You Will Know
Stopping at the bay I finally sat down for a bit at the rocks on the shore of the lake. It would still be a while until I'd get to the village, but I knew that ever since I got off the plane, the messages were sent up to you and by now you'd be waiting outside the cottage. I'll be there, my love. Before the sun sets behind the mountain so you won't be alone another night.
À Chacun Son Goût
I saw tall men in top hats, swinging canes with silver heads and craftsmen heading for the next village. You didn't. You couldn't be less wrong and I was right all along.
She Dances Alone
Her step is silent on the snow. She seems so fragile, the snowflakes try to avoid her. The men surround her, but it's not a pack of wolves, they guard her like brothers so the world can see her dance. But not get to her.
You would carve your name in it and it would never forget. It would listen to all your sorrows and have the birds sitting on the branches sing for you. It would breathe so you could breathe and it would hold you when the wolves came. And it would so the same for generations to come. If you'd only let it.
A few notes jotted down in one of your reporter-style flip-up notepads that seemed so out of date and a small thermos with green tea was all you left for me under that tree. And I still feel how I didn't want to let go of that silhouette in the mist. But you had moved on already. For better or for worse.
We'd climb up there pretty much every day and talked and dreamed and laughed. And pretended like the wilderness was endless and nobody would ever find us there although we were only ten minutes from your house. And when the moss tickled our legs we didn't think about the winter cold.
For one short summer she was mine. And I was hers. We almost drowned kissing between the waves. And spending all day in the sun our skin was still hot long after the sun had set. One night she went into the beach hut and closed the door behind her. That was the last time I saw her. Whenever I get to the hut these days I don't dare to open the door. I'm afraid she wouldn't be there and I would be left without a place to miss her.
We'd always meet at the beach to watch the sun set and talk about the old days and how we heard that there were still kings up north. But somehow it never seemed worth going and finding out for yourself. So we'd just sit there, dip our feet in the salty water and snatch a fish every now and then. And Mike, Mike would be late. As usual.
All I Need ...
Would probably fit into the tiny beach hut at Westkapelle. Her, the dogs and a few things. A book. A camera. Everything else is outside. The sky between the fast moving clouds. The sea i hear all night. The sand between my toes. I see. I hear. I feel. We live.
At The End Of The Road
When you follow the road through An Chaethrú Rua all the way to the end you'll come to Trá an Dóilín and there'll be no more road, but a lot of Connemara. And when you sit there long enough you'll probably find that you don't need no more road. That this is where you were going all along. To the sea, the sky. To the end of the road.
And Miles To Go
The wind is a hollow sound, the cold creeps up my back and whispers in my ears. The blanket is right there, lie down, rest. Whatever path there was is lost under the snow, wherever i look there's only trees. There might be a farmhouse just up ahead but for all i know there is not a living soul in this world.
I Wouldn't Know
Why you would want to get there. Or how you would do it. Your reasons for doing things were so remote from anything that I'd deem worthy even thinking about that it didn't even matter that reasonable had been out the window ages ago. I'd go for you looking back and waving at me from the top. Thinking of me even when I was history already. That would be a start. Even if it was the end of us.
Don't Move, Dear ...
Watch the birds heading south and wait for their return. Feel the rock cold and solid towering over us. Hear the firs creaking in the cold wind coming down the mountain. We will wake the fish when spring comes and pull the ice off the lake. Til then rest well and dream of what you couldn't speak.
We Can Wade It
I guess. All the way to the mountains if need be. There'll be dragonflies and mosquitoes flying low over the water, we'll feel things nibbling on our toes and we won't even want to know what they are. But we'll feel the sun on our backs and the wind in our faces. And the mountains will shrink so very little with every single step.
In the shadow of an arm broken lie my leaves unable to breathe. I can't find peace in the sky and clouds above for it is there they won't fly no more since the last days of fall.
Right when i thought about your floating tears, i took a step back and saw him standing there. Alexander looked at me and he gave me something that would never leave me. That would help me when i saw everything and just didn't know it.
Cross The Valley
For more than a hundred years the bridge has been standing tall over the valley, the trains crossing more than 300 feet above the river. And somehow this old construction manages to fit in with nature so much better than any modern bridge would do.
I came running up that road not knowing when the lighthouse would come. Was it six more miles? More? Behind every bend of the road i hoped it would be there and it would all end, the day would be over, i would have made it across the island. I was hurting, it sucked. But i knew i`d be up there eventually, looking over the sea towards Betlem and that would be the moment. The moment I`d been waiting for for eight hours. And the moment always comes ...
Stuck In The Middle
Between a never ending sky and waters that never run dry i am stuck on the land, which seems so vast and wide but is never more than an island. Didn't you know?
If You Were Still Here
But I guess you moved on beyond the fog and however far or fast i run you'll always be ahead of me. And i can see where your feet touched the grass, your smell still lingers in the damp air and sometimes i think i hear something. But that just might have been my heart ...
Us Kids Swim Off A Gray Pier ...
I don't know why i think of it now in these german woods and not then when i was walking south on 8th on my way to Ted's studio in SoHo. But i did and it was good and now that i hear Steven's voice again i'll go and meet you at Tomkins Square. I will, Jack. It's all i could think of those last seven years after i left Manhattan.
I was on Achill Island on a hill above Keem beach looking out over the Atlantic Ocean and i wondered what was out there. Behind the clouds, beyond all that water. Well, it's Chincoteague Island, Virginia. And i like to think that someone there looked out on the ocean and wondered what is behind the clouds, beyond all that water. And that he'd looked it up to find out it's Achill Island, County Mayo, Ireland.
August Came And Went
And with it the memory of linen shirts which would fly from the fence like a flag over our tiny space between the high grass, reading french books and trying to keep the white wine cool by wrapping it in damp towels. The sand would still be in our clothes, the salt of the sea on our lips and the thoughts of the books subject to endless discussions when we climbed into our beds at night.
I Can See You There
Sometimes i wish all i had and had to care about was the smallest island, my little solitary world where i could see you coming across the water, all i would hear was the wind in the trees and the birds singing. But still even there would be dark patches in the lake i couldn't trust to be free of evil things, things that would creep up on my island at night and leave me in fear.
At Doonagore, County Clare, several buildings have been built facing the same direction and having the roof angles constructed identically. These houses are less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean and wind and rain can be very rough so close to the Cliffs of Moher.
At first glance, the structure and tones seem to extensively explain the appeal of dead wood especially for monochrome images. But it is not only that. Somehow in death a tree seems to remind me so much more that it once was something alive than when it was standing there all healthy. This, like autumn leaves, is one of the rare instances when there seems to be beauty in something dead.
The hills of the Burren are composed of limestone pavements with cracks known as "grikes", leaving isolated rocks called "clints". In this area south of Fanoreapproximately three quarters of Ireland's species of flowers can be found.
An Cheathrú Rua
Just north of the Aran Islands in County Galway, southwest of Carraroe we find a place where cows stare at us, a lone seagull is flying low and someone on the shore to the west is desperately trying to start a diesel. I wish we could wait for the tide right here. And another one ...
Coming Home. Sort Of.
The fishing boats at Lough Mask, Ben Beg in the distance and that's County Galway already, met John and Gary already like it's the first night again two years ago, but this time it's different like it always is when you are not just getting there, but returning.
Somewhere along the R336 i slammed the brakes and jumped out of the car to capture the cattle and the sheep on the slopes of the mountain, a scenery so rich and void of people it felt like the wild, wild west and made me long for true wilderness even more.
The Long Road To Leenaun
Out on the road between Maum and Leenaun, north of the flats and hills of wild Connemara i find myself stopping the car and reaching for the camera ever so often. There is just so much to see and you feel in it like the proverbial kid in a candy store.
On And On
The sky and the lake seem to stretch out into infinity as i look on from Benlevy, a mountain north of Lough Corrib, the second largest lake of Ireland, which is said to have 1327 islands.
Cold, Ever So Cold.
Whenever i was on Finny Pass at night, i couldn't help but feeling a chill passing the cillin, the "children's graveyard" where they brought the unbaptised children. No name. No cross. No ceremony. They say Loch Na Fooey is so cold, it doesn't return the dead. But it can't be as cold as a night when someone has to bury his own child.
Meet Me Behind The Dunes
The Maasduinen near Arcen, The Netherlands
What I Leave Behind
Looking back it was all good. On the ferry back to Athens to catch a flight back to what was closest to something i could call home, i didn't know what was ahead. I just knew what had been, had been good. But i had to move on, like the wind is blowing and the sea drags on to the horizon.
When It Is All Over
Looking at this lonely tree near my house on a foggy morning made me think a lot about how you could conceive this view. Is there loneliness, fear of the unknown behind the fog or just the beauty of nature even in one single tree in front of a canvas of grey that could mean anything possible?