I find myself again listening to the beach, and as with the previous time, I feel like letting the place speak for itself. Only now more so.
Words seem frail, as do individual humans.
Often, my photos follow a stem thought, a particular noticing that compounds on itself, in the form of a series. The thought on Rialto Beach, which is an astounding place to beach-listen, came after attempts to transcribe the waves….
shoo-aaah …. hmmmm-wah …..
ooooorr - rehhh …. brrrr-oh…wa …
prrrr-woh ….. sheeeeeeeeee ….
kraaaah …. kssshhh …. kraaaaaw
And the thought was, that all my countless written syllables, in all my notebooks, in English, German, French, or attempted bird-tree-sea-wind-wave languages, are nothing to the simplicity of stones in sand, the sea’s soft drag ever again recurring, whose writing was expressed all over this wide morning beach with an aching delicacy of line.
My wish is only to make/craft a response that says I am listening. This may be the whole point of all my writing and making: to say I’m listening, to immerse in the learning that is available to me, surrounding me in nature and textiles and all these living beings.
And P.S. - the sinuous lines of trees, also taking my breath and words away…
