It has been a year since my last movement post. I feel that the series contradicted itself. Movement ceased, and death crept into the bones of the series that declared itself a continual series of iterations. But here I am again, or here the series returns with some new movement, spasms of near death, the jerking of muscles.

In the mountains, I looked down and I saw the pieces of driftwood, old dying plants, the fynbos stumps that reminded me of all the previous encounters. The resemblance of dreams - horrors, nightmares - that haunt my conscious memories. I can live through these pieces of wood that lay innocently, only until they are viewed through the lens, the 50mm lens, do they become the nightmarish images that conjure up landscapes and decaying bodies and all the obscenities that plague me.

I love through these moments, these movements, that I capture, worlds that I create with the click of the shutter.

My mind becomes a hellscape - a purgatory - through which I need to move. poems of macabre, of moving fear and anxiety, drenched in the blood that runs through my body. I am the creator of these atrocities, these monstrosities, these horrors. They live inside of me, they are me. I am them. These obscenities become Rorschach tests that I cannot decypher, they become complex puzzles that eventually unravel into chaotic and disordered thoughts that cause my own insanity to surge through the walls that I tried to erect around it.

But now, like the burst dam walls, the madness flowed into a seemingly coherent stream through my mind and the dead timbre became moving images that whispered infinitely long and dense stories. I heard the life stories of countless beings, trying to make sense of the same horror, the same insanity, the same infinite movement that drowned their every attempt at catching a glimpse of reality.

Walk with me through the insanity of these photographs and appreciate the strange movement embedded in their horrific cracks and creases.