I've been dreadfully behind in blogging weddings from this summer, slow catching up under a mountain of school and work and a lot of Monday-Tuesday-Wednesdays. However, please enjoy this image. Quite possibly the best wedding part picture ever. Ciao.
All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.
I've got 3,762 photographs in a folder from this summer alone. Moments captured and then thought about then forgot about, ideas and accidentals and 'what...was I thinking...here' pictures. And because of a small sojourner's sabbatical -a trip to the eye Doctor to get new vision- they lie in my harddrive in neat, categorized order until I can properly articulate up close, the message that I saw far off. It's both a comfort and a jar to know that I'll always have images to fall back on.
I've finally come up for air, it feels. And pleasantly so.
I'm taking deep breaths of inspiration, feeding the cells of my imagination with the oxygen of Real things. Things that are in one sense just the same as the old things, yet at the same time they are now somehow different. Deeper, richer, truer. Lewis describes this sense of seeing things in a way that is "deeper, more wonderful, more like places in a story: in a story you have never heard but very much want to know."
My unlined journal is all filled up in black ink with theory's and charts and stats on the source of this story, but my heart is all filled up with the steady secret that this Story is a True one- this grand tale of Real things, A Real Man, Real Words, Real Love- it is not written about me, but I get to partake in the mystery of its unfolding. I stand, reading, singing, speaking, weeping at the beauty of the Truth.
A business/empire/marketing-driven, self-expressionist yuppie art endeavor will not hold up underneath the weight of this glory. Mine didn't. I stand comforted by the fact that I don't have what it takes to make a name for myself. Only One man ever did, and he yielded his right to it. He was Real. He's making me Real.
Speaking of Real things. I went to Madison, WI this past weekend to experience the sensation of listening to REAL music: Opera. Puccini's LaBoheme was ripe and in season.
The sublime voices, wooshing out of well trained lungs could have just blown the watercolored leaves from their fragile clasps,
It does not cease to captivate me
to silence me the truest feat
to bring every part of me quiet
to a gentle and steady hum.
Nor does it cease
to surprise me with its beauty, its facets
its ever changing visage
and thus, the words I bring forth
to recall it to you
neither match my feelings or its truth.
(I am not alone in my affection,
the clouds too hold its fleeting rosy tones,
this last bit of day as long as allowed)
The end of each day the most bittersweet
the long night laid out ahead,
just I and the dark.
Yet it dawns just the same every morning,
unless one does not wake,
and in its paleness filtered through the clouds
or in its brilliant cleansing scorch,
hot enough to burn away
all the bitterness built up in the dark,
I am burnt clean.