Posted in blogging, Life, Stories, Writing

Unseen and Unheard

Why have I not been writing? Good question. I have been wondering that myself for some time, and I’ve come up with nothing solid. No simple lightbulb moment that’s hit me in the head and said “oh that’s why”.

Writing is like breathing to me. Essentially, mandatory stuff to keep me alive and well. However, for some reason, the urge I once had to express myself was replaced with a preference for silence. A silence within me that smothered the words and the stories and the desire to share.

Was I sick of the sound of my own voice and inflicting  my repetitive personal thoughts onto all of you?

Was I concerned about judgement, disapproval, or the misinterpretation of my message?

Perhaps it was a combination of all of the above with a bit of fear and a bit of “what is really  the point?” thrown in.

Those who know me have born the brunt of my writing inactivity with a bombardment of new hobbies, adopted by my restless self to fill the creative gap. However like a dog begging to be taken for a walk, the words in my head would tug at my fingertips in desperation.

The fear of exposing my personal thoughts to the world was repeatedly superimposed on me by more than one source.

“Don’t air your dirty laundry in public”

“What is wrong with you?”

However that fact that I listened, is what stopped me writing in the first place. Ironic? Terribly. However as soon as I began hesitating before putting pen to paper, and as soon as I ceased being myself as a result of others opinions, judgements or expectations, I realised I needed to re-examine my sense of self and my reason for writing in the first place.

It is all over, when you change yourself to suit others-bottom line. FORGET IT! It just doesn’t work and pretending, is incompatible with happiness.

All that is uniquely YOU is lost. All that is SPECIAL is buried deep underneath sensitivities and self doubt and all of that ridiculous rot that has absolutely no place in the real, honest, raw world. The world that adores us for who we truly are. A world that pains for less plastic and more of the real deal.

What is writing anyway? It is simply connection.

Sometimes words connect, and sometimes they don’t…

What I have learned, is that when they do, it’s not only magical, it’s important. Connection is what keeps us alive. It’s what helps us  feel understood, and validated and loved and valued. Cliché cliché cliché , bla bla bla…but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if I ever, ever, forget that again.

For any part of you that you willingly share, be it only a part, will resonate with those that it is designed to reach, and that is all that matters…

So why did I stop writing?

…because I lost sight of what was important to me.

Are you unsettled?

Re-align your vision, listen to your own voice and allow yourself to re-discover who you are, what you need, who you want to be with, and what is truly important;

TO YOU.

Unseen

Posted in Landscape Photography, Slideshow, Stories, Video, Writing

Behana Gorge-Tropical North Queensland

I compiled this slideshow from my recent trip to Behana Gorge outside of Gordonvale. My strongest recollection is of the temperature of the water, something out of character for the waters to be this cold, this far north. It took me almost 20 minutes to get in, but when I did, it was invigorating. Why I do not do things like this more often, I don’t know.

 

 

 

Posted in Photography, Poem, Stories, Writing

Opposites

Photo 1-07-2016, 21 12 37

As the mountain darkens with the dimming light of day

the skeletons of the past emerge from behind the trees that cover it’s surface

as black as night it hides

yet it’s eyes are wide open.

 The fluffy crimson sky that floats freely above it’s apex however,

provides comfort inside fiercely beating hearts

by lifting ones eyes from the solidified deadened black,  up into the endless scarlet wonderland and beyond into the infinite blue.

~Nicole Martin

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Opposites

WordPress Photo Challenge

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Posted in blogging, Humour, Stories, Writing

Bedtime Stories

BEDTIME STORIES

Honestly, I know I’m tired when I jump into bed at night, teeth brushed, earrings out, pyjamas on, mouth guard in, perfume applied…pardon? Perfume applied? Did I imagine I was on my way to work? Did I imagine I was going out on the town? Did I think anything at all? -I think not. I simply splashed a couple of pumps on my neck of the old ‘little black dress’ , dilly daddled for a bit, organised myself nicely, complimented myself on how sweet I Was smelling tonight and then the cogs turned. Are you serious Nicole? What the heck? Why in goodness’s name did you just put perfume on?

It scares me that I can zone out so easily. Autopilot kicks in on my way to work some days also. I’ll walk in the doors and it will suddenly occur to me my concentration had been on planet boonga
for the last half an hour, and I had little recollection of the journey to work. I always feel I’ve forgotten to do something vital at this point…like brush my hair, or put on a bra-you know that kind of rush into work thing and then discover your phone is at home, or you left the dog in the house….or the kids :))

Posted in blogging, My wordpress, Photography, Stories, Writing

The Magic Of Imagery

 

More Than A Photograph

Attempting  to capture the beauty of Nature holistically, with the  click of a finger seems an impossible task.

Why?

The result is simply an image that impresses upon the viewer the superficial form of the subject, is it not?

From this, the viewer draws upon their own personal tastes and formulates an impression if you will- which will almost always innacurately depict the character of the subject. 

Beauty is multi-faceted, photography is linear-true?

Nobody can claim to truly understand the duck in the photograph and nobody can claim to truly know the ducks character. 

It has pretty feathers. It has a beautiful bill, it floats on the water with spectacular ease, but that is all we can determine from the image, is it not? 

I hope not, because the second this is believed, story telling is dead.

We must make room for magic. We must make room for dreaming. We must make room for hope and inspiration and belief and admiration and creativity.

We must make room for emotion.

The point of the photo, and the magic of the image, is in it’s broader interpretation. It will be, whatever you want it to be. It will represent, whatever your unique interpretation decides. It simply serves as a key with which to unlock emotion, a flame to ignite passion, and an alarm clock with which to awaken inspiration. 

Long live the multi-faceted, emotion filled potential of the photographic image. 

 

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Colour is everywhere
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Pink and Yellow in a bloom
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Delicate Faces
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Perfect Red
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Home in the forest
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Purple Smiles
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Decorative Grasses splashed with Colour
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Heaven is at the top
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Luscious Fields
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Winding Journey inside the hills
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Is this the end? Or the beginning?
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A model fence with a grass blanket
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The rains are coming
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A lilac sky

 

 

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Fairies with blue wings stand still

 

Posted in blogging, Stories, Writing

I am John

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I Am John

‘I first saw him, sleeping in the front seat of his car, impossibly squashed, with his weary head resting on a pillow balancing on the window sill. It was almost 9.’

 

🍀

 

His name is John, and he lives in his car.

I walk past him twice a day in my usual hurried manner on my way to work.

For months, I didn’t notice him. For months, I walked straight past, consumed with my own thoughts, and my own life.

and he never made himself known.

He never, ever, asked me for anything, he never told me his story, he simply existed.

I remember seeing him once, cooking some beans on a little gas stove. I thought he was a backpacker, on a lovely holiday.

“That’s a clever way to see Australia if you’re on a budget” I thought.

I noticed a bunch of clothes neatly stacked in a white washing basket, others dangling out of a half open window, drying I guess.

Sometimes he would sit in his camp chair, with his personal things around him, you know, gadgets, cooking utensils, an old fashioned transistor radio, and appear to be busy, as if he was trying to organise himself.

Another time, I saw him sleeping in the front seat of his car all squashed up, with his weary head resting on a pillow, that was doubled over balancing on the window sill. It was almost 9.

He must have wondered why I never said hello, why no one ever said hello.

-and then one day, a friend of mine, told me his name was John.

“Do you know John?”-He asked

“Should I?”

“He lives in his car, you know, that little old red one?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen him. He lives in his car?”

“Yep. He came over to talk to me once, and I was busy, so I fobbed him off and he quieltly walked away. I felt really terrible as that’s not me, so the next day, I took him a bag of oranges and some bananas. He stared at them for ages, looked at me like he was confused and said-

‘I haven’t had fruit in 5 months’

He had a career, and a family, until something went wrong and he lost everything. He hasn’t seen his kids in 12 years.”

He was there, the very next day when I passed him, this time, with a purpose.

His head was down, not wishing to engage in any way, busily preparing breakfast.

“Hello, John” I said

He stopped what he was doing and lifted his eyes in my direction, but his head remained down.

“Hello” -he said faintly

He was so quiet I could hardly make out the words. There was something wrong with his eyes, I don’t know what but they had the potential to create fear in some.

I don’t think he was prepared for conversation, as he didn’t seem to know what to do with it.

I kept walking on my Merry way, I thought it best to keep moving.

The next day, I once again walked in front of his car to catch his attention.

“Morning John”

“Hi”- He instantly responded.

If I wasn’t mistaken, he almost smiled this time, and his response was clear and more definite.

For a week, I greeted him and acknowledged his presence. It was difficult to tell whether this meant anything to him or not, but he always responded with an element of surprise in his voice.

Before I knew it, annual leave was upon me, and I consequently hadn’t seen John for a couple of weeks.

I wanted to prepare a Christmas hamper for him, so I bought a little basket and filled it with essential items. Fruit, tinned food, biscuits, some sparkling grape juice, bread etc.

He was one of those invisible people.

You know those?

The ones that nobody knows, and nobody seems to care about?

There are plenty of those people around.

I call them the invisible people.

The people that believe their failings deem them an outcast, or are so unforgivable they don’t deserve to share in the gift of living.

The damaged, pained souls who have lost themselves in the consequence of past, and who have been conditioned to fear, and hide and run from everything that hurts.

Those tortured minds inside which mental illness has well and truly taken the reigns and eaten away the person that was, or could’ve been.

How do people get this way?

How do people end up this broken?

I couldn’t wait to give him his hamper, to make him realise, that someone knew now, that

HE WAS JOHN.

As I pulled into the car park that was his home for the last 6 months, my stomach fell into my feet.

He was gone.

I drove back in the evening thinking he may have just been out, but his car park, his little piece of land he called home, was empty.

The very spot where his invisible life had been, was now a few random doves, some stained concrete and a pair of lifeless white lines.

‘But he can’t be gone’- I told myself.

I stared at the empty space in front of me for minutes, suddenly suffocatingly helpless.

It occurred to me, that I just expected he would be there, like I would be in my house, or my friends in theirs.

But he had no home, now did he? I just made that up to make myself feel better, and to convince myself he wasn’t so unhappy with his camp chair and beans for dinner.

But that’s not how it works with invisible people, now is it?

His home was not that car parking space afterall.

His address?

‘No permanent address’

Bollocks, I desperately wanted him to have the hamper, because I thought in my naive little mind, that he would realise someone cared.

-and I wanted for him to be given a gift, for christmas, so that he could share for one small moment, what the rest of us take for granted-feeling worthy of someone else’s thoughts.

But he was never going to stay, because he had given up on himself, long, long, ago, and his plans were not plans, but survival tactics, and that’s how he had to roll.

I never got to give John his Christmas hamper.

Rumour has it, he headed South to the cooler weather, a couple of days before I realised.

John,

I know you will never read this, but I hope a little messenger is able to let you know in some strange way, that I was happy to have met you.

and to me,

You are John, and you are no longer invisible.

Merry Christmas.

🎄

Inspired by Daily Word Press prompt

Disaster

Faces

Tomorrow

To my boy