point reyes. june 2013. 

an epic hike: nine miles in three hours, including stops for photos, berry picking, and exploring the sea shore. my knee hurt for three weeks following the hike, so i rested it; now that i've started working out again, it feels much better. it's amazing how well nature heals. at first it feels like a big sponge that can absorb everything you're feeling and take it away, and then you realize that you feel better because you're where you belong. 

i'm thinking of traveling to south america in a few months, and i'm excited to see the cities and work on the farms, but i'm also anticipating patagonia, the andes, and perhaps even antarctica. the bold, vast, empty places that feel like a strange new home.

woodpile

the farm. december 2012.

i can never wait to go back there. it feels like camp, like a little slice of camping, like a family vacation where everyone is actually happy. i love it there. it's my favorite place to take photographs.

the driest year on record

 

 eagle lakes area. august 2012.

two weekends in the sierra foothills. photos from the first, a backpack, and a poem describing the last day of the second. 

the driest year on record

coming back from two days on the river, 

feet sand scrubbed and body filled with under water stillness

discovering my car, al fresco, the driver's window scattered across seats front and back, 

not stolen, nothing missing, just the solid lack of funds waiting to be shouldered,

my awareness expanding to encompass all the facets of my life making it unlikely 

that i will ever be equipped to attract create revel in the love i so desire, 

moaning out my despair to an undeservedly attentive audience, 

smothering in my own self pity,

i find room in my heart to envy even bonnie raitt, 

over whom i thrash out my inescapable misery, 

who at least can express her sorrow

with levity, eloquence, and a sultry voice.

recovery. relief at the retreat of the surging hormonal pulses flattening 

my dying midwest factory town of self confidence, 

able, finally, to laugh,

but still not trusting my friend's assurance that i look good in that photo.

and maybe perhaps all of this due, in part or en todo, or at least strongly kicked off by 

your perfect nose, small as a hospital gown snap, turned up in baby sleep

and you, you , sweet little bunny, petite example of perfect newness and all that i don't have,

named lovingly for a mother long gone and a video game.

window mirror glass sky

oakland hills. june 2012.

i have a car now. i stayed late at work for a meeting and got out just as the sun had made up its mind to set. the air was breezy and damp, a little mean, but so refreshing after a long stuffy meeting. the light was fresh and nimble.

i dropped my things at home and sped upwards to the hills, trying to catch the last rays. almost did. top of claremont and then right, park on the side and walk along to the private hill; ignore the sign and wind through the dried grass. right leg hit by nettles. sit on a fallen tree and finally feel the cold (good thing you brought your jacket). watch the fast moving fog that must be forming right there over the bay because you see the break there but it never gets to you. then it finally does. figure out that the place where a darker blue fades to lighter faster that the rest of the sky is the earth's shadow, already overhead. let thoughts trickle through your head, not really paying attention, as the red smog deeps and layers upon itself, like icing.

jump down, walk back. find a shortcut through the windy hill roads. think about all the trips you can take now that you have wheels. think of the next place you want to watch the sunset from.

yellow, through green

oakland. january 2012.

still in love with wires and street lamps. still intrigued by back-lit leaves. still looking up.

up and down, on a knoll

 

the farm. december 2011. 

headed to camp early tomorrow. listening to etta james and the peaches. quiche and cookies for the ride. friends and music to pass the time. bear dog at the end.

solstice morning

home. dec 21 2011.

it was so good to talk to you at that concert. so good to laugh and reminisce and forget about the thick crowds around us. when you reached out and casually squeezed my arm, just above the elbow, i felt it in my whole body. it was like something that was clenched loosened. my awareness turned towards you. i wanted it again, just that squeeze, that hand wrapped around my arm briefly, easily, connecting us for a moment.

i want that again, now. i want to feel your hand on my arm, i want to know you're there, standing next to me, listening and laughing and happy to be with me, just as i am happy to be with you.

threading the eye

bryce canyon. november 2009.

a mystical drive. a storm hit overnight, and fine snow dust was swirling across the road. i'd broken my camera the day before, and so was recording the final two days of my trip with a disposable. that road was so lonesome, so isolated. it was beautiful, but i was glad to leave.


....



it's late, and i'm alone. i'll go outside and unplug the christmas lights in a moment, lock the door, and climb in bed to read about cleopatra and anthony. i wonder if i'll dream about that cold, stormy road when i close my eyes to sleep. i wonder if i'll relive the awe, fear, thrill, giddiness of driving alone through a storm, with only music and a map to direct my wanderings. it would have eased me to have someone there with me, to sit quietly by as the grainy snow gathered and swept across my view, draping the road in gauze then wiping it clean. i remember one ribbon of black wet road, plastered to the wall of a canyon like a gash in the earth. the road curved and wound, hurtling down until it reached the plain, and a town. it's strange how a group of strangers can somehow make you feel more alone than an empty car and an empty road, with nothing there before you.

a mist slowly rising

lost coast. november 2008.

my first vacation as an employed individual, post grad school. shortly after this photo the clouds cleared to a perfectly blue sky, and i remember thinking to myself as i walked along the beach, "this is what my life will be like, now. i can just take time off and go on trips and not have anything to worry about." and i remember feeling so free -- of all the worries of grad school, and unemployment, and living at home. i was completely in the moment, taking pictures of waves, observing the extending coastline stretching north. i was a person on a beach, and that's exactly where i was meant to be.

spoon me

mad hatter tea party. july 2010.

i feel the winter bearing down on me. it's not the darkness so much as my being alone within it. the cold chills my mood, my summer exuberance; it contains my will and shrinks my ambitions. i sit in a still dark house and try to think of anything to do besides watch tv. when do you decide something is too hard? when do you simply give up?

(it's only october; i shouldn't feel this way yet.)

i am overwhelmed by how much the world needs of me, and how little i seem able to give. how quickly i stop feeling indomitable when the sun leans away from the earth.

oh, my feet

piute creek. september 2011.

it felt so good to take off my shoes. usually i kept them on at lunch, ever mindful of all the hiking left to do in the day. but this time i was ahead, just a mile to my planned stop when i plopped down for a late lunch. i knew i'd hike farther, and it made me feel triumphant and relaxed. off came the boots. i even took out my sleeping pad for extra comfort.

this trip was so much harder than i expected. the altitude, the long days, the heat, the heavy pack, the new pants that gave me blisters--on my hips--all added up to a strenuousness i wasn't quite prepared for. but really, it was the lack of a buddy. no one was helping, no one was tired, too, no one sat with me in the shade half way up a steep hill as my breathing slowed. when i stepped away from camp to read a book at the side of the creek, i was just as alone as when i returned. nature felt less of a respite and more, simply the landscape i was moving through, beautiful though it was.

there is something about knowing that someone is waiting for you to come back that makes it more soothing to be away.

two nevada scenes

 

eastern nevada. november 2009. 

as i drove west, home, from utah. a warm afternoon as i crossed the border, and a frosty, fast dawn the next day, mid-state. the clouds, the colors, the rolling shadows and road. a dead coyote on the side of the road, frozen stiff. a pure, clean aloneness, so right in such an empty, open place. huddled grasses growing out of the road's shoulder. everything dry, crisp. lizards in the day sun, birds flying home–to where?–at dusk. a cold welcome, but the feeling of belonging just the same.

how would you like to be remembered?

sleepy hollow, new york. may 2011.

i was walking around this famous cemetery the day after my friend got married, taking pictures and looking at gravestones (and noticing how many had my last name) when i decided to call my mom and ask where my grandma was buried, as i knew it was somewhere in new york state. turns out she was five miles away. so my friend agreed to drive me over there in the morning, on the way to the train station.

we got lost twice, thanks to my crappy phone map app. as we were driving towards our last turn, we saw an entrance into the cemetery and turned in. once we found the office, i scoured the log book (because their computer system was down) but found nothing. turns out we were in the wrong cemetery--there are two next door to each other. time was tight but we tried to get to the other one, except that the road we needed to turn on was closed. it's like i wasn't meant to see her.

after a day of thinking i would get to visit, i suddenly realized how sad i was to miss her. so close! so many things i wanted to say, so many minutes i wanted to sit and simply remember her. so i looked out the window, said hello and goodbye and blew a kiss, and then we drove on to the train station. where i saved a two foot long snapping turtle from likely-death by jumping down on the tracks and moving it off, then getting some helpful ladies and my friend to help lift me back onto the platform. so maybe that was my purpose for the day.

grandma, maybe you were that turtle, or maybe i was just given the chance to do something for which i know you'd be proud of me. either way, i remember you, and i miss you.

early fall in the south island

west of queenstown, NZ. april 2011.

they don't say "en-zee" they say "en-zed" which is awesome in that way that everything different and new is awesome when you're in a new place.

this is the view i had down river just before jumping off the bridge i was standing on and hurdling head first toward the water, before the bungy cord attached to my ankles caught me. about half way down, i clearly remember the thought, "am i really doing this? did i just jump off that bridge on purpose? this is sooooo dumb." but then i bounced and was flooded with euphoria, so that turned out all right. still, i'm never doing that again.

Being Close

Home. 2010.

I watched The Barbarian Invasion tonight. It was an amazing window into the human condition; into connection and joy and conversation and the comfort of shared pain. It was a welcome reminder of how important a touch and a look can be.

A Graduation. So Proud.

Ithaca, NY. 2009.

Walking into the landscape architecture school, for Dana's graduation last May. I like the just-rained-on-us sky visible under the building, and the tree standing solitary on the left, in front of the square windows. I like the quiet air of pride and I-never-doubted-it celebration we held around us as our large group waltzed into the small space and ate all the appetizers. Like we owned the place.

Wires Again

Deakin Street, Berkeley. 2009.

Have I mentioned that I like wires? Their tangle and weave? The way they divide the sky into fractions and parcels and vast swaths of blue, peach, lavender, orange, seashell pink?

I do. I like the connectedness they state, the interdependency; I even, on occasion, like the buzz that falls down from their tight perches.

But I also think they're ugly and should be put underground, at least within cities. They are a remnant of loosely structured municipalities and unincorporated land, of a time that doesn't exist anymore, at least not here. We don't have room to be unorganized anymore.

Her Shoes

Boston. 2005.

July. Warm even with air conditioning. Languid air drifting through large buildings; green sprouting, straining outward; moisture in the lungs and on the skin. Sleeping with the window open, with no blankets on; a sheet, maybe. Dressing in clean, cool clothes.

I miss the varied certainties of Boston. The red brick, the modern architecture. The large, protected open spaces surrounded by sweating, crowded streets. Polluted, accessible water ways. Heat-white skies in summer.

I miss this moment, when a woman I barely knew lay still for me, while I photographed her hand, her calves. Her shoes.

Bones

The Farm, Santa Rosa, CA. 2009.

I don't have anything to say about this pile of bones, so instead, here's a poem for Raciel.

Pick up you, little girl.
There's the slats of the bed, falling down.
They need righting.
Lay you down on the dark floor
And reach under your slumbering place
To your dust-covered toys,
Your infant clothes saved for wistfulness only.
Pick up you, little girl,
And reach through that rust metal frame.
Latch on to that floating timber,
That pine support for your dreams.