poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
This is like ‘Harry Potter’
Niece age 5
My new university
I wanted to live somewhere else
Where my dad’s death was not so loud
Because he never was here
With mountains, hills, water, woods
‘That’s my place’, I said touching the walls
Hearing their song
That’s where I belong
Freedom of movement
Just keep driving
We looked at one another
Two sisters
One thought
Just keep driving
Over the Alps
Like Hannibal
Without elephants
With an old Fiesta
Just keep driving
Only two cylinders working
One week holiday left
Brilliant views
Steep climbs
Just keep driving
To Venice
Freedom of movement
for tales we tell again and again
and yet we don’t seem to learn
from these tales of ours
as they repeat over and over and over
again
a different place
a different time
and different characters
sometimes
somewhere
somewhen
some of us
parallel
reenact
the same story
a story that has already been told
a story of pain
a story of hurt pride
a story of too much ego
a story that ultimately ends in regret
yet still
we spin the tale
we walk the path
we repeat the story
to be passed on
by us
to be heard
and forgotten
and repeated
just
in a slightly different version
so
What’s your story?
I read an article a while back debating how much a photographer has ownership of their art when cameras make the decisions for them. Given that I take most my photos either with my mobile phone (don’t judge it’s Huawei P9 with dual Leica lenses) or a somewhat geriatric hybrid (Canon Powershot S50—with a broken viewfinder and some serious issues in difficult light situations), the cameras do very much make the initial decisions for me. However, what they do not decide is:
So the machines do not see, smell, taste, hear, feel that this November foliage is an ephemeral treasure of gold.
The machines are not aware of the parallel universe, in which two moons circle the globe, and light breaks differently through a hazy atmosphere. The machines are not aware that this universe shimmers through the mesmerizing colours teased out by the midday winter-sun.
The machines don’t notice the complex fairy tale playing out around the bizarrely shaped branches of a tree. They are not cognizant of the battles, the monsters, the love, the light, the fantastic creatures, the purple dragon, the elven warrior, or the fairy cat. They know not of the little girl in the polka-dot dress, walking barefoot amongst the trees. The awkward teenage boy who is to tall for his breeches but too small for his sword. The person who changes their hair every day at will, just because. The machine’s focus did not notice the tiny mouse’s shaking whiskers when it poked his head cautiously above an exposed root, to see what I was doing and report back to fairyland.
I am aware of all of these realities, but when I point my camera all the machine notices is a fairly nice, sometimes even almost professional, but flat representation of all these stories.
So I use a multitude of programmes, apps, and filters until the stories emerge from this:
Trolls don’t like peace
They cannot abide it
The ugliness in their soul
The empty space in their heart
Scream too loudly into the void of hatred
In some windows
In some eyes
In the centre of the deepest darkness
Here light turns into love
There is always hope
As long as there is life
Revel in your time
Because you don’t remember when it began
Because you don’t know when it will end
Because the best of times is now
Because the worst of times is now, too
Because you make it which way you want
That time of yours
You live in a hostile world
There are monsters everywhere
Trust no one!
Your peaceful you seeks solace
Even in company
Your angry you
A tornado of defense and attack
In the aftermath
You don’t remember
Blurred lines
Blurred pictures
No emotions
He said, she said
‘Actually that’s not what happened.’
I translate
The skewed reality
Into something less hostile
I put bridles on the monsters
Then one day
Your peaceful you
Your angry you
Met
They shook hands
Now the monsters are gone
Poetry by Nathalie 