As I walk the abandoned farm land of pressed grains, weeds and rushes, since there is a chill – I can hear the needles of cedar, pine, crackling like ice.
And there, in the field, is a piece of rusted iron, found in the sea, but now resting in the scumbled soil, mixed with the minutiae of time passing. Other bits of metal, sand and shell, volcanic rock, tiny green things living — that’s just hanging on the frost of the morning. And invariably, even in the cold, some ancient insects or primitive bugs, so tiny that they can barely be seen. They scour what’s left.
That bit of rusted iron, shaped like a heart — it reminds me of the metal that could be found in the cold, the soul of love — hard, resolute, rusted, but still shining.
And that can be the way of love — strong, it can stay and become wiser in the rusting evolution of time; beautiful, it can change its coloring, new patterns emerge; and in ample use, the work of the living love — it might chip a little. That cast off, the damage — it will add to the form, but it will supplant other soils. Red, the iron, the blood.
Looking deeper into the land, into the heart of the dirt, the depth of colors, life and dead, in the micro communities that are there, the great heart of iron — like a magnet, bolted into the center of the earth, spreads its stories and mysteries like a never-ending seed. Rust, the blood, tints the imagination of what must’ve gone on, before.
t | the peninsula
Love, design, brand: creating alignments