O’BRIEN AND OLIVE PORTFOLIO

Jack and Allison Marie O’Brien’s photography and writing showcase a celebration of love through their own extraordinary, ordinary adventure amongst the most spectacular wonders of the world.

 

Original Works by Jack and Allison Marie O’Brien

Firefly

You give me a firefly’s taste.
A spark in the darkness.
A blip in the threading of the universe.

Stardust

     We really, truly are made from one soul…aren’t we, my stardust? I believe our bones might have once been crafted from clay and constellations. And our fingertips may have been dipped in milky gold. Our freckles and scars scatter our supple yet strong skin like stars at work in the Sahara sky. Our feet…bare, but intelligent. For they recall and lead me to the long lost places which my mind had chosen to forget. Our tangled hair is salty and rough and just about right when summer is heated and lively and adventures are bountiful. Your voice…your tender, mysterious voice explodes with each marvelous note and melody into which I mercilessly melt with my every step of dance in motion. You say you feel the same. I melt you…but you dissolve me. I dissolve into your hands…your fists…your palms…the creases and messy lines that share with me a thousand more timeless stories and a million more poems and secrets that your lips and tongue will ever spill. I believe our bones might have once been crafted from clay and constellations. I believe you were stenciled with stardust. I believe you were drawn from heaven…perfectly, imperfectly painted just for me.

Muse

Marry your muse.
If you do, I promise you this:
Every day, for the rest of your existence,
Will feel like art,
And poetry will become your every night.
For if my love for her were wings,
Then I have completely, utterly
Taken flight.

Places

     And you know what else I adore? Looking back at the places in the world we visited and fell in love with together. Whether it be a park bench, or a cliff overlooking the sea, or the town we lost ourselves in and thinking, “A part of our story was written there.” And that’s it. That’s eternal. Because no one can take that away from us. Not God, nor time, nothing. Do you think that, maybe, the next person who sits where we once watched the city lights glimmer thinks to themselves, “I wonder who else has sat here…doing exactly what I am doing…right now?” I think about that. I hold on to that. I think about all the possible stories of different people that were written in the same beautiful…beautiful and honest and breathtaking and ugly and heart wrenching…places that we are writing ours. I love that. It’s sad, and it’s uplifting altogether. Like an old film that doesn’t end in the way you think it might, or want it to, but you know it’s perfect. It was meant to be written that way. Just like we are.

Dust

Upon the shelf,
She was the one tattered book;
Her pages were scribbled with stories
Of a messy, maddened, marvellous youth,
Leaving no chance for her to dust.

6AM

     And I think about how silent the world sounds when we are walking through the sleepy village together…barefoot and breathless. How we climb onto the rooftops because no one is around to scold and tell us that we’re acting too childish or dangerous or unapologetic. But we are young. We are foolish. And we are learning. Every day. And I think about how the sky magically paints itself that bluish, violet, lavender colour that we both die over. The world around us is just barely lit by the rising peekaboo sun that it’s no longer enclosed by the darkness of night…but still remains softly illuminated with that perfect amount of natural, underexposed, dim lighting…the kind of lighting that appears when old married couples set their mahogany dining tables for supper alight with candles from their wedding day.

7 Billion

     I see love as something stupendously surreal. It’s been around since before our time, and we only have to look up to find the longest love affair of existence…the sun and moon. Because amidst the infinite stars of an infinite sky, it took just one, for the measly moon to shine so bright. So bright that his cracking craters are, against the sea of black and deserted space, illuminated, painted, glowing. And even now, until this day, he shines. Gloriously. I see our love as something stupendously surreal, too. You’re my sun…and from the seven billion people in the world, it took just one little soul for measly me…to feel, well, like the moon.

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