Passion in Monochrome

So, a couple of weeks ago I decided to collect photos I think decent enough into a more “professional” looking layout rather than just keep posting them all on Instagram. Some Weebly themes caught my eye and after messing around with the platform for a few hours I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted this “professional” photography blog to look like.

It’s mostly dedicated to monochrome stills because I just love them, I love how they look and I am always happy when I work in this minimalist, ambient, shadow infested approach. I think it ended up looking pretty clean and to the point.

It’s still very fresh and I fully intend to grow it out and do some blog posts over there as well regarding certain projects and what not. So, if you dig black and white photography, come on over and give it a look around, get to know this other side of me and drop a few words if the mood strikes. Link is through the photo. Cheers.

 

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The Witch’s House

 

Tender steps. Hand loosely than harshly grasping the rail. Splinters entering the softness of the cold palms. Cold with sweat. Cold with the stickiness so common in fear. Eliot is afraid and that feeling is making his insides freeze. They cheated him into this, his friends, hiding behind the trees, feet rustling in the fallen leaves, no footprints just imprints, the heaviness of their bodies leaving a mark they were there before they run off leaving him with the shortness of their laughter whispery and frail, reverberating in the October chilliness. They called him a faggot, a pussy, a piece of good-for-nothing shit when he didn’t want to go into the Witch’s House, barking the word on repeat.

So Eliot went, not wanting to be anything, anyone but himself. He didn’t want to be scared of their mockery. And as he went up the steps, she came out after hearing the creaks and pops and breathing of the house. With her came the sort of sound wind makes through abandonment, through foreign cracks, alien and old with time and poised with things – words and noises, music bumping on and off, voices and wet eyes watching. With truths kept secret and identities hidden underneath layers of skin that gets pulled and teased and worn until it rips open and the truth oozes out. Like the wind slipping through, a whistle at a time.

‘Do you know what she does, the Witch?’ they asked him when they were all playfully pursuing paths in the forest. ‘She takes your skin away, peeling it with her claws and she wraps it around herself like a cloth. She wears you and you see and hear and feel everything she does. The Witch is fat with the skins of children.’

Standing before Eliot, she was pregnant with the promise of their words. She was layered, folds of smooth skin, colorless and colorful overlapping in the form of shirts and skirts but leaving her naked all the same. There was however one lie to their story and he saw it as she bend over, faceless yet seeing. He wouldn’t see, nor hear nor feel anything she did with his skin after she took it. He would be just another corpse, neatly hidden somewhere. The empty eye sockets, red around the rims of their flesh stared at Eliot emptily devoid of that essence remaining in them that his friends spoke off through puffs of smoke from that shared packet of cigarettes and splashes of stolen beer.

However them having run off meant they would never see or hear the Witch leading him inside a damp and dark room, floor littered with syringes, the pungent smell of piss soaking the walls, the corners. In there she would unfold her face and allow a glimpse at her eyes merging that in-between, outwordly feeling Eliot had standing on her doorstep. She would look at him as her teeth emerge and she lowers her mouth onto his pinky finger, delicately separating skin and meat from the bone. Eliot would watch the Witch chew the soft redness and churn the skin, stretching it with her tongue, modeling it to her own being.

Then she would leave him there, a boy with a skeleton pinky finger trembling in his own pooling piss and she would rustle the leaves with her draping skin to find the friends which left him at her doorstep and ran off with their flesh pink from the October cold.

She of the Glades

a.k.a

‘Hold your body down’

The smell of ropes soaks into my fingertips; in the back, the wispy smoke of that shared cigarette lingers, the ghosts of deceased words shared between us persistent within the unfurling folds of grey and milky. My sunglasses reflect what’s left of you but it’s quickly wrapped, a tight concealment brought into the confines of the trunk.

A sun sets, but it is not the one I wanted and not the one you saw; auburn and bloodshot spill across the sky dipping into the outstretched body of the Glades; a watery field on fire.

I drive towards that forlorn watery front, a swamp system spawning black mosquitos and hungry eyes. No airboats sail today, it’s bad weather down here, tropical and what not; there will be wake and there’s things down below the still murky green that don’t like to be disturbed. My shirt glues to my restless body, sweat creating creases in the fabric drenching them with my own stench covering that of your quick deterioration in the heat. Blood, urine and you permeating my close proximity air fill my nostrils, a delirium of memories. The coffee mug leaving a crescent stain on the newspaper right over the ads – a waitress wanted, 7 bucks an hour; a counselor needed in an orphanage, at least a two year experience in the field. The low buzz of the washing machine from the other room. The smell of detergent sharp on the tongue and eyes. The shuffle of clothes being folded. You, humming along with the radio, stopping when I come in.

I unfurl the beige tarpaulin hiding the red rusted airboat, leather seats grey and brown with time, sun and use. Paddle and legwork push us into the sleeve, the rope dropping from my fingers, me letting go of whatever remains on the shore, forever.

The propeller drills repetition into my brain, but it’s a soothing sound because I dislike quiet. You were always quiet with me. Silent stares, muffled touches, unspoken actions. The only time you weren’t mute at me was at your mother’s funeral.

‘Thaddeus’, you said, ‘I don’t want none of this when I go. It’s too fucking glorifying.’

We’re trespassing now going opposite to the tourist routs where it’s common feeding Cheetos to baby gators and taking photos of their fast blinking reptilian orange, faking indifference but secretly wishing you to decide swimming is not prohibited. We pass abandonment, a village echoing with the calls of a dead language, a totem pole faded with time watching over the waters, a black eagle head with spread wooden wings in rusty red stares with missing eyes.

The trees, tall skeleton branches soaking feet into the swamp body connect above my head, interlocking, clasping one another. The dome is complete and it forms a tunnel of darkness spilling into an inviting light. I rev the boat, growing impatient and tired, the heat sticking to my body, humidity dangerously high. But my boat goes nowhere near the light – I dream of it, I can reach it back later when I drop you off where you belong.

I take a narrow passage and slow down through. Unmarked gator territory comes ahead, the glades moving with the sway of their heavy bodies, indistinguishable green on green. I catch their eyes however, yellow and glowing above the water. They follow us as we slug through, impatient, a gentle rock of their tails transferring to my boat, tilting it.

I shift the stick and urge the propeller to prowl faster, creating a wake small enough to push the hunger away from their eyes and bellies. In the stillness that follows I hug your body close, faceless remembering you without seeing. I give you to their open maws and you sink quickly between their fighting masculinity.

I am done. You are placed. Caught in the narrowness I can’t turn back, my palms sweaty and calloused. There’s a hoot whistling through the village, the clack of alligator teeth swaying from necklaces tied on dried, sunburned necks. A pouch spills tiny sharp biters, rattling on the wooden pier, currency for the dead. I look below and see you dancing their dance, a share of power transferring within the heat of their beating drums, hardened feet thumping the ground. A large one breaks the water, his head smashing against the boat.  

Your presence encourages them; they smell me too, the dead on me, the flesh spoiling in the sun coated in salty sweat and they want none to waste; they want the whole of me, to devour to tear apart. Now there are four of them, oily and long, chameleon like appearing, rocking the side of the airboat. I swat with the paddle, connecting plastic to bone, and a mouth snaps open quick and deadly tearing the paddle away from my hands. I am defenseless against the onslaught, bodies in multitude slamming against the dented. It capsizes and I fall where they are, where you are, the drums and them in a frenzy escalating to a screech. It stops. I watch.

They’ve went for you first, easier, quicker. The fabric of the canvas has torn open and limbs are poking through. I forgot you were wearing that dress. You didn’t even try it on in the store, you knew it would fit you the way it did. Funny how you never wore it for me. It matched your eyes. Now its paler, colors washed away and again it matches the rot in your eyes. Your body swims towards me, the matted hair pulled down heavy with the thick water. Your arm outstretches, ‘Thaddeus’, you call me without moving your lips, ‘Come swim with me’.

You watch me as I try to break the water, vault myself back into the boat. An alligator is upon me pulling me back in, my arm inside its mouth. It gnaws where the bone turns, the joint fragile under its pressure. I feel the tissue break, the skin raw over torn meat. The muscle slides free off the bone of my left forearm and an abrupt, wild snap detaches it free. I don’t scream but merely gasp and swamp water washes over my teeth. I no longer seek rescue within the boat; I watch as the blood, darker in these sunless waters float towards you, your lips blue and bloated sucking it in a spiral.

Another hungry servant plunges itself towards me, right humerus tearing free, ragdoll like. You grow impatient, you want more. Teeth sink into my right calf loosening another limb; teeth bite down through my left kneecap exploding it with a violent pull. Mutilated I sink further while you drink the rest of me, they feeding on the flesh, you on the essence.

Color and vigor attach to your skin. Your eyes blink; a motion registered and carried through your entire system. I remember your eyes closing in pacific self-prayer when you pulled on that smoke I forbid you to have; a small exhale rising and falling your chest to meet the onslaught of what I said.

I die at the bottom of the marsh with that thought of the last time you and me were both alive, the Glades taking me in as they’ve taken others during the centuries, their bones crushed to dust by the propellers of airboats jumping the waters above. I know others will follow me, jealous and angry and lonely and loving and you’ll sink them all when the drums start playing ghost-like through the village. You will feed and provide for the deal your dead soul did, dancing the gator dance respectfully.

I take one last look at you floating above me, your skin translucent. A smile is spreading across your lips as I become motionless food. I don’t think I ever saw that smile before.