I love a waterfall.
A big white rush of water over a 140 foot drop. I stood behind it and felt the ground and the air and my bones vibrate with the force of the water, terrifying and deadly and exhilarating and beautiful. Air crisp and clean as after a hard cold rain.
Dreaming is not difficult, having ideas and wild thoughts and wishes and hopes is a commonplace thing, universally shared. It is the communication of those ideas that becomes difficult. This translation between dream and the
expression of the dream depends upon (a red wheelbarrow and white chickens and the rain) many things.
Freedom of expression, freedom from censorship, is possibly the greatest limitation to communicating ideas. Sometimes this is because of legal restrictions, and without freedom of speech we have nothing, but often the strangulation of ideas comes from our own fear.
Fear of creation, fear of rejection, fear of false starts and failure... such things obviously limit the methods of expression. We try things like tact and cunning, we try to pry the hinges off the door rather than simply knock.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Take a look, and see the world, see all aspects of the world. Now take those impressions and communicate them, first to yourself, by forming words and shapes and phrases and colors, and then to others, by refining those ideas, distilling those impressions into their most immediate forms.
Get as close as possible to the way the waterfall crashes and churns into the deep treacherous plungepool, how the wind thick with water swirls and drifts and makes prisms and reflects the sunlight filtering down between the big tree branches. The mist plasters your clothing to your damp
skin and lifts the hair from your brow. A thrilling release from the heat and dust of summer. See the big wild river, moss a foot thick on the banks, monstrous old silent trees rising above, ferns stretching their fronds to catch the droplets like rain in August. Hear the rush and pull of the
churning depths below, the water big and black except where it's white, frothed by gravity and earth.
A big white rush of water over a 140 foot drop. I stood behind it and felt the ground and the air and my bones vibrate with the force of the water, terrifying and deadly and exhilarating and beautiful. Air crisp and clean as after a hard cold rain.
Dreaming is not difficult, having ideas and wild thoughts and wishes and hopes is a commonplace thing, universally shared. It is the communication of those ideas that becomes difficult. This translation between dream and the
expression of the dream depends upon (a red wheelbarrow and white chickens and the rain) many things.
Freedom of expression, freedom from censorship, is possibly the greatest limitation to communicating ideas. Sometimes this is because of legal restrictions, and without freedom of speech we have nothing, but often the strangulation of ideas comes from our own fear.
Fear of creation, fear of rejection, fear of false starts and failure... such things obviously limit the methods of expression. We try things like tact and cunning, we try to pry the hinges off the door rather than simply knock.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Take a look, and see the world, see all aspects of the world. Now take those impressions and communicate them, first to yourself, by forming words and shapes and phrases and colors, and then to others, by refining those ideas, distilling those impressions into their most immediate forms.
Get as close as possible to the way the waterfall crashes and churns into the deep treacherous plungepool, how the wind thick with water swirls and drifts and makes prisms and reflects the sunlight filtering down between the big tree branches. The mist plasters your clothing to your damp
skin and lifts the hair from your brow. A thrilling release from the heat and dust of summer. See the big wild river, moss a foot thick on the banks, monstrous old silent trees rising above, ferns stretching their fronds to catch the droplets like rain in August. Hear the rush and pull of the
churning depths below, the water big and black except where it's white, frothed by gravity and earth.
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