PHOTO STORY: Aphrodite

PHOTO STORY: Aphrodite

The sky that morning was grey. The air hung stagnant along the seemingly endless shore. It was quiet aside from the steady breath and break of the tide as it clawed it's way in, zealous for more land, and then exhausted from the efforts, swept back out.

Without warning the atmosphere, sparked to life like lightning, came alive. The mouth of the ocean pulled back it's white-foam lips into a terrifying snarl and all at once spit forth a tangle of limbs struggling to stay upright. Her golden hair hung around her face, wild and unkempt. Her skin, smooth like silk, adorned in a opaque opalescent chemise, seemed to glow from within. It seemed as if the moon itself has brushed it's lips along her perfectly formed cheekbones, leaving stardust in it's wake.  She was perfect, and if not for the vacant, troubled crease that sat upon her regal brow, untouchable.

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L I S T E N: a poetic short-film

In each of us there is the potential to expand,
to grow,
to learn.

We bend to the wisdom of the ages and we find ourselves limitless,
harborers of eternity.

The universe shivers with excitement when we simply-- Listen.

WRITTEN & DIRECTED: taren maroun /
MUSIC COMPOSED BY: andrew seistrup /
FEATURING: rachael seistrup
VOICEOVER: taren maroun

my hands look more like my mother's / a poem

Poem by: Jessica Carenco / Image by: Beth Kirby

on Tuesday afternoons
when I am alone in the house
as the laundry tumbles,
I make bread;
and my hands look more like my mother's.

flour-dusted fingers
working steady, patient
ushering the puffed, drifting-up,
white cloud in the window.

with quiet eyes
I turn the round over,
humming to the steady harmony
of hands at work,
and wonder,
and thinking,
and prayer.

then, slinking into the slow and rest
of ticking clocks
and running water,
I wait for the golden masterpiece
that will crackle when cut—
steam straight-rising—
then, I will fold my flour-dusted fingers;
and my hands look more like my mother's.

it's so much more than we know.

I lie here beneath an endless sky, so full of opportunity, equally endless. My soul searches for something to grasp onto, something solid, something true and I find nothing to balance my increasingly wobbly stance. there is one truth, the anchor for my soul (suddenly that phrase takes on new meaning).

outside of that I am boundless, free, wild, unhindered to breathe and allow the breath of eternity, the breath of existence to wash over my skin - to renew my soul.

earth below me, sky above me. I am sandwiched in this life by beauty and raw being. language! where is the language for my soul? where are the words for this life? communication hits a wall. expression is not enough.


set me free. release me into the language of the universe, the breathe of the world, the hum of nature, the depth of intelligence. I speak so unlike you. I hear so unlike you. I string word and deed together so unlike you.

guide my hands, position my fingers, mobilize my arm to the dance and stroke of your speech.