to move up and down
fuckyeahcavewoman
tilted horizons
metamorphosis
dirty lover
voyeur attached
truthfully
no more living in the past
Vikings at sea
mon plaisir, Kent
water armies
au revoir, France ii
au revoir, France
another white sun
can do
“Can’t you swim?”
“How dare you, of course I can swim!”
“I have never seen you swim. You always stay on the beach or go in the water up to your knees.”
“That’s not true. I swim. I could swim and reach an island or something.”
“Oh. You do.”
Truth is, I never learnt to swim. I can float in the water for a while, until I start panicking that my mouth is going under the water and that very, very, very soon my lungs will be filled with salty liquid death.
And as I’m mentioning death, this love-hate water thing.. Well, water is life and death, there’s no debate on that one.
I come from a place where seasons drag themselves like the intestines of a dying cat on the side of the road. Neither alive, nor dead, like that other famous cat from the box. All four of the seasons, plus the intermediary states. They leave their traces on sidewalks, beaches, trees, benches, and people are left with these clues like blood stains at a crime scene and with the task to figure out their lives accordingly.
I come from a place where uncertainty is a value, in a way, a reputable way to stay slightly involved but still out of things - slightly in water but not drowning yet.
I can’t swim. I say that it’s the other way around, but I am certain I cannot. At least not in normal conditions. Maybe only if I have to save my life or something.
Instead I take pictures of possible swimming. Beaches and seas are the subject, object and endpoint of all photographic imprints on this rather watery earth. Fucking liquid death.
end of days
