
in your world of your own
lips are unsealed,
you stand, you are home
the anonymous journey,
the people you saw,
the lives you witnessed,
the stories you bore
are lost to the tunnel,
the black of the night
consumed by the city
and turned into light