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ALTphotos Photography Community :: For Creative Photography
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Jan 12, 5:22pm
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Incremental and particulate, they flow through the shores, lap into the sand, cycle into the abyss. Pre-production plastics have become the sand of every beach. From the daily release of thousands of balloons at the amusement park, miles of ribbon sink in the channel offshore, entangling fish and creating webs of fanciful carnage. Birds choke on plastic bags. I hear about the dead coral reefs. I drive among the warehouses of convenience, the numbered loading docks of the junk-mailing center, the oil refinery, the unctuous sunset, the city skyline seething with the silence of distance.
But there are the inescapable ridges, the geometry that flows in muscular fractals from the mountain peak to the bay. And there remains the systole and diastole, the tidal pull, the strings of atoms vibrating at the core of matter, the rhythm of unimaginable permeation, complexity and vastness, making myself and everyone else in the world mere, aggregate, transient, indivisible.
Inside the walls of the capital city, oil paintings by silverbacks line the hallways. The sports played here are those of charts and diagrams. I look very closely and see the kings of the line living in caves against the hill and I think I see something of the lost geometry of porcelain cups. There is an abundance of salt in the ground. I want to leave immediately but know there will be no place for me anywhere else, so rarified and dependent have I become.
The new world is a performance, a kind of coverage. I wake in a soup of sun. I am in a room far from my own without words or ideas.
I am walking at night down a florescent hallway lined with dozens of doors. Only one is open. There is a man inside the small room working. Usually, his door is closed like all the others. I pass by and see him staring intently at the screen and typing, with his chin raised slightly in order to see through the bottom portion of his bifocals. Behind him, there is a bright background of colored tapestries, the origin of which I am unsure. I imagine he is working on an enormous project, a lifetime of work, brick by mental brick. He is competent and tenacious, maybe even brilliant. And I think I could never do something like that, working here every night in such grand loneliness. And then I pass by later and notice him smiling at the screen and think he's just checking his email or surfing the Internet. And I wonder how he could waste his life like that. I walk outside.
--Brian Strang, excerpt from "the eye" ~
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