The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death
by Keef Charles
Are you one of the lucky ones?
You know what you want to photograph, you go out, you shoot...and get it?
Perhaps you know what you want to write, you formulate, build a framework and fill with easy flowing prose.
Not me. I get ideas, I make plans but then the rest almost does it’s own thing. Uffa.
Anyway, thanks to a certain lady, I’ve rediscovered the pleasure of writing. More so, as I’m able to combine it with my passion for photography. I’ve already got a few stories and articles sketched out. But now...now the cogs are whirring in my mind, long forgotten memories are being drawn from the recesses of this strange machine we call the brain. Through this process, I recall a lot of my childhood. Much of it is happy, good memories. Occasionally though, something sadder grinds out of the machine:
THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW
I was young, wild of heart
Happy, most of the time
Happy enough not to understand why that little girl just looked dolefully at us from her bedroom window
At the age of seven, I could sense and feel something was awry
She was pale, sad looking
But there was a flicker of recognition from her, up in the window
I’d look out for her, as I trooped off with a mate or two, en route to that day’s joyous play
I’d think about her, half an ear to what my mate was saying
Be it joke or plans for when we got to wherever we were going
Then I’d forget her, get lost in events unfolding
Each time I’d insist we took same route past her house
The house of girl whose name I didn’t even know
One time we took a different route, for some reason
Feeling guilty, I insisted that we retraced our steps and went past that blue door of number 77
After a while, however, I stopped seeing her
No longer did her face appear in the window
Each time I’d look, pause and hope
Alas...
Some months later I gathered from hushed tones of adults, she’d been ill
Very ill
Sentenced to early grave by some disease I couldn’t comprehend
...She was just nine years old.
Progressive is photography based. If I want to write an article, I need shots to make it work; however laterally.
For this reason, I decided, on a blustery day, to drive into the wilds and visit a graveyard I’d always been intrigued by; nestled on the hillside, close to the shore of the lake. I’d driven past it many times. I’d even hiked past its low wall and cast iron railings but had no time to stop for photos.
I don’t know what I wanted. It wasn’t just about the little girl in the window. Maybe it was simply an excuse to get out and think about an article. I needed to feel my camera, heavy in my hands. With COVID19 threatening even this island nation, street photography doesn’t feel as safe as it used to.
I wasn’t looking to write about anything too heavy. We’ve all seen our share of suffering:
...casket too small of a cot death
...funeral of father barely known
…teenage bodies convulsed; sons a witness of mother’s early death
…torment of suicide, questions begging
It’s just that
…when you rush your mum to hospital, you wonder
...when people you care for are at risk of deadly disease, you wonder
...when life is gnawing away at your time on this earth and there’s still so much more to do, you wonder:
...how much those people mean to you
…how long they’ll be around
...if the last hug you gave them, was the last chance you had
...how will you defy the world’s strange turning and even meet up with some in the first place?
Normally I’d cross fingers for decent weather; dry and bright. Strangely enough, I didn’t worry about the weather’s clemency. No. If it was dark, grey, cloudy and even pouring down with rain, the foreboding nature would add to the atmosphere of my shots. If, on the other hand, it was sunny..as it turned out to be..all well and good. The light being the camera’s friend.
So it was that I visited the church grounds and after a quiet and respectful session, headed back to my car to warm up. Fingers thawed out, I decided to get some shots of the train stop, cross the tracks and focus on any memories that welled up from the lake. Good times, with my kids. Building dams across the rivulet; paddling; skimming stones on water’s surface...and such like. I felt ok; things were coming together. I chatted briefly with some picnickers and windsurfers into the bargain.
But my mind drifted:
No longer looking across the lake at the distant rolling hills
Or subconsciously scouting pebbles for skimmers
My mind turned to events far away
Far enough that there’s room for a channel, international border and more
But people so close
My mind switched to images seemingly surreal
A scene from some cheap movie perhaps
A scene depicting...
Workplaces closed
Restaurants barely opening doors
Shops risking contaminated custom
Elderly deprived of carers as the government introduces new laws
Permits required to cross town
Police enforcing roadblocks
City quarantined
A fear for loved ones
What’s more, things have changed radically, in just a week!
This is unreal.
Unprecedented.
Queues, curfews, permits and rationing.
Many of us have never experienced anything like it before in our lives!
Ordinarily, the time spent in a cemetery will be sobering.
Right now, events unfolding as they are, it’s almost a refuge
A time to reflect on love, life and death
Somehow easier because …
For the most part, these lives ended long ago
It’s the desperate uncertainty of today’s situation which haunts me!
So... my mind in turmoil, I’d rather go back to the cemetery, where you’ll find:
Soldiers lost in the rage of war
Partners and lovers, a life foreshadowed
Faithful husbands, loving wives
Pawned hearts, broken hearts
Matters not…
The headstones tell just what they were commissioned to tell
The sparsity of words their only excuse
Sorrow strewn twixt headstones
Celebration too
Ghosts tread grassy walk
However they fell, however, they are remembered
As a love lost to death’s cold grip
or a love cherished in memory’s warm grasp
LOVE UNDYING
These former walkers of the earth…
Do they all rest in their graves?
Settled spirits ... encased, entombed?
Or do some search for that lover, stolen by death’s embrace?
Wandering, wandering...
Some by day, skulking in sun’s shadows
Others...by night, more brazen neath moonlight.
Tell me spirit:
Why then this lifehold so strong?
Did you not feel script complete?
Are you searching for her still?
Beauty so alluring
Neck of porcelain swan
It’s length in kisses, still to count
It’s beauty framed by yoke of dress.
These were times gone by
Fashion reminiscent of some wonderland.
You wish to hook with finger
This ruffled neckline
The tug almost a caress…
To reveal the nape.
Kissing to count
To count its length
Oh...to kiss..each...
and every...
feather
Here’s something a little more upbeat, from the album that gave me my title: