Sand People

It begins in a sort of fugue. You’re not sleeping but you’re caught up still in the drapery of your dreams. You are between realms. Like what Rumi says, the doorsill where the two worlds touch. In this state it’s so obvious that everything you perceive is sacred. This is the time when your primary senses do not deceive you. This is what your senses are for. In the angular light of dusk, the waning of vision. In the golden moments of dawn when vision is restored. We lost something truly magnificent with the advent of electric illumination. The very psyche of mankind altered, forever perhaps, by the ubiquity of artificial light. Even light. Steady light. The taming and containment of photons. On-demand glowing. The birth of elecronic binary states. No longer was the daily surrender to blindness. No longer the daily reprieve. And in those moments, as the great celestial bodies spun in their clockwork orbits, giving and taking away, sight, we were granted a degree of truth in vision. We still are. In the light that precedes the darkness, and that follows it, as the same day breaks again and again.

There is a fuzzy, trippy vision. You see, but the connection’s not clear. There’s static. Like a radio station that’s not fully tuned in. That’s the place you want to be. In that state you glide above the terrain, not as an alien observer, but as a traveller, who has returned after being away from home for so long that everything looks familiar, yet still feels strange. Now you can really see. Because your body is a camera. Not your eyes, your entire body. This is what subconscious photography means. You’re taking in the whole of the moment, the whole of a scene, you’re absorbing it through your skin, breathing in a place, a time, a moment, like an amphibian. Your primary senses are functioning, but more acutely, and all your other senses are working too, the forgotten animal senses, the intuitive senses, the psychic part of you that understands there is no physical seperation between us, we are joined, not at our edges, but beyond form, and form itself both falls away and affirms this knowing. A strange paradox but one that manifests itself clearly when you look for it this way. The trick, I think is to never full awaken. Carry the drapes with you. Tear them off the curtain rods and drag them behind you.

I don’t know what this is, this photograph. It shifts and morphs and sings. I hear voices. A choir. I see people moving toward the light, no, away from the light. Mesopotamians. Chaldeans. Bodies. Sand people. Cave paintings, wavering in firelight. Flames. What message this? I know I was not aware in the moment of what I was seeing when I hovered my camera above the form. There was no intent. There was no composition. It was automatic, psychomatic. People in the sand. Roots. Dendrites. A range of wind-blown hills. The living world is a tarot.

o O o

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