Whether it's grand plans or tiny escapes, strange trips or logical plots, whiskey-driven epiphanies or guitar-stringed revelations... there's something to be said for spiralling down the weird rabbit-hole of dreams.
Because the people who do -- the dreamers -- are the ones who find a new way to see things, a crazy creative bent that changes the whole mental landscape and, occasionally, the world.
Embrace your inner spacehead dreamer.
If only it really was that quick...
More and more frequently, I find myself sidetracked by little wonders in places that I had never really explored. They are hidden down overgrown trails, under rocks, behind branches, in the shadowy corners of evening, and in the rippling frontier of ocean. The more I look, of course, the more I see.
And others too, I see them searching for magic in the places we once passed off as commonplace or unexciting or vacant of any of that flash and sparkle we associate with more exotic, far-off lands.
Now we're eking out the time to think how absolutely incredible it is to hold a delicate shell that rode the roughness of the ocean all the way to shore. To inspect the wonder of a finely constructed seedpod: sculptural, alien, and designed to do exactly what it needs to do, perfectly. To watch my dog consider something she cannot fathom: curious and confused, then accepting and content. To glimpse something rare and store that memory, like a smooth riverworn stone, away in your pocket to revisit and relive for years to come. To lie in the grass in the sun, breathing wisteria scented salt air. To be struck by the audacity of a bright bold wildflower, one you’ve only ever seen in books and florists and manicured gardens, growing casually against that dry washed-out bushland, made all the more striking for its completely accidental display. To think of all the billions of butterfly wings, the skeleton leaves, granite boulders, flower petals, rain, heaving seas, semi-precious stones and the curve of bone.
To seek wonder anywhere it might possibly be found.
My step-pop gave me his old Zeiss Ikon camera a few years ago. I still don’t really know how to wrangle it, and I only remember to pull it out every few months to snap a few photos. But every time I get a roll of film processed – shot with this old camera whose former life and travels I can only muse over – I’m reminded that there’s something about analogue that can’t be faked.
It’s the authentic shortcomings, failings and unpredictability, the honest and earnest results of a machine functioning within its limitations, and within my limitations. It’s the quirks and flaws that make a thing indelibly unique.
And the other thing I really love about this camera is that it channels nostalgia. I don’t really believe that the leaves of my mum’s hydrangea bushes are such a deeply saturated green, or that the skies over North Melbourne are ever that blue. But in my memory, as on film, the colour of flowers against sky is that poignant, the ocean horizon on an overcast day is that desolate, the statues in Japan were that solemn, and my dog is that crazy that she’s often just an out-of-focus blur.