Venture #2 | Christopher Tash

When I see a creek, river, or any body of flowing water I end up thinking about one of two things. The first is a large herd of wild horses. With wind ruffled mains and dirt dusted hides they travel close and along carved valley. The cramped space spooks the poor animals and they always begin to charge ahead faster when the walls get closer. Muscles fire off and they let out cries when they drag their skin across the rock beds and each other. Surging onward with a frightened pace so intense that there is no time to avoid any obstacles; the herd slams into rocks, logs, other anything in their way, several topple over each and others swell up over them without stopping. The earth slowly gets pulled away from their friends and family. The dirt and minerals are stripped from their calm and enjoyable lives like those drafted into surprise wars. Where do they go? To the end of the stream, when it broadens and the horses have more space to roam. They're dropped on their face, used, they have no more purpose and sit in the slower, shallow pools for the remainder of their existence. Sometimes the pebbles tell stories to each other, of their ride with the horses.

The other image that comes to mind is that of architects from ancient civilizations. They see the stone river bed and devour it like a starving artist devours a white open canvas. Each worker has a true passion for forming the old stone. They were all employed by some force that no one knows. All they truly know is that it's their job, their life, to conform the ancient stone. The earth is one way, right? It was created that way. The architects, water, want to change it to something more efficient and they work tirelessly to complete the job set for them. Each has a hammer and a chisel; tools as old and primitive as ever, but it works. One stroke at a time, one ring of the rustic hammer at a time. Each stripping a tiny bit more from the rock. The chips of rock fall to their feet, and when the old men shift their weight they kick the pebbles and stones to their neighbor, who, in turn, kick it a bit further. As they slide along the polished floor the chips themselves begin to smooth out. Some even start to bare precious metals and gems. The worth of the rock means nothing to the carvers though. They don't want it, they want to rid the world of these flaws. To them, it's not what the rock is, it's what the rock is hiding. They never end or tire. With a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other the men happily sing while they wither away the flaws of their world. You can hear their chat. It changes constant. Some roar and boast while they carve waterfalls. Others quietly babble in shallow brooks.

Listen..