Fire

I watch the fire dance through the iron window of the prison that encompasses it. Raw, combustible energy blazing in bright yellows and oranges, it dances provocatively luring us closer. The heat from it's faces scorch the skin of any who foolishly wander too close. It seems harmless, charming even, shifting and radiating a pleasing light. Hypnotically swaying, enthralling those who watch too long; it's long arms playing with brightly lit scarves. The blistering coals sizzle distractingly with pops and wheezes of air trapped in the wood. One poke with a stick sends a rush of glowing sparks hurrying upwards into the stars propelled by the sheer excitement in the opportunity to escape. Make no mistake, escape and freedom are the only focus for fire.

We keep it contained and purposefully useful to cook our food and keep us warm. We use it to help remove waste and inhospitable material. We invite it into our homes and trap it in tiny, ornate holders, or stone fixtures in our walls that we show off to our friends. We use it to protect ourselves, to comfort ourselves, to entertain and romance ourselves. We rely on it's talent for heat to keep us alive. We rely on it's ability to ignite passion in our own lives as we rekindle our own yearning for freedom that fire relentlessly longs for. It speaks to us, the fire in our souls, and we see images of our future, or our past, in the heat of it's flames. We cannot exist without it's glow. Our very lives depend on it's continued complacency.

It's tempered captivity dares you to let it go unnoticed so low in the pit. Tall tongues lick up the bars of the grill, caressing the air, searching to expand into the world. A breeze shifts and bends the flame, teasing it, twisting it, pulling it to where it cannot go. The image is a playful, yet powerful reminder of the fire's confinement. Potential danger builds in the heart of the flame fuelling it's desire to break out of the shackles holding it safely to the Earth. We are fuelled by a fear of irreparable destruction. Fire devours, without prejudice, all consumable material.

For that is the power of fire. The most ancient of instincts; to burn, to consume, to destroy. Without joy, without malice, without knowing it, fire ruins and reduces everything to smouldering ashes. It must be contained, fed regularly, strategically led to dance and grow on command. Reduced to a tool, an object to provide, fire watches us, waiting for our mistakes. The bars on the grill makes us believe that we are safe from harm. But it lies dormant, blanketed in and among the luminous ashes and searing coals, it conserves its heat ready for the opportunity to grow wild. Ignore at your own peril the true nature of fire. It is not to be contained or tamely bound in iron. Do not doubt or underestimate just how easy it is to forget this ancient predator, for you will regret not being respectful.

Rain

It shows up softly with a silvery noise. Then the sound swells like a crescendo of small cymbals. It is raining. A thousand tiny drops thrum together into one solid sound of water crashing hard against the dry and dusty ground. The drench of heavenly water heavily slaps the soggy ground, saturating the Earth. There is a song in those drops, in the rhythmic dripping and splashing of the water. An ancient tale whispered softly, a soothing lullaby from long ago. It is a call for life. Grass seems to grow greener, birds louder, flowers brighter, even against the oppressive grey sky that looms overhead. Insects and slimy worms are forced up from their dark comforts up onto the surface. This leaves them helpless to hungry birds who chirp happily in the background, safe in the protection of the trees.

A cleansing freshness blows in with the wind. A pure sense of revitalization breezes in on the rain. You can almost taste a sweet perfume of soaking Earth, saturated dirt, mixed with the fragrant scent of blooming flowers. The glistening sheets of falling dew shine in the sky with a faint but radiant glimmer. The determined drumming of beaded pearls relentlessly pelt the Earth turning soft dirt into muck and mud. Sprinkling showers fall into subdued puddles and lazy streams of liquid life. The drops form chaotic patterns of ever expanding circles on the faces of those puddles. They are hypnotic and try to lull you into a trance. As they fall tiny, jewelled-drops, wet, watery-plops settle to sparkle on the windowsills. Life outside the window is distorted by distracting drizzles and trails of tears. The rain beats down consistently and continuously calling from some unknown place. 

As soothing as rain is, the effects can also be awe-inspiring and disastrously deadly. Flooding, monsoons, the rain, not only merciless, is also blind and unthinking. It can't gauge when the rushing river is too high. It can't guess when the dam will overflow to drown the Earth in a deluge of water. It can't predict it's own strength nor strive to tame it.  Terrible clashes of thunder and terrifying bolts of lightening flash and roar in the skies, tormenting our children and keeping us from sleeping at night. Torrents of rain are nature's disaster. This is the extent to which it demands respect.  The rain, without sympathy, carries on. It only recognizes duty.

It is also where elements come together. The vaporous clouds heavy with rain, give out through sheer inability to hold the weight of the water. The rain falls and feeds the Earth, nurtures its ability to in turn nurture us. Without rain, it reminds us, there is no life. On hot days the glare of the sun is overpoweringly able to evaporate all moisture. Our natural bodies yearn for water. We all have that in common. The birds, the plants, animals and our human dependency on the refreshing qualities of precious water rewrite borders, win and lose wars and constantly change the futures for all of us. Death descends where there is no water. Starvation is evident. Yet even in the most scorched areas of our planet, where there is nothing but sun and sand, there is still the hope for the soft sounds of rain. 

 

Soap Bubbles

Silly, slimy, soapy spheres these flimsy bubbles are fragile and frail.  The air, trapped beneath the thin outer skin, strains to be released.  Life breath is captured in a shiny, slimy round cage.  Don't touch!  They shiver a moment and explode without warning.  Any disturbance bursts mere existence into remnants of something unreal. 

Prisms of air, they float and dance on the wings of the wind oddly reflecting the world back to us with shimmers of iridescent colour.  Rainbows are born on their faces.  These fancy falls of colour curve and shift on the surface, as if craving to come alive.  The world inside a bubble is seemingly perfect.  Beautiful in all things.  

Frequently flimsy, they illuminate their own iridescence and offer a quivering effervescence to those near enough to enjoy.  Vaporous and weightless, these gossamer jewels, daintily glide gloriously.  They're frivolous illusions touched by light and breath and seem to live but for mere moments.  Bubbles have no intentions, there mere existence a surprise chance.  Aspiring to nothing, we long to disappear in them.  Whimsical wayfarers, bubbles wander aimlessly, influenced by the elements; persuaded by flight.

They are poised on the edge of non-existence.  These wispy waifs are not rare, but offer a rare moment of bliss and unwarranted excitement.  Immaterial and nearly intangible these bubbles are not imaginary, but instead hold whispered promises of wishes and prayers.  Their preference is pleasure, providing embellishment to life.  They spark imagination and invite inspiration.  Silent and slight, their delicate nature reveals unsubstantial rewards.

 

Mountains

Ageless monuments to timelessness.  Stoic, immobile mountains, unmoving in their memories.  Unknowing beings, they turn away from the fragile plights of people.  Blind and uncaring, they are unindulgent of petty pleasures.  Majestic and awesome, they are solid and powerful keepers of shadows and secrets.  Eternal and beautiful, they are cold stone brought forward from deep history. 

Natural thrones, their immenseness protects the lives that thrive on their surfaces.  Bountifully providing for those that seek shelter, condemning those that seek power.  They are barriers, obstacles, watchful and rigid in their grandeur.  Splendid and magnificent they are constant and everlasting watchers of our world.  They are ceaseless, and unending, continual and classic.

Motionless, lifeless, unfeeling and indifferent, their regal and stately imposition strive to ban us from our desires.  Both overwhelming and breathtaking, these tremendous and remarkable statues are as unyielding as they are commanding.  Stand in awe of their dominance over their land.  They prevail with stunning forcefulness striking the hearts of men forever.  Their significance is stately and momentous. 

Only the extraordinary celebrate their ability to conquer these innate giants.  The massiveness of their shield defends borders and becomes an inflexible hindrance for those unimpressive enough to impose their will on these colossal, unsympathetic ranges.  They will not answer prayers.  They will not call for help.  You may visit with risk; risk of death, but also risk of life.  Proud and powerful are they who attempt to climb their faces.  Puny humans with needs too big to keep at home.  

Their heartlessness and pitiless existence is one of unknowing.  Even frigid water is thrown from their cliffs unceremoniously.  They cannot feel our awe.  They cannot see our worship.  They cannot understand our attempts of conquest.  Their faces are heavy with foliage of hearty, needled-trees.  Their scars provide refuge.  Their caverns hold secrets of creation, as they have risen of an untamed Earth pushing ever upwards; piercing the skies with their jagged peaks.

Cleansing and wild, mountains capture our creativity, and spark fire in our hearts.  We seek them out for we also long to be timeless.  They break us, and they save us.  These rigid mountains; these Rocky Mountains. 

The importance of description

The camera cannot fully capture the beauty of what the eye sees.  Nor can words.  The eye captures images that are full of sound, feeling and inspiration on behalf of the viewer.  Photographers, artists, and poets strive to capture these images to then share them with the world.  My goal is to test the theory that it takes as many as 1,000 words to describe an image, or a scene. 

I've always known the importance of a good vocabulary; the importance of choosing each word to mean exactly what you want to say.  Saying, "I'm happy" is less effective than saying, "I'm excited" or "I'm blissful."  You know exactly what that person is feeling when they use the word 'excited' or 'blissful' instead of 'happy'.  The intensity is increased.  The emotion specified.  The picture is clearer. 

Too often we forgo these specifically descriptive words for the more common, less effective versions of them.  This leads to ineffective communication and leaves one or both parties feeling unheard.  How many times do you use the phrase, "That's not what I meant..."  Saying what you truly mean is 80% of communication with another person and yet we all struggle with this daily.  At work, we feel unheard, at home, under-appreciated, with our friends, misunderstood.

That's why we like taking pictures.

If you tried to describe the incredible beauty of a fading sunset, you could be at it for hours trying to completely reiterate what you saw; the colour, the splendour, the glory of it all.  The other party then uses your words to paint a mental picture.  However, it is nearly impossible for that person to truly know what you saw when you looked out over the horizon at that setting sun.  Partly this has to do with the emotional impact it had on the viewer in the first place.  Trying to describe something is difficult, but trying to describe how something made you feel is futile.  They may think they understand how that sunset made you feel utterly free, yet they cannot feel it themselves.  What they might feel after your description is merely an echo of what you felt.  

We've all heard the phrase, "A picture is worth a thousand words."  It succinctly sums up the fact that our eyes are truly windows to our world.  They allow us to see the beauty, the horror, the full scope of our existence.  But what we see, or experience is clouded by what we feel, and even how our brains process this information.  Personality types not only influence how we communicate, but also how we see, interpret, speak and listen.  What each of us sees is unique.  To a poet, a butterfly floating up on high is seen as a poem.  To a scientific minds, it's an insect with specific characteristics that make it a bug.  In reality, it's a butterfly; how we see it makes it change. 

With each entry I will strive to paint pictures of ordinary, every-day things that are common to everyone.  It will be my attempt to describe my world to you.  What I see, how I interpret what I see, and how it made me feel.  This is a test of vocabulary.  This is a test of word paintings.  This will raise awareness of our world and insert it behind the black and white text that are words.  

I want you to see what I see.