Today the world is as globalized as it could be - - yet we struggle to find meaning in our daily existence.

22 February 2010


a single jolt whimsically electrifies the Pacific's currents. the wave crashes just beyond the benign horizon, not a second too soon, and not one too late. i look ahead, awed, and amazed as the rich blueish green hue of the wave provides a vivid juxtaposition against the complementing azurite sky. and to neglect the humble sun, whose yellow can burn holes to the back of your skull, would have been a grave mistake. somedays he seems more violent, veering red & tainted with blood. somedays he seems a tad sour, with his citrus pigment blending eloquently into his multifarious color schematics. and somedays he seems just right, stout, and beaming in excellence. just above him and fighting for status amidst the sky, the cumulonimbus' engage in an epic crusade against one another. like the surrealist in J. Pollock, they converge on multiple planes, smearing here, not there, but everywhere. they dance, they paint, and they negotiate for space, swirling the skyline exuberantly as if a neapolitan milkshake had been ordered from the heavens. the fray lasts for about an hour before the setting sun reduces human visibility by two hundred percent, and the clouds retreat to waltz another day. i glance off in the distance catching Helio's tail drifting away towards the other end of the Pacific; with my left hand shading my point of view, and my right firmly gripping the camera. in that instant - nightfall bestows me it's darkest secrets - and as i stand there with my feet sunk a few inches below sea level, i remain nonsensically dazed. i breathe deep to take in that peculiar moment, and to smell the surrounding maritime environment. still i remain in awe, unable to fully catch my breath; as if that incredible sunset had taken a shot to my solar plexus, promptly dropping me to one knee. i breathe. i breathe, again.

how beautiful a memory is. how it can capture the true essence of a particular event in time and space. and though a photograph can duly capture the thousand words that befit it, it is unable to perfectly mimic the sensations and perceptions and thoughts of that memory - that becomes imprinted into the mind of one's reminiscent moment of the past. perhaps when that photograph is within the hands of its maker, then can true tribute be made.

from the far east


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