™ Pacheco
The Cosmic Pond - Ancient black and the interstellar mosquito, Bristlecone Forest Ca
In such a beautifully colorful world, I'm still so memorized by simple black and white. In this photo, sharp early morning light finally arrives over the first snow covered hillside of the Patriarch Grove and delivers some rather stunning contrast to these stark incredible aliens happily scattered about clinging to old white sea bed. Their defiance to live is overwhelming. Their presence undeniable. Their medieval twisted forms and fingers tear into the dark blue sky. The recent storm is over I suppose. What can you say that hasn't been said or felt before by other life seekers who before me excitedly traversed the kindly state managed bumpy wagon road to such ancientness. It's as thought the shaky wheel clenching swerve fest is in itself somehow part of the initiation for the special few who have dared to go the distance. Spare tire anyone? As breathtaking a site as they are, I myself feel sudden swells of emptiness wandering these hills, mixed with a little glory of course like an invisible Frodo Baggins wandering middle earth, or maybe it's just my shallow perception of time on earth in huge contrast to what these creatures have and will still endure long before and long after I'm gone. Maybe I have tree envy. We human flesh puppets are like interstellar mosquitoes in the cosmic pond. We come and go in a spring week. Cry, crawl, walk, run, fall like a simple passing spring storm. I thanked them for letting me watch and carry their silhouettes back with me to grace my home and share with my fellow mosquitoes. They don't answer back, but I know they hear me.
ありがとう
The Cosmic Pond - Ancient black and the interstellar mosquito, Bristlecone Forest Ca
In such a beautifully colorful world, I'm still so memorized by simple black and white. In this photo, sharp early morning light finally arrives over the first snow covered hillside of the Patriarch Grove and delivers some rather stunning contrast to these stark incredible aliens happily scattered about clinging to old white sea bed. Their defiance to live is overwhelming. Their presence undeniable. Their medieval twisted forms and fingers tear into the dark blue sky. The recent storm is over I suppose. What can you say that hasn't been said or felt before by other life seekers who before me excitedly traversed the kindly state managed bumpy wagon road to such ancientness. It's as thought the shaky wheel clenching swerve fest is in itself somehow part of the initiation for the special few who have dared to go the distance. Spare tire anyone? As breathtaking a site as they are, I myself feel sudden swells of emptiness wandering these hills, mixed with a little glory of course like an invisible Frodo Baggins wandering middle earth, or maybe it's just my shallow perception of time on earth in huge contrast to what these creatures have and will still endure long before and long after I'm gone. Maybe I have tree envy. We human flesh puppets are like interstellar mosquitoes in the cosmic pond. We come and go in a spring week. Cry, crawl, walk, run, fall like a simple passing spring storm. I thanked them for letting me watch and carry their silhouettes back with me to grace my home and share with my fellow mosquitoes. They don't answer back, but I know they hear me.
ありがとう