Archives for February 2004

Life is Forever a Mystery!

Summer is near. Hopefully the clouds will come and bring rain upon the Colorado Plateau and Great Basin. These two enormous and uncanny deserts are my church, where untouched secrets still lurk; where wild creatures roam unscathed.

There is good and evil in this little conundrum of life, but everything serves a purpose. Our reality cannot be understood with any theory. Humans can try, but I don’t think they will ever succeed in defining our infinite existence. Science and math cannot describe the beauty of a thunderstorm roaring across the land, becuase it can’t describe how I feel inside. For the Creator is gorgeous; and reality is forever a mystery.

Trying to Understand My Existence

There is a reason I write about the desert, and other places of beauty. When I’m out in the middle of nowhere; far from cities, institutions, or establishments, It feels awesome and secure. So I’ve come to the conclusion that humans are in a deep load of shit. They keep manifesting their oppression in different ways. If I write about the wilderness, it keeps me balanced. The images of mountains, trees, and wind, these beautiful dreams are painted to my memory, and they bring understanding. I hear the wind when I feel confined, or wherever oppression pervades.

Society is everywhere, and its confusion keeps growing stronger. Every now and then, life feels so useless. I’ve been alienated, and want nothing to do with the dreams and ambitions of the modernized world; for their dreams and ambitions might equal death, destruction and dehumanization. How else can one describe the problem? My own mental outlook is a burden, because I don?’ know how else to feel, or react? This superficial modern culture suffocates me; what a hell-hole of confusion! Even when I conceive new ideas, even they become recycled versions of the same old disease, a continuation of the same old destroyer. This is how it feels and this is why I write about the wilderness. Everything is so spacious and empty, and I am empty inside. If I know nothing, then I must be more human?

My opinion is, humans are weak, and I’m weak. That is truth, because my own pride sucks. My arrogance and prejudices suck. I detest them all, because they’re components of the disease. This is my assumption, but I think many others feel the same, and if there is only silence, we would never get anywhere

I know nothing. If an an observation is made, its nothing more then that.

My Affinity For Trees

When I photograph the landscape, the trees are the most profound models. Their twisted shapes tease my spiritual universe, manifesting great feelings to my heart. When I see the shapes of trees, and stand in their shadows, and touch the bark of slithering branches, I respect the intelligence and kindness that whispers softly from those fleshy-wooden centers. They seem to communicate with compassion. They love life in unconditional ways; great peacemakers in a hardened, troubled world; patient creatures, with the greatest definition of understanding. I?ve wanted to emulate their calmness, but I envy their beauty. Cemented in one place, they grow so wise and bountiful; those roots crawl so deep. They are so clever; that white painted Aspen, that rustic pine, and every other wooden spirit.

It was a cabin in the wilderness, where a Tree Man discovered my sorrow, and the clouds and wind never stopped. He called himself the Dream-maker, and was full of wordless resonance. I spoke with the wooden mind carefully, its heart was quite a spook; It so skillfully-artistically studied my vision. Noon dripped from the pines like butter. The visitor was so hard to learn. While the ground around him was dark like ravens? it was his thrown of beauty. The sky palace above was sweet as flowers in a young meadow. Soon he left the ancient cabin and strutted like an old fellow bent with pain; dressed like a three-hundred year old hobo, a hermit ghost in organic rags. If you ever gazed into the eyes of this beholder, the compassion was more elder then humans. In the end he became a tree. For the sun in a quiet world is the peace of such rest and stillness.