Paying attention to light again. The way it flows and sits, plays and bathes, always present.
The glare of lights face unsteady into fixed into loose and shimmering. The shapes of light,
stripped, dappled and blocked. Stabs of light, portholes of light, windows to other
dimensions.
What of the light in me that needs to be recognised, needs to connect with the light in the
world. To be drawn out. To find in bright step its origin and fulfillment. And the darkness
in me which waits in emptiness to wrestle me down.
That dance of light and dark an energetic plume of mystery. A creative force.
The glare of lights face unsteady into fixed into loose and shimmering. The shapes of light,
stripped, dappled and blocked. Stabs of light, portholes of light, windows to other
dimensions.
What of the light in me that needs to be recognised, needs to connect with the light in the
world. To be drawn out. To find in bright step its origin and fulfillment. And the darkness
in me which waits in emptiness to wrestle me down.
That dance of light and dark an energetic plume of mystery. A creative force.
