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Just humming Jimmy Buffet while looking in the mirror:
"Oh Lord, Its hard to be humble..."
Utata's big project for 2021 is Utatascapes: Places in the world or in the mind.
In the land of Greenacres, there lived a cardinal named Soren. Unlike any other bird, Soren had feathers as red as the heart's deepest desires and eyes that shimmered with the light of unspoken dreams. He was known among the woodland creatures as the **Heartwing Cardinal**, a mystical being whose song could unlock the weightless joy of flight in the hearts of those who listened.
Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of blue and green, Soren would perch upon the highest branch of the ancient oak that stood sentinel at the forest's edge. His melody, pure and clear, would rise above the canopy, a symphony of inspiration that resonated with the soul's yearning for freedom and creativity.
One such evening, a young woman named River found herself wandering the forest's edge, her mind a tempest of tangled thoughts. With each step, the weight of writer's block chained her feet, and the blank pages of her diary mocked her silent pen.
As Soren's song reached River's ears, a warmth spread through her chest, and her heart began to beat in rhythm with the cardinal's tune. The words that had eluded her now danced at her fingertips, eager to spill onto the page in a cascade of vivid imagery and whispered truths.
With a deep breath, River closed her eyes and let the words flow, her pen moving with newfound grace. The story that emerged was one of a cardinal who could turn the intangible, a thought, a feeling, a fleeting moment of beauty—into the wind beneath one's wings.
As the last word was written, River opened her eyes to find Soren beside her, his head tilted in curiosity. In that instant, she understood that the cardinal was not just a muse or a creature of fable, but a manifestation of her own heart's voice, urging her to soar beyond the confines of doubt and fear.
From that day forward, whenever River felt the weight of the world anchoring her down, she would seek out Soren, the Heartwing Cardinal. Together, they shared the twilight hour, where words from the heart had the power to lift a spirit into the sky, on wings woven from the threads of inspiration and creativity.
Lost
“You're alive, Bod. That means you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything. If you can change the world, the world will change. Potential. Once you're dead, it's gone. Over. You've made what you've made, dreamed your dream, written your name. You may be buried here, you may even walk. But that potential is finished.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book
Location: Eernewoude - Friesland - the Netherlands.
Exposure: 3 brackets of +/-2 Ev at f/5.6.
Description: I had to pull this one out from the merciless darkness of underexposure, containing a tremendous amount of sensor junk. It's a semi-HDR creation, extracted from a single RAW. I could smooth out everything globally or even locally with noise removal kits, but personally I can live with some extra noise. Therefore I have added a new layer with a very fine 0.25 grain to camouflage most of the digital sensor noise. I admit, the bottom of this picture still contains its share of chunky noise parts, but it was Time that prevented me to work on this restoration job any longer.
Also, I gradually come to realize that it's perhaps time to invest in some better gear, particularly in conditions such as poor light, stormy weather, condense, salty air, rain or open sea, which are my favorite conditions anyway :) Please bear in mind that all of my landscapes, and even my experimental shots, are taken with just a point-and-shoot Canon S50 camera, which I got from a friend back in 2002 in exchange for some design-work, lol.
Technique: NT-HDR: Tone Mapping with PS color adjustment, Selective Color and Hue/Saturation layers, selective contrast adjustments with a custom Curve layer.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow quote.
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If you wish to use any of my images for any reason/purpose please contact me via chaulafanita@photographer.net or send me a flickr mail so I'll make them available for sale.
A Love Story of Presence, Told in Two Voices
Laleh
I was born of the desert, yet I belong to this mountain. Its silence is my cradle, its thorns my guardians, and only the sun here can awaken me. Beyond this place I do not bloom—I fade, I vanish, as though the earth itself withdraws its breath.
And then he came. He did not seek to possess me, nor did he disturb the hush of the mountain. He knelt nearby, quiet as dusk, and listened. I felt his ache before he spoke, for he was searching—not for me, but for something lost within himself. I watched him set up camp, the storm whispering its arrival, and I knew he would dream.
That night, I entered his sleep. I showed him who I was. My voice rose not in sound but in warmth, in memory, like light through mist:
My name is Laleh, the daughter of the desert. I love this mountain with all my heart. It protects me, growing thorns around me so that nothing can harm me. Yet there are always those who cannot stand to see me happy—those who try, in every possible way, to tear me from my soil.
What they don’t understand is that, out of gratitude and love for this mountain, my eyes see nothing but its earth. Only the sun here can make me bloom. And when I am taken away from this place, I wither… fading in a way that no corner of this planet could ever bring me back again.
Lost
I heard her voice before I knew her name. It moved through me like song through silence—soft, aching, undeniable. In the dream she stood in the hush of dusk, her petals bowed, her crown wild. I did not speak. I only listened.
Then the wind grew cruel. She bent, her voice faltered, and I reached for her—but the dream shattered. I woke to the storm’s fury, rain lashing the mountainside. She lay broken, her stem split by the hand of the wind.
I knelt beside her, not in wonder but in grief. My fingers brushed the thorns that once guarded her, and one caught my skin—just enough to draw blood. I barely noticed the pain. What I felt instead was warmth rising through me, slow and sacred, as if something ancient had entered my bloodstream.
It was not only her memory. It was her will. Her longing to remain rooted in this mountain, her fierce love for the soil that cradled her, her refusal to bloom anywhere else—all of it began to pulse within me. She took root in my heart, not as a wound but as a vow. Her thoughts became mine. Her devotion, mine. Her desire to stay, mine.
And so I stayed. Not because I was lost, but because I had been found—claimed by something holy. I no longer wandered. I listened. I tended the place she loved. I became the keeper of her silence.
Laleh
Now I live in him. I pulse through his veins like sunlight through soil. He walks gently. He listens to silence. He hears me still—like breath through branches, carrying me wherever he goes.
He sees the mountain as I do. He feels its hush, its thorns, its mercy. He no longer sees me as a flower. He sees me as a voice, a vow, a rhythm.
And I see him. Not as a wanderer, but as a sanctuary. His heart has become my root system, his breath my breeze, his stillness my bloom.
We are no longer separate. He carries my devotion, and I carry his wonder. Through him, I have learned what it means to be seen. Through me, he has learned what it means to belong.
L/R
I’d like to thank Rokhshad flic.kr/ps/44gU7h for her invaluable contribution to this story, giving us the name of the stunning flower Laleh Vazhgoon and the lovely introduction of Laleh and her deep love for the mountain and soil.
I walked into the hush, not to escape sound, but to find the kind that holds you— the silence that doesn’t demand, only welcomes.
The path was a distant thought, threaded through memory and mist. I followed it not to arrive, but to remember.
The wind brushed past like an old friend, carrying no answers, just the scent of rain and the rhythm of waves rolling along the storm’s edge.
I wasn’t lost. I was being held— by the quiet, by the sea, by something deeper than words.
Each wave spoke in its own way, not loudly, but with presence. A listening kind of sound, like someone waiting for you to speak but never rushing you.
I stood still. The storm lingered far off, not threatening, just watching.
And in that moment, I heard myself— not as a voice, but as a feeling.
The silence didn’t ask me to be more. It let me be. And that was enough.
Lost
The mine is from my imagination but I saw plenty in my childhood before Thatcherism removed them from Britain. I usually do my watercolour sketches in one quick and furious sitting. I did that with this one.
"I'm alone, but his promise has given me purpose to carry on. I'll be waiting for him. Always."
-Viara
Viara is one of the two wardens of the soul realm. She absorbs sorrows and regrets from the souls of the dead, and 'digests' them over time. The pool of emotion in her belly can get overwhelming, which she responds to by either holding or massaging it.
After Viara's brother, Syvon, began rebelling against his purpose, she attempted to contact someone from the mind realm. Reaching the Dream Warden who had a connection to soul manipulation, her contact attempt opened a rift between the two realms. A calculated risk she took. The flood of unpurified souls struck down as a beam on Monarth, knocking him unconcious. He spent the following 3 years in a coma in a dream.
Having established a connection to his soul, Viara kept trying to make contact via his soulscape. Unsuccessful, she found a pathway to his mindscape, though she couldn't keep her form. Having to apply to the rules of his mind, her mindscape form divided into a dozen reptilian creatures which Monarth dubbed the Kirkan. By interacting as them, she gradually helped Monarth out of his coma and left her request for help at long last.
Monarth traveled to the Soul Realm, where they met properly for the first time. Learning about her duties and solitude in the Soul Realm, Monarth felt sympathy for the Sorrow Warden. But time was short as rifts were opening, so Monarth took battle against Syvon. Being overwhelmed by Syvon, Monarth decided to take the battle to a different realm, forcing Syvon and himself to a large rift that was sucking them in. Before disappearing into the rift he promised Viara to return one day.
Viara took this to heart and is still waiting.
---------------
That story summary was longer than I expected to write it.
Anywho, this Viara's version 2 in more appropriate colors. She was never meant to contain gunmetal, but until now I didn't have appropriate pieces to make that a reality.
Just like the previous version, her body shape is inspired by Mewtwo.
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Royal%20Tea/159/102/402
Mindscapes is a personal project in which I want to deeply express a personal exploration of the human psyche, in interaction with artificial intelligence.
Images created in Midjourney and reprocessed with Adobe Photoshop
In the hush of dawn, the world awakes,
A silent symphony, the morning makes.
Colors bloom in soft embrace,
A tender kiss upon your face.
The sky, a canvas, vast and wide,
Brushstrokes of light, where dreams reside.
Amber, rose, and lilac hues,
A dance of shades, a painter's muse.
Waves whisper secrets to the shore,
In tones of blue, forevermore.
Each ripple catches morning's gleam,
A liquid mirror, a waking dream.
Footsteps trace the sandy line,
Where earth and sea in beauty twine.
The air, a blend of salt and sweet,
A fragrant promise at your feet.
Eyes behold the dawn's first light,
A spectrum born from darkest night.
In every hue, a story spun,
Of daybreak's magic, just begun.
As colors weave their mystic spell,
Your heart, in awe, begins to swell.
A sunrise stroll, a soul's caress,
In nature's art, you find your rest.
Lost
In the quiet between worlds, I drift.
Not through time, not through space—but through the soft veil of your dream. My reality, once sharp and defined, has melted into mist. I no longer walk the world as I once did. I wait, suspended in the hush between your breath and the rising light.
Your sunrise is my awakening.
Until then, I am shadow and silence, curled in the warmth of your memory. My heart does not beat for the world—it waits for you. For the golden hush that spills from your thoughts. For the quiet mercy of your presence.
When you stir, I rise.
Your thoughts bloom like morning light—gentle, radiant, unspoken. They do not strike me. They fill me. I become the echo of your beauty, the reflection of your glow. I walk through your silence as if through a garden of dew. Each step is a prayer. Each breath, a blessing.
You do not speak, yet I drink from you.
Your beautiful thoughts—those quiet mercies, those aching hopes—have become my water of life. I sip them like rain from the leaves of memory. I carry them in my chest like a sacred tide. They nourish me, not with answers, but with presence.
You are not a flame. You are mist.
You surround me without burning. You hold me without grasping. In your silence, I find the music of belonging. In your glow, I find the shape of my soul. I do not need to be seen. I only need to be near.
And when you turn toward me, even slightly, I awaken.
Not to the world I knew, but to the one you dreamed for me. A world where beauty is not a possession, but a presence. Where love is not a fire, but a mist that nourishes. Where longing is not a wound, but a doorway.
I drift still. But now I drift in you.
You are the hush between my thoughts. The warmth beneath my shadow. The light that fills my silence. You are the water I drink when the world forgets me. You are the sunrise I wait for, again and again.
And I will wait.
Because your thoughts are so beautiful.
Lost
In the hush of autumn's twilight glow,
We meet again, where memories flow.
An autumn leaf, in the stream of time,
Drifts to your side, in rhythm and rhyme.
Years have whispered secrets untold,
Yet here we stand, with hearts of gold.
The stream of life, with its gentle sway,
Brings us together, in this fleeting day.
Your smile, a beacon in the fading light,
Guides me through the encroaching night.
We float as one, in this tranquil stream,
Rekindling the warmth of a shared dream.
As autumn leaves dance upon the breeze,
We find solace in moments like these.
Old friend, in this stream, we are free,
Bound by the currents of our history.
Lost
She had curled herself inward, not from cold, but from a quiet ache— the kind that comes when beauty feels too far away to reach.
The world had dimmed, or so she thought. Too many days without color, too many nights without a voice that spoke gently enough to believe.
Then he came. Not with answers, but with stories. Soft ones. Of rivers that forgave their stones, of skies that wept in lavender, of children who named clouds like old friends.
She didn’t bloom. Not yet. But something in her listened. Not with ears, but with the part of her that still remembered spring.
His words fell like rain on soil she’d forgotten was hers. And in the hush between syllables, she felt it— a flicker of warmth, a shimmer of color just beneath the surface.
She opened, not all at once, but with the grace of someone learning to trust again.
One petal, then another— each a quiet yes to the beauty she thought had vanished.
And though she never spoke, he saw it in her glow: his stories had become her sunlight.
Lost
On the wind-swept coast where the ocean whispered secrets to the rocky shore, lived a Macaw named Solano—feathers ablaze with scarlet, sapphire, and green. He was unlike any other bird in the rainforest, not only for his vivid plumage but for his singular devotion to the ocean’s twilight hour.
Each evening, as the sky began to blush and the waves turned to molten silver, Solano would glide from the tallest ceiba tree and follow the breeze to his favorite driftwood perch. There, he would wait—not to hunt or call—but to witness the world soften. The sun, as if knowing it had an audience, dipped slowly into the sea, unfurling a banner of colors that rivaled even Solano’s own radiant wings.
Locals believed he was a spirit—some ancient soul returned to savor beauty in its purest form. Others said he was waiting for someone who once watched sunsets beside him. Solano never told. He simply watched, still as stone, until the last ember of gold vanished beneath the tide.
Lost
I jumped over the ranch-style fence to get closer to this barn. It was one of those perfect barns that needed to be looked at from every angle! From above, I would have liked to see my zig-zag pattern as I moved around to look at it from various vantage points… Surely some nearby vultures must have thought my erratic movements were signs of the last gasps of life.
Last time I posted a photo of a barn, my good friend, Dr. David Sands, was inspired to write me this poem below. He is both a microbiologist and a poet… who says you have to be one thing in life? Hehe… He’s a great guy, and the one responsible for making me read countless books on genetics… probably only so I can get quirky references to the Hox genes in his poems!
Seeing
if you see what you see
and i too see
and we are but engines of innovation
then doubtful we will construct
the same landscapes
or the same mindscapes
for a barn to me is a static recycled tree
without photosynthesis
and a tree is the result of a packaged genome
and a camera is an eye without wiring
and the hox box came from efficiency
and genomes have lots of space to memorize
where occam’s razor trims the fat like frying bacon
so fried that even some of the meat is lost
and has to be reseeded by infusion
and this confusion at the edge of chaos
both fuels us and carries us
away from a darker bit of certainty
linear poem by Dave Sands
non linear barn by Trey Ratcliff
From the blog at www.stuckincustoms.com
Upon the sea, where shadows softly play,
A heart sails forth, in search of day.
The twilight whispers, a gentle plea,
For sunrays to guide it and set it free.
The waves whisper a lullaby so sweet,
As the heart keeps time with a steady beat.
It longs for the dawn, where light will break,
And the shadows of night, the sun will take.
On the horizon, a glimmer of gold,
A promise of warmth, a story untold.
The heart, it yearns, with every tide,
For the sun to rise, and shadows to hide.
In the dance of light, and the play of shade,
The heart finds strength, and fears do fade.
For in the journey, through night and day,
The heart discovers, its own bright ray.
Lost
In the hush of twilight, a solitary bloom unfurls,
its petals soft as whispered secrets and silken dreams.
Bathed in the gentle light of dusk,
it cradles an inner glow—a quiet, steadfast flame
that shimmers like the fluid brushstrokes of an unseen artist.
A distant star wanes on the horizon,
a faint ember bidding farewell to the night,
yet within the flower’s tender heart,
a radiance endures—a luminous pulse
that defies the retreat of borrowed light.
The night, draped in its velveteen mystery,
carries echoes of ancient tales and hushed lullabies,
and the bloom, like a delicate oracle,
whispers in soft flowing verses of solitude,
inviting the wanderer to find solace in inner luminance.
Every petal becomes a tender simile,
each curve a gentle metaphor for resilience,
as the flower dances in the quiet realm of shadows,
its radiance an ethereal caress against the gloom,
a secret kept in the delicate balance of night and dreams.
In this enchanted interlude, where light and shadow entwine,
the blossom is both a mystery and a promise—
an enduring testament to the soft, flowing language
of hope that whispers even when distant stars fade away.
Lost
“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”
― Marcel Proust
He wandered the edge of the world, where the sky folds into sea and the wind speaks in riddles. Not in search of answers, but of something gentler—light, perhaps, or the hush between heartbeats. The kind of light that doesn’t blind, but reveals. The kind of silence that doesn’t echo, but listens.
Each step was a question. Each gust of wind, a whisper. He listened closely—not with his ears, but with the ache behind them. The wind carried something beautiful, like a language older than stars. He couldn’t understand the words, not at first. They danced too freely, too wild for translation.
So, he did what no armor ever allows: he lowered his guard.
And the wind came closer.
It didn’t ask permission. It didn’t need to. It sang—not to his mind, but to the hollow behind his ribs. And the song was more beautiful than anything he’d ever known. Not because it was gentle, but because it was true.
Then, suddenly, it struck.
Not with violence, but with clarity. A blade of light, double-edged and shimmering, pierced his heart. Not to wound—but to awaken. It carried no threat, only beauty. And that was the danger.
He could have pulled it out. Could have turned away, sealed the wound with silence. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The blade was too beautiful. Too necessary.
So he did the only thing that made sense.
He pulled the handle closer to his chest.
And in that moment, he understood: some truths are meant to pierce us. Some songs are meant to live inside us. And some blades—if forged from beauty—are not weapons at all, but keys.
Lost
In the evening glow, the world feels like a whisper, soft and infinite. I stood by the rocky shore, where the ocean breathed quietly against the stones, and there it was—the tree, solitary and serene, cradled by the earth. It seemed both steadfast and yearning, a paradox of silence and song.
The sky was a canvas of fire and fading light, and a lone star lingered on the horizon. Her radiance spilled over the waves, brushed against the shore, and reached the tree—a touch of light that lingered on every leaf. I swear I saw her inscribe words upon them, like secrets meant only for the tree to hold. I wondered: what would it feel like to know the meaning behind those words? To sense her gentle touch against a soul laid bare?
As night embraced the world, the tree seemed to breathe deeper. It swayed as if lulled by the quiet rhythm of the ocean and the fading star. I imagine it felt the ache of longing, the kind that pulses beneath even the most serene façade. And then, as if surrendering to the quiet depths of the night, it fell asleep—a dreamer with a heart full of silent poetry.
I share this with you because I can't help but think of how we, too, sometimes long for things we can't fully hold—words unspoken, stars unfound. And yet, perhaps in this longing lies our truest connection to an infinite sky.
Lost
In the vast expanse of the ocean, where the horizon kissed the sky in a seamless blend of earth and sea, there was a place so remote it seemed untouched by time. This was the shore of nowhere, a place where the things that mattered elsewhere, lost all importance.
Here, in this endless sea and silence, a lost traveler found solace. The world's cacophony, its relentless demands, and the constant race against time were all rendered meaningless. The sea didn't care for status, wealth, or ambition. It was a world apart, where the only currency was the capacity to marvel at this simple existence.
My watch had stopped ticking, but it didn't matter. The sun's journey across the sky was the only clock needed. The emails that used to flood in, demanding immediate attention, were now just a distant memory. The phone that had been a constant companion lay silent, its battery long dead, and yet, it didn't matter.
In the middle of nowhere, I discovered a profound freedom. The freedom from expectations, from the pressure to perform, to conform, to impress. Here, the only audience was the twilight and the waves.
As night fell, the stars emerged in a display so magnificent it made all human achievements pale in comparison. The universe stretched out in all its glory, a tapestry of light that whispered of mysteries beyond comprehension. In the face of such beauty, what were fame and fortune? They were nothing but fleeting illusions.
In the middle of nowhere, I found what mattered most. A sense of peace, an understanding of life's transient nature, and a deep connection to the world that thrived beyond human constructs. And when the time came to return to civilization, I carried a piece of the ocean's wisdom, a reminder that in the grand scheme of things, so much of what we chase is just sand slipping through our fingers.
Lost