Category: Fiction

In short, it’s not the object that is beautiful; it’s the transmission that happens between the object and our gaze — all that we felt and comprehended and realised we didn’t and hadn’t.

Beauty is each impulse that makes us drop the dishcloth, the phone, the remote — so we can pick up a pen, a paintbrush, a camera to “fix” it in some form and try to make it our own.

I recognize the intensity and magnitude of a glorious happening; it’s that which leaves me awestruck and stupefied. It’s that which surpasses my physical self to touch the very essence of my being.

The way colours combine, textures of light, the depth of an infinite sky, or the blue-black gaze of a newborn child’s eyes. All these lift consciousness to a different level. How words ignite a page, the physiological response to a mother’s touch, the magic of a lover’s kiss.

Some find beauty in perfection, while for me, beauty can present as a rotted tree trunk, a fence missing slats in exchange for honeysuckle, an old house gone to wrack and ruin. I look into things that might have once been considered beautiful, seeing them with a fresh perspective, at the possibilities, as they travel through what is known as time.