Claire and I teamed up to make an exchange of creative energy. We wanted to display how different mediums have distinct powers of expression and feeling.
I wrote the poem, When Crickets Lose Their Rhythm, and sent it Claire’s way to see what she came up with, and it was absolutely magical (images in gallery above).
WHEN CRICKETS LOSE THEIR RYTHM
When the crickets lose their rhythm
The world is in disorder
One cannot focus on what is wrong
The mind blends through chambers of ration
All the ideas of symmetry scatter
Nature’s concept of family dissembles
And become frantic with organization
All sense dissipates into the line
It’s only seconds when their unison eludes, though
Soon they gather their tones together
Recognition of nature’s plan takes place
And comfort bellies into our minds again
Then, I gazed over Claire’s photos and became hypnotized by them. In my eyes, Claire’s photos are mystical, nostalgic, dangerous, and seductive. I couldn’t stop myself from letting the words flow after viewing them, so I wrote a short piece (below) based off of some of her photos.
Our exchange is a cross pollination between two different forms of expression and the display of the complexity of interpretation. We are so excited to share this with everyone. Enjoy, and let it be encouragement for all of you to create and be creative.
This is my interpretation of three of Claire’s photos through the art of storytelling:
Her mouth didn’t move, but I could hear her speak. She sang a song to me that had no tune, but smelled of apples in the Spring and tasted of nectarines in the Summer. She promised me effortless ecstasy forever, pleasure in my veins for eternity, and omitted death from my timeline.
I gave her my hand. Our fingers interlocked and the sun set at an alarming speed. The sand on the floor turned to lush grass, the arid breeze became vaporous, and pines sprouted from the earth. I tried to ask her where we were, but my thoughts were so loud I couldn’t hear my mouth.
Fear crept through my nerves. My hands trembled as I grabbed a branch for balance.
“Hush hush,” she whispered. I looked around for her, but could only feel her presence. I screamed. No sound. I pushed through the trees and into a clearing where she laid, her head down to the ground.
I approached her frail body, those rosy arms and toes poking out of her clothing, and the scent of beauty rushed through me. I touched her shoulder. She looked up to me, and my environment dissipated into the blackness. Her pretty face had turned into a devilish vision of wickedness, trickery, and treacherous seduction.
I jumped back in dread. What have I committed to? Who was this enchantress? She reached out to me, my arms reached back without my permission, and she placed a candle into my palm. It stood still, slowly burning toward the short lifeline on my palm. I knew then that this flame would soon be out and I would cease to exist from this world, and fade into the dark one that belongs to her.
I am her prisoner. I am her bewitched follower. I am one of many who have fallen for this exquisite being, the enchantress of black magic, the hourglass of death. I am hers.
[Photo Credit: Claire Oring]