S ul literary blog synaesthetic, was recently launched to Auroralia , anthology project created and curated by Gaja Cenciarelli .
Cenciarelli Gaja has in view a photo of Jerry Uelsmann (1987, untitled) and asked to write a short story or a poem to each according to his personal approach to photography itself.
Jerry Uelsmann is considered the Dali of photography, you can find any information about him here: http://www.uelsmann.net
place below my piece, rather than a narrative is a voyage between the dream image of the photo, fantasy, words and feelings.
Cenciarelli Gaja has in view a photo of Jerry Uelsmann (1987, untitled) and asked to write a short story or a poem to each according to his personal approach to photography itself.
Jerry Uelsmann is considered the Dali of photography, you can find any information about him here: http://www.uelsmann.net
place below my piece, rather than a narrative is a voyage between the dream image of the photo, fantasy, words and feelings.
Trekking Onirico
arcsine of undulating liquid dream about hidden truths.
walk with difficulty along the steep rocky ridge with the air free me by my hair and burning eyes.
Down in the moist green valley beyond the mountain dream twisted by the earthquake of my imagination. It 's so real that I take off my shoes, socks, slip inside and run down the hill with bare feet caressing the grass fat. A feeling of enjoyment of life and almost as much as the warmth of a blanket of wool on the skin.
Every step squeezes the wet soil, warm footwear that soothes the swelling dell'itinerante journey along the back of the snake. The turgid green threads tickle the skin of my desires and my research. At that
thalamus in the tops m'attrae a language of ice water. Dripping steel blade that extends almost to lick. Mirror flaps from perfect, the surface property. Trekker unfathomable goal of the unconscious.
The world is reflected in black and white. Distant flickering ... ... distorted. Truth parallel to a third dimension. Dream within a dream.
I approached the glossy pool of mercury and free also of the golden armor, new Quin Shi Huang, savoring the sour taste of eternity.
least one serves me correctly. A feeling of freshness and metal. Electricity and excitement.
as a victory, as a discovery, like the profile of a phoenix which intersects with the surface of the water just made a ripple by the sudden wind that moves the soul unexpected feminine fingers like wings flowing. I look at her
perfect lines, the expression of a full subject, squared stone of aesthetics: fine and wonderful. Fly in
sensual fantasy deux ex machina projection of my dreams.
female Microcosm: mountains, valleys, plains and scented blacks thousand threads that weave the wind, rise, fall, quietly banging against each other to vary the mood of Aeolus. Lightweight and volatility, here is the elemental spirit without rules, without a mission, intent clear in the light that pierces the clouds of darkness. Angel who has no need for white wings to fly.
's where suspended by a breath from heaven, and one hundred meters from my soil. A desire to reach, even without the weight of boots, but stretching his fingers almost touching. Regarding the language
chrome.
am quite sure that it is the dream within a dream?
Perhaps the third dimension is still the reality. And the first time? What is illusion-dream-reality, the right consecutio ?
Everything stands out clearly, everything has a deeper meaning in that valley, including the beautiful spirit gaseous. Everything but the reflections. Imperfect, hazy. The water does not capture the shapes that form sublime scatters in indefinite shadow.
Perhaps this is the essence of the desires: weak reflections on the changing surface of a lake.
walk with difficulty along the steep rocky ridge with the air free me by my hair and burning eyes.
Down in the moist green valley beyond the mountain dream twisted by the earthquake of my imagination. It 's so real that I take off my shoes, socks, slip inside and run down the hill with bare feet caressing the grass fat. A feeling of enjoyment of life and almost as much as the warmth of a blanket of wool on the skin.
Every step squeezes the wet soil, warm footwear that soothes the swelling dell'itinerante journey along the back of the snake. The turgid green threads tickle the skin of my desires and my research. At that
thalamus in the tops m'attrae a language of ice water. Dripping steel blade that extends almost to lick. Mirror flaps from perfect, the surface property. Trekker unfathomable goal of the unconscious.
The world is reflected in black and white. Distant flickering ... ... distorted. Truth parallel to a third dimension. Dream within a dream.
I approached the glossy pool of mercury and free also of the golden armor, new Quin Shi Huang, savoring the sour taste of eternity.
least one serves me correctly. A feeling of freshness and metal. Electricity and excitement.
as a victory, as a discovery, like the profile of a phoenix which intersects with the surface of the water just made a ripple by the sudden wind that moves the soul unexpected feminine fingers like wings flowing. I look at her
perfect lines, the expression of a full subject, squared stone of aesthetics: fine and wonderful. Fly in
sensual fantasy deux ex machina projection of my dreams.
female Microcosm: mountains, valleys, plains and scented blacks thousand threads that weave the wind, rise, fall, quietly banging against each other to vary the mood of Aeolus. Lightweight and volatility, here is the elemental spirit without rules, without a mission, intent clear in the light that pierces the clouds of darkness. Angel who has no need for white wings to fly.
's where suspended by a breath from heaven, and one hundred meters from my soil. A desire to reach, even without the weight of boots, but stretching his fingers almost touching. Regarding the language
chrome.
am quite sure that it is the dream within a dream?
Perhaps the third dimension is still the reality. And the first time? What is illusion-dream-reality, the right consecutio ?
Everything stands out clearly, everything has a deeper meaning in that valley, including the beautiful spirit gaseous. Everything but the reflections. Imperfect, hazy. The water does not capture the shapes that form sublime scatters in indefinite shadow.
Perhaps this is the essence of the desires: weak reflections on the changing surface of a lake.
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