I am feeling rather stuck at the moment, wanting of a muse. The energy is there, my fingers are ready and itching to go, but the ideas seem to have gotten bored waiting and wandered off in search of coffee and money. I wish them well.

While we’re here alone, I am tempted to resort to what I tend to call some ‘bullshit’ getting-started exercises; attempting to throw together a couple of random images, moments of time, feeling or any other source at hand, and to use the resulting something (or perhaps nothing) to devise a new set of nicely laid-out poetic prose. My inspiration this time is young Russian photographer Elizaveta Porodina.

Having just discovered her work on another blog, I am moved enough by it to want to share it, to sit with it and experience it for a while. This image in particular held my gaze like a confident new friend; haunting and unattainable, innocent and raw, it is such a beautiful use of light and composure that I am celebrating it in my heart. I feel grateful for its existence. To this end…

I could but touch him. I want to ask him questions. Such unnatural wisdom, glorious serenity in this still, gentle warmth. I imagine him much older than I know he is. I cannot help but wish his life away. He could not possibly allow me any interaction because it would be unreasonable and even wrong for him to become the persona I dream up onto him. I see the underness of his physical self, the unfinished, the growing, unformed (deformed almost, to my eye, given the soul I am clutching out of the simple, the base what-I-see), and yet I impose superiority. Perhaps vulnerability is what completes a picture of perfection for me. Perhaps the naive are the most intimidating there could possibly be. I wish to be governed by someone, something smaller than me. To answer to children. I could but ask him. I want to watch him silently, not disturb his eternal gaze. I want to observe in awe, and with removal from him. In my pursual of ultimate grace I am digressing, distracted, yet tirelessly true to the ‘current’, loyal to the flow. To evolution. As long as time is passing, all is fine. As long as we’re not waiting. People may wait for us, but we must not find ourselves waiting.


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