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  • A photographer once told me not to take photos with too much green.

    What terrible advice. It signals the decadence of art criticism when a colour is taboo or "beautiful" has been deemed out-of-fashion and students are advised not to paint, or draw, or photograph the human body or the blooming flower (too cliched they say).

    But what of the world which is born anew, every hour?

    Emerging into presence, every day?

    Dewy roses
    Perfumed glow
    Lit by garden lamps
    On humid nights.

    So here is my photo. Filled with green. It reminds me of everything hot, wet, sultry and lush. It reminds me of Summer where the prevailing humours are hot and wet (as opposed to cold and dry). Those conditions where things breathe and grow and overgrow and sigh.

    Years spent in England eating lukewarm game and platefulls of rolling peas in frigid, gothic halls slowly killed me from the inside-out. For ten years, I stayed in darkness. I ate wind, grasped at illusions, while dreams turned to sand, slipping through bony fingers. I watched as they feasted deliciously on the dead carcasses of the past. Hot and wet were dominated by cold and dry.

    But yesterday, I bit into the tang of a ripe pineapple and looked over this sea of green and I believed that something could spread back into me, flushing out bit by bit, the dead poison of those years and that I could emerge like a spear of song from the deadly brush of the past.

    Because the world is born anew, every hour.
    Emerging into presence, every day.
    In the hollow of my open palm,
    The rebirth of now.
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