Shuya Shuya. A poem and film archive.
Sand grew around me, uprearing my every step.
There was sand in his boot,
And a blaze in the desert.
Graves in the dunes,
And a secret stash of peppercorns in his pocket.
In a time where only the sands speak, to a zephyr hiss.
Where relentless heat takes your day, and cold your night.
The moon her majesty, hangs still over the palm of your hand.
A sole block of concrete reads “For the cleanliness of all sands”.
Somehow, in a place where reality is so illusive, actuality is so palpable.
Somehow, in a place so scarce of life, I felt so alive.
It felt like our bodies were injected with honey,
And our vision was scraping the skylines.
Giggling at the sight of every grain of sand
Coasting down and around every individual body hair.
Our hands slowly elevating from beneath the dune.
We walked 2 hours through the desert at dusk,
Slept beneath date palms and eucalyptus trees,
And walked two hours at dawn.
The desert is not deserted.
It is full with psychotropic air,
the twisting tracks of scarab beetles,
deep-hearted laughter over vacant horizons,
and minds reasoning riddles being told around the fire.
The spirit of the land endows you virtue.
- Jenna Collins
Film photographs by myself and Phil.