The Mortar of Life
Images are the reminders of the mortar that bind our lives.
It was always a dream of mine (and still is) to travel. And I mean travel as in get lost in places I never thought I’d go. Faraway places that people have to get map to find.
Quiet, forgotten places. They, like any small beautiful thing, will have their own unique beauty. And if no one else has seen it, all the better. It’s still amazing. And I find that irresistible.
A continuation of Dear Diary #61 – where upon i pontificate and put my hand upon the things behind.
The one about traveling more.
12:00am
Looking for photos of some places and ran across shots from 1997... three people who I would watch grow from tiny humans to real adults. They've changed and become amazing. Some failures, many successes. And I look in their eyes and think how they must have looked up to me all those years ago and formany years tocome.
Thenk something would break. And everything changed. andd now I think... one's eyes would burn with anger, a second with indifference – having largely forgotten me... and the third... the third, I think perhaps she would see me and I would recognize disappointment and sadness, but understanding and compassion.
And for that small gift... I thank God. For that kind of love is hard to find.
And I see other photos of a life lived robustly and wonder how I landed here in Dust Meridian, in teh middle of the night with tears in my eyes, wondering if everythign is gonna be alright.
I don't mind the scars, honestly. I have so many. We all do. I'll bet your scars make you in to teh person you are too. Would you trade them? Some, maybe. But mostly, who want's to forget who they are? Give up the life they've built, the loves and achievements. The goodness that flows from them?
No, the scars are okay. It's the raw wounds that I think both can agree we'd rather do without.
I brok my left leg when I was seven. Tibia and fibia. I was jumping on the bed in the upstairs of my parents house when she got jealous of my superior jumping skills (obviously) and pushed me into open air at the zenith of my jump.
Crack.
It was miserable. Even now I cannot stand the sound (real or fake) of breaking bones. There's nothing like it.
But I want thememory. The blue walls, the carpet that reminded me of a topographical map. The slanted ceiling. HOw my mom carried me to the car. All of it.
it's almst as if the worse the pain, the better the memory.
Holy hell, if that's the case, I'm working on a fucking doozy.
I miss random Saturday's like this. Just a bunch of friends together doing something nice for other people. Nobody getting paid. Everyone happy and suffering doing something kind.
That seems to have been washed away. A closed chapter in a book the I need to take down off theshelf more often.
But don't we ALL need to take our books off theshelf more, both figuratively and and literal?
I don't care how good 'real' art is, I think my books might be the greatest thing I ever create.
I am currently finishishing 69 and 72. When I travel, my only real goal is to fill them with as much expericne as I can possibly manage. Even if no one ever reads them. They are priceless treasures and I wish more people understood the value of recording the mortar of their lives.
One thing about pain, nothing assuades it like kindesses for others. I'll be glad to wrap my project this week and find soemting good to do for soemone else for a little bit.
The mistake we make is that we can't wait to find the the person that's already in us. And if we do, and the timing is all wrong. Thank God if you can just be in their lives for thirty years. You don't need to own someone to love them deeply. But if you'r enot careful, you'll get greedy and ruin it all.
Just let them be the twinkle in the night's sky. Only astronauts can go to space. The rest of us worms are doing just fine right were we are.
If you are in one these 10k+ images, thank you. I love you. If you aren't, maybe one day you will be.
If you read this far, you deserve a reward. God I miss this, just opening up the valve and letting it flow. I can't do that the way I used to. Every time my keys clack, eyebrows go up in my vicinity.
I suppose I deserve that. The scrutiny. Falling in love is a powerful thing
But, public forums being what they are, I'll maintain some modicum of reserve here.
When on the continent, I HIGHLY recommend shopping with the locals. Hand dyed, cut and sewn. Be warned though, we're all a lot fatter than the rest of the world.
jericah
We're so coddled here in the west. In places like this, there was every opportunity to fall to your death. Or drown. Or get picked off by bandits.
We were in the middle-of-nowhere on the northern border of Ghana. You could see Burkina Faso across the river. The kids there had never seen a white man before. That alone was enough to make me a super star in this little village. When my sketchbook came out, they were mesmerized. The simplest scribbles absolutely captivated them.
That was 2010. I like think they're all artists today.
We learned later that this whole ritual was a mating function. I'm pretty sure I'm a bigamist now.
Fires there weren't for entertainment. Here a small boy cozy' sup to the flame for warmth and safety.
I dont' know what it was, but Pfizer should get on whatever they're selling.
Fishing isn't a sport in Ghana, it's a way of life.
Every village had a different corporate sponsor. if you had Vodafone, you vilalge was red and white. If Zain, blue and Yellow. Whisking through at speed you knew immediately who had wooed the village elders.
This shot was when I realized that humans really lived like this. It wasn't just imagery in National Geogarphic.
A father carries his son to worship. The boy (about 3?) will be nineteen in 2026. This photo, which he has no concept or recollection of, captures what will likely be an indelible feeling: first learning to worship the Creator.
Fishmen are proud and hard working. And their boats... IDK how to describe them other than to say they are works of art.
I made an excelelnt watercolor painting of this shot. I love the color and the composition.
Farmer's day is a national holiday and the beaches are flooded with young Ghanaians out for soccer and the cool ocean breeze.
Yes, it's real.
Ghanaians have a great story about the humbling of the warthog, requireing them to bow when they eat. There are endless proverbs and folk tales in West Africa. I don't know why we dont' get more stories from teh continent. I guess because the West considers them 'black' stories?
IDK, but Africa was the least black place i ever went. They were just humans, like all of us.
The ONLY respite in the humid days after the monsoons.
the people are easily the best thing about the country. But in second plae, wthou question: the food.
As the guest of honor, I was usually served the fish with the head on. Unsettling, but you got used to it. And it's so delicious, who cares. This thing was swimming that morning and filling my stomach that night. I love coastal living.
The slithering snails were offputting to the rest of my party, but I found them mesmerizing and then later, delicious.
Well, dear reader, I managed to burn away a full day. I'm exhausted and despite saying I didn't want to stay up until 3am, the clock tolls at nearly that hour now.
Somehere a cuckoo clock is tick, tick, ticking in the silence of a dark room while a house sleeps.
I have never had good horse sense.