Remembrance on a hilltop.

There is a world beyond these moments and the power of memory to document what is now past.  Life is a series of phases that meld together with perpetual forward motion and recollection.  This time upon us now—however much it may serve to mark the finality of things and the beginnings of others—is still yet another phase.  It is a transitional period, though far more distinct than those past; it is a shift from crawling and searching among others to walking, climbing, and discovering on one’s own.

I still cannot help but to mention the surge of gladness and warmth I feel when musing upon that which is now ahead.  There is a voyage before each one of us; I feel confident in this truth.  Growth knows no bounds; we begin as children—fledging things—and never emerge as fully grown beings.  The moment at which the forward and upward motion of life ceases is the peak that ought to never be reached.  We ought to never be wholly ripened but, rather, in an unbroken state of blossoming and ripening—to seek still more of ourselves, the infinite core ever-unfolding.  Memory is a weapon we wield as we fight for the years ahead to be our own.  Memory is a treasure that should not be lost.  Though today may symbolize the end of the days of our youth and the anxiousness to commence the life that awaits, the simplest of memories of times that gave even the subtlest stir in our hearts should not be dismissed.  Memory is also the thread intertwined with life—my own being no exception.

I have found the words of the American poet, Jack Gilbert, so very fitting for this moment.  “I stand on myself as a hilltop and my life is spread before me.”

and so it goes.........

Finally.

and so it goes.........

Day.

The day she died no one looked, realized. Some bleak Tuesday in a season that did not matter, the unchanging wind greeted her as she crossed the threshold into the unordinary street. Her destination was no great concern; everything attempting to surround her was extraneous. Details meant nothing except to her eyes when they were held in her hands and carefully composed in etchings of memory. The events following and shaping what may be considered her life have been specifically and carefully eliminated from the words "Remember me". Her death went unnoticed because her presence was that of the Immortals. She had spent her minutes and hours as nothing other than wholly herself. The courage to speak the word "I" in a world that had forgotten painted her entire being in light and gave her eyes the flickering of seeing. It placed her in the sphere of the living and the vanishing of the vessel containing her soul and being did not throw her to the dead and lost. The pieces to which her thoughts and frail hands brought shape brought her no mention. An ordinary man would scream if his life work went unseen, but her art was infinitely more than enough because she could say 'I made it. Mine.' Not a soul had set foot in her studio or laid so much an eye on her work. And yet, many years following when her work was released, all felt they were looking upon what they had always been seeing. All the beauty and scenes she had drunk in with eyes of complete conscious appeared as explosions upon canvas. Her soul had cried out for humanity and in the endless waiting for the world to be as it should be. Critics mouths were cemented for the art gave form to the words and thoughts they had always failed to shape in their mouths. They gazed upon eternity and realized she had always been. Her name was phantomesque in books, yet her lifebeingart was forever written in ink and mankind.

Upon that which indicated mortality in view of the world—a single tombstone in a cemetery sea—her name was absent; she wished not to be sought. The word Glósóli interrupting its smooth surface was the only sign the stone was not merely stone. Nights saw the cold gray illuminated by a strange radiance, and, beneath Glósóli additional writing appeared: And now you're here, Glowing Soul.

and so it goes.........

Transformation: Inbetweens

Watches. Unused, untouched lightbulbs. Mirrors. Remnants of forgotten newspaper. A tea stain as sign of where one had been before.

Circularity in the shape of the original pieces of the tranformation, the broken time pieces, the mirrors points to the idea of infinity. Reflective surfaces are the endless span of time intertwined with life. All perception of time is lost when one leaves reality for the complacency found in artificial constructions of "happiness".

and so it goes.........