Chronophobia

Why doesn't the fact that we are all running out of time bring us closer together? Shouldn't the realization that we'll all soon be dead marginalize our differences? Shouldn't it align our priorities? You'd think it would unify us against a common enemy, right? Instead it seems to have the opposite effect. I guess the fear gets the best of us. We distract ourselves with bullshit trivialities and build sand castles of self importance. We fight and yell and tear each other apart. Our brief time here - our only time here - is made miserable and brutish by our ignorance. We are a truly idiotic species.

I just got off the phone with my dad. We hadn't talked in a few days. I'm one of those strange people who tries to call at least one of his parents daily. I think The Profuser accidentally inspired this tendency by sending me a link to a disturbing little website nearly a year ago. It asked for three pieces of information: my age, the age of my parents, and how many times I see them each year. Then, once the data was entered, it ran a macabre algorithm and performed a calculation. It told me how many more times I'd see my parents before they die. Immediately it filled me with heavy horror. I felt a feeling somewhere between nausea and dread. There was a claustrophobic sensation of time's walls closing in on me.

The day waits for me when one of them will be gone. And after that, another day, for the other. It troubles me in a way words cannot describe. Consider for a moment what awful days await us. Bullets fired from the future, waiting for us to rush forward and meet them.

But this too is just another reason to be happy, actually. Because that moment is not now; what's to come hasn't yet come.

Freshly Squeezed

I'm tired.

I just deleted a block of text I'd entered. And just like that all the words died. Not the words themselves; those are tough to kill. The content, I mean. The specific assemblage of words that formed an idea larger than the sum of its parts. Are which and that interchangeable or are there rules governing their usage? I should investigate this.

Tomorrow.

There's nothing bubbling up out of my unconscious tonight. Nothing interesting, anyway. I must have squeezed it all out yesterday, on Mr. Jenner.

Mmmm. I bet he'd like that.

Digital Dysmorphia

Adulthood is like sunblock. It's just a thin veneer that needs to be reapplied every few hours, or when things get too hot. Too often we see people lose their cool, resorting to screaming and childish name calling as a solution to difficult or inconvenient situations. We're just big kids that outgrew our old clothes, professional impersonators doing the best we can to mimic maturity. This is why we jump at the chance to drink and shirk responsibility, to play. Alcohol is an excusable way to return briefly to easy adolescence. For some though, this becomes so routine an escape that it borders more on ritual than release. These are the people we shun and make examples of, the ones we tell to grow up. The true insidiousness of this is that we are asking them to do a thing that we can hardly do ourselves. Who doesn't want an extended recess? A warm snow day? Instead of empathizing, we deliver vicious rebukes and severe remonstrations under the guise of encouragement.

I've lost my train of thought.

...Bruce Jenner. Let's do it.

I got into a discussion yesterday with friends about varying levels of body dysmorphia. Let me preface this by saying I support the idea of helping people feel as comfortable as they can inside their bodies, and I think people who are opposed to this idea are very plainly, wrong. The lowest, and most common form of bodily dissatisfaction is probably feeling overweight. People grow resentful of their growing bodies and take action. They exercise and diet. They put in the effort to be the change they seek. No one would challenge this as acceptable. Step up to the next rung on the ladder and consider body parts that cannot be strengthened and toned; noses for example. I once dated a girl who'd gotten a nose job before I met her. It was with great hesitation and fear that she told me about her surgery. She seemed to still be harboring a bit of shame about it, even after many years. She showed me a photo of before and after. I would've been attracted to her whether she had the surgery or not, but admittedly, she did look better after the procedure. Body image is a strange thing. We watch women undergo plastic surgeries that transform them into hideous, life-sized blow up dolls; tits like balloons, comically swollen lips, ass implants, all to make them feel more comfortable in their skin. Whether or not they actually look better is an entirely different question. Just ask Michael Jackson. Which leads me to my next point.

There comes a time when a person is so altered, so heavily modified, that they begin to look freakish, almost monstrous. All those nose jobs eventually earned MJ the moniker, Wacko Jacko. Well, amongst other things. But in truth, who are we to judge what makes another feel beautiful? But we do judge. We do feel it's acceptable for slight tailoring - but less so for the more radical changes. The more invasive the change the more authoritatively we proclaim our opinions. Enter Mr. (Mrs.) Jenner. We need to weigh in. I mean, look at me. When sex is involved in any topic it quickly becomes sensationally salacious. We drool and get all wet just thinking about mouthing off our half-formed ideas about what's really best for old Brucey. I say, if he wants top lop off his cock and grow some titties, let him. The only people up in arms are the ones that think they might accidentally fuck him, or would have. It somehow throws into question the sexuality of the third party and the homophobes begin to rally. But fuck them. Fuck them with Bruce Jenner's severed dick.

The interesting bit, to me, is to scale up the stakes a little and see if Bruce's supporters deem the action perverse if we change it a smidgen. There are some people who feel uncomfortable in their bodies for reasons other than their nose, weight or genitalia. These people suffer from such extreme body dysmorphia that they would like to have a finger, a foot or a hand removed because, like Jenner, they don't identify with the biological card they were dealt. In the same way there is nothing wrong with Mr. Jenner's perfectly functional penis (believe me, I would know), these people want to throw away a perfectly good digit to feel at peace inside themselves. I say, who am I to judge? Who am I to deny a person an amputation? Really, I think it's much more serious to chop off a cock than a pinky. One is an organ, responsible for reproduction - the very propagation of your DNA - and the other is an almost useless finger or foot.

There are some who would argue that the person who wants a foot removal is mentally ill, and that the person who wants their balls pulled off is just expressing his feminine side. Because sexuality and its repression have been at the epicenter of freedom, liberty, and self expression, there are those who would fight staunchly to protect these freedoms. And rightly so. But once we apply the same logic to the nonsexual parts of the body, for some reason they do not dedicate the same resources to upholding those same protections. It's mind boggling.

Toe boggling, too.

Food for Thought

A man without love is a danger. Love has a softening effect on the coarser parts of man's ugliness. Without it he is brutish, monstrously misguided. The pursuits he finds himself in are often more sordid, more ill-advised. Motivated by jealousy, guile, and self-interest, he begins to think only of himself, of what there is around him to take. Covetousness and a fast diminishing righteousness fill the hollows behind his ribs. He begins collecting things; eccentricities, neuroses, compulsions. Occupying himself with any and every distraction, he breathes deeply, greedily, and feels the space in his chest expand. But it is just swelling emptiness pressing back against itself. He is given to impurer impulses and destructive desires. The world becomes an obstacle, a hand to be cheated.

Likewise, a man who hasn't been to the gym in a week starts to feel his heart merrily swell with plaques. Lazy accolades and atrophied trophies. A lively renaissance takes place in the vaulted chambers of his plump aorta. Decorative, glazed stuccos adorn his arteries, fattening them and making them shine. Half melting scoops of ice-cream spill from his ventral heart. Chiaroscuro chunks of chorizo bob and weave through his bloodstream like butchered buoys.

This, friends, is why I must go to the gym.

I do wonder though, is it better to have a heart that's potbellied and full, or one that's thin and empty?

Period Blood Schmeridian

My brother sent me a couple of Cormac McCarthy quotes on my way home. I've never read anything by him. The two fragments I read didn't get my balls wet, though. Blood Meridian, my brother tells me, is supposed to be a fine piece of literature produced by our buddy Mr. McCarthy. I should probably give it a try; I hear his name come up in conversation often enough. He writes in a way that's distinct, maybe even enjoyable - were I to give it the chance - but there's something about his writing that seems overly contrived. His sentences are too steeped in shadows of doom and dread. The persistent and unrelenting bleakness produces a constant despondency that chases all the good sentences away. His writing has an almost oddly noir feel to it.

I joking told my brother I'd write an excerpt in the voice of McCarthy titled, Period Blood Schmeridian:

She lie low in the weeds, listening to the air rustling through the field. Wounded by invisible arrows sailed from the bows of unseen archers. Conspiracy and whispers, this. The darkness and the moon, the light of the young girl's eyes. Thick menstruation of her mother, passed down from one womb to the other, to the other, for all of time. It is the way of things. Pulsing through the life liquid of lineages, lost. Dark blood rich and red as wine. Tasting of iron. Clots. Coloring her garments. Satin. Sinew. Stains. Small trembling fingers touch her pale lips. Those bleeding hands feel all the unsolicited horror, all the capricious charm of youth's dumb tenacity. Cursed by a cry, worried and griefed. Distant winds full of uncertain fortunes howl. Thrashing through the tall weeds, they stalk her slender arms. The paper thin meekness of her old, flowery skirt and its smelling. Somewhere a mad dog barks. The drunken earth beneath her cut knees drinks in her fleeting valor. The patient dirt, waiting. Waiting always for us to lie with it one last time.

See, anyone can do it. If I were Cormac I'd host classes and sell how-to books, cassettes, and DVDs on late night TV. For an extra $19.99 I'd even volunteer to come and speak at your school.

Hooked on McCarthy worked for me!™

I kid. I think I'll put him on my list of authors to read. I'm still trying, albeit poorly, to finish reading the book Q lent me many months ago. After that, I need to read one by Nabokov that I purchased, finish Swan's Way, and also start a book my friend Terry gave me. At this rate, I'm hoping to have finished them all by 2016.

On the Wall

She peers out over the room, through the half opened French doors, at the unmade bed. Looking over her shoulder with wild, unkempt hair, and a pained pensive expression on her face, she just stares. The room is clean, but messy, full of old guitars, pillows, stacks of books, an ornate Persian rug and large cushions to sit on. Outside a pair of early buses sigh and break the silence. Everyday it is the same. He leaves for work early and comes back late, never saying hello or goodbye. It is as if she isn't a person at all.

There are things she wants to say but never could; things she wants to do but never would. Her dark inky eyes always seem about to run, though they remain still as stones. Months ago she'd come here, quite unsure why. Maybe because then she'd felt his desire, felt wanted, needed. He spent a lot of money on her. She liked that. He'd look at her then, stare into her soul, trace the outline of her body with his eyes. It was a staring contest that she secretly thought she might lose. If she were capable of it, she would have blushed.

The date is April 22nd, but it's freezing. She shivers with her back against the cold white wall. She hears birds singing sad songs. Cars speed past in spectral waves. The sun, rising, tries meekly to break through an oppressive veil of clouds. It is April 22nd but it feels like this to her every day.

Last week he brought home company and she forced a weak smile. His friend commented on how beautiful she was.

"Yeah, isn't she," he'd replied.

Griddle of Anus

I just got home from a date. Everything happened so quickly; the chatting, the scheduling, the texting, the meeting. I was tired and considered not seeing her, but something inside me said to press on. The buses weren't coming so I walked from Market all the way up Haight Street. It only took three blocks to realize something was wrong. There were way too many people on the streets, most of them young, with slow eyes and foggy feet. They drifted along like tired ghosts looking for a place to haunt. The sweet smell of pot perfumed the air like psychedelic potpourri, and then I knew. It was 4/20. What a terrible mistake I'd made by asking her to meet me on Haight Street. My reckless thoughtlessness would certainly prove damning once she tried to push herself through hordes of stoners and hippies reeking of reefer and patchouli. At times, it was hard, even for me, to brave the streets amidst the teeming throng.

Soon I was at Alembic, where I texted her a warning: 4/20, bring help! Within moments she arrived; beautiful blue eyes, hair up and pretty, a naturally angelic complexion. She sat down and read my palms. I remarked at the powerful symbolism of her holding my bare, upturned hands in hers. She pointed out my life and love lines, a girdle of Venus, and my "brilliance" lines before I asked if anything looked unusual. No, she said. Is there a penis line, I asked? Too quickly I followed up with: is it short? Too long she paused. I knew it - my cock had spent too much time with the palm of my hand for it to tell a lie. It was a young George Washington confronted about hacking away the cherry tree. What a ripe euphemism. Not long after this I found myself chatting about the subtleties of anal and vaginal sex, arguing strongly for the latter. On dates I specialize in making poor jokes and choices.

Her interest was waning. I could tell as her eyes wavered and then drifted, snagged by a pocket of empty air in the far corner of the room. Halfway through her drink she said she would go, to meet a friend in the Mission. Ok, I said, and we chatted for a minute or two longer. Then she put on her coat. I asked whether this meant she was cold or she wanted to leave.

I'll let you guess.

Night of the Living Dead

I smoked pot last night for the first time in four-and-a-half months. It saddens me to say it was mediocre. Once the plant possessed me I ate half a box of chocolate almond ice cream bars, an entire package of chocolate chip cookies, listened to obscure female psychedelia from the 70's, did yoga, had a conversation with my plant, and then felt conspicuously guilty that my music was keeping my neighbors and their barking dog awake. Somewhere amidst the miasma of burning cannabis, shaved vetiver and vanilla, soft blankets, and warm, freshly washed sheets, I watched Allen Ginsberg recite a poem written while on LSD.

Then I smoked the other half of the joint. I fell asleep. Either because of the sweets or the weed, or both, I had hyper vivid dreams of surviving a zombie apocalypse and the subsequent government cover up. There were some pretty vicious scenes in which I skewered the skulls of reanimated corpses with long fruit knives, forks, and screwdrivers. Sometimes it would take more than one piercing of their head's hull to stop them. Each time I woke, which was often, I fell back into the dream where I had left off. Once everything was over, my girl had a nervous breakdown and left me, and then they killed her. I alone carried the weight of what had happened.

During the day, before the night's beastliness descended, I strolled around in the sunshine, listened to jazz in North Beach, and later in the Haight. James and I had an interesting discussion on free will, questioning exactly what part of it is free. The answer, we think, is little, if any of it. Change is often precipitated by an outside force; a vision of beauty or an earth-shattering idea, a moving piece of music or prose, an act of selfless sacrifice from another or a display of genuine kindness; the love of a woman. For change to take place there must also be a willingness from within. It is predicated on a certain intellectual aptitude and the recognition of a shortcoming, the desire to transcend. Also a readiness to let go, to surrender, to move into an unfamiliar space and explore parts of yourself previously unknown. We are free to change, but only after influence. Perhaps this is why we are such social creatures; drawing insights and making comparisons, learning, cultivating unique ideas and empathy, anticipating how our actions might be perceived; taking the role of another. Wandering through the corridors of funhouse mirrors in our minds.

It is telling that love and its loss are the strongest motivators for change. The arrival or departure of another is a profound impetus. These are times when our sense of space and personal identity are most vulnerable, and volatile. It is only when standing at a crossroads that the dizzying drunkenness of possibility becomes momentum enough to choose a path. The pursuit of the unknown, and of adventure, seems both thrilling and terrifying.

We are all hanging by one hand from a ledge, waiting for someone's arm to pull us back from the encroaching abyss.

Lurking Lark

No matter what time I go to bed I can't sleep in past 7:30. If I stayed up all night and went to bed at 7:29, I'd still wake up at 7:30. It's a sickness. Why isn't there a hip name for people prone to early rising? There is no cool corollary to the term night owl. A night owl would totally murder and eat an early bird; there is no doubt about it. Initially the gym seemed like a good option, to start the day off with exercise and sweat, but I think I ate too much bran cereal and dark chocolate before bed. Doing so produces a kind of chocolate shrapnel in your stomach which coils through your intestines like bloated barbed wire. I've already turned my toilet bowl into a chocolatey, fudge-filled sundae. Perhaps I'll clean my bathroom instead of going to the gym.

After that, or maybe before, I'll finally finish editing the photos from my trip to Utah. Editing is a way to travel through time. Not because you're going back to the past while you view the photos, but because you forego the present and land smack into the future hours later. When you start, no matter what time it is, you will finish hours later, having accomplished little but anesthetize time's passing. Entire weekends have been burned editing photos. There is something obsessive about it, and meditative, a beautiful single-mindedness of purpose numbs the desire to do anything else but achieve an aesthetic. It too is a sickness.

In many ways all things are a sickness. What isn't? Health? Life? Love? Happiness? Nope. We treat these things with such seriousness and severity that they often make us ill. We pursue them relentlessly, often chasing health at the cost of happiness, happiness at the cost of life. Life is a terminal condition that must be treated; through medicine, aging, denial, and increasing limitations on any and all forms of mobility. We are on a one way track to stillness, always. This went unexpectedly dark and gloomy, sorry. It's cloudy outside; blame the fog. My sinuses are also acting up, producing a low-level headache and bad taste in the back of my mouth. All that dust from canyoneering last week laid waste to the delicate lining in my nose.

Imagine what breathing in dirt and dust must be like for the mucus membrane of the nasal passage. When I was a kid I'd work construction with my father here and there, to make a buck and learn the value of hard manual labor; mostly by watching Manuel labor. One hot summer day I was tasked with installing insulation in the roof of some basement of an old house in Manhattan. I'd never touched insulation before, but it looked like a batch of botched pink cotton candy sandwiched between two sheets of brown paper. My dad said to be careful, that it was made of fiber glass, not to let it touch my skin. The thing about installing insulation, especially in a ceiling over your head, is that it's going to get all over your fucking skin. This is likely why my shrewd old man avoided the responsibility and delegated the task to me. As you stick it up in the ceiling, little fibers and fuzz fall from the insulation and rain down on you, melting right into your wet, sweat-covered skin. It itches terribly, and scratching does nothing to alleviate the sensation. It is awful. That's how I imagine my nose felt when it sucked up dust, dirt, and fine particles of rock from the red orange desert.

Yesterday I volunteered at a homeless shelter for the better part of the morning. I helped cook, clean, serve, and make decorations. I spoke to people who are routinely made to feel invisible and unwanted, instead granting them time, kindness, and attention. One older gentleman, all grizzled and grey, seated in a wheelchair, with a crippled leg and mouthful of missing teeth, smiled warmly and told me his name was Paris, like the city. He mumbled and spoke in a way that was unused to the common conventions of conversation, as homeless people often do. But he was polite and gracious and it was obvious to anyone that the human contact he was given was a greater gift than the food. The dynamic is different when working with the homeless in a shelter than when passing them on the street. In a shelter they acknowledge you want to be there, that you are there to help; you aren't simply a strange fish with a wallet dangling from your pocket that they might be able to hook with a clever lure.

Well, for some of them, anyway. There were people who said there were too many red peppers in the meal we made; that if we didn't have grape soda they didn't want any soda at all; that they only wanted fruit, no pasta; that they only wanted pasta, no fruit; that they just wanted three sodas instead of food. Some people were charming and seemed to have fallen on bad fortunes while others seemed to still be coming down from an all-night bender, having eaten the same drugs I did Monday night. Some people were polite and charming and others were terse and rude. Some people smiled and some people frowned. Oh, and the homeless people were nice, too.

People are people, whether or not they have a home.

travelus interuptus

My luck had to run out eventually. Bad fortunes followed me across state lines, stowed away in my luggage through an unfastened zipper, hidden under balled socks and suntan lotion. On my departing trip, as we descended into Salt Lake City to catch a connecting flight to St. George, the pilot tried and failed to land the plane, twice. Third time was the charm. I'd never seen people become so alarmed on a plane before, myself included. At first, I thought perishing in a plane crash wouldn't be so bad, that we'd be dead on impact, but further rumination on the threat of ruination proved my initial theory wrong. I vividly imagined the crash; the tearing away of the fuselage, ripped apart like a Christmas present, seats dislodged and twisted at sharp angles, dismembered bodies and severed limbs, the smell of burning flesh, the cries of dying children. The mind can be hideously imaginative at times. 

Last night though, on my returning flight, shortly after takeoff I could tell something was wrong. The plane was small, two seats on each side; smaller than a city bus. I was seated on the left wing. It seemed to be struggling, groaning, making sounds that gave my stomach goosebumps. They were the kind of sounds that, if a car had made them, the driver would've immediately pulled over. So we did. After a sense of stalling in mid-air, a feeling that is always accompanied by leaping terror, quickening your heart's gait, the ring of the intercom came on. The pilot alerted us there was something wrong, to remain calm. These are words which, when paired with unusual mechanical sounds and a sense of falling, create a fantastically frantic sense of doom and dread. My hands got shaky as the adrenaline flash flooded in my veins. In the adjacent aisle, to my right, a mentally handicapped man began rocking wildly back and forth, humming, imitating the sound of a bee trying to achieve an octave. 

They say when you're about to die your life flashes before your eyes. Mine didn't. I felt many different shades of horror, helplessness, and disbelief. It felt like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from, one that was insistent on being endured. We hit the ground fast and hard. We bounced and screeched to a halt and it was over. After hours of waiting while they tried to repair the plane, they gave up and booked me a hotel. 

Okay, I'm about to board. Let's give this another try. 

Third time's the charm, right?

You Tah

No time to write tonight. I'm getting the last pieces all packed up for my trip to Utah tomorrow. It's been brought to my attention that this trip is a bit more perilous than I'd thought. I just watched a personal safety video specifically designed for some of the places I want to visit while I'm there. What it tells you, in seventeen minutes or less, is that if you go here, you're probably gonna die. They rattle off the names of poisonous animals; rattlesnakes, black widows, stinging ants and bees, scorpions; they talk about dehydration and severe sunburns, flash floods, and the dangers of loose footing. Quicksand and other life threatening surprises patiently await you at the Coyote Buttes. I especially liked the line about not stepping on the dinosaur tracks. The BLM even takes care to provide you with bio-bags to shit in - since there aren't any toilets out in the remote wilderness. The Profuser and I were joking about revising the video, just a little:

“While in Coyote Buttes, please take special care not to defecate. It is recommended that hikers gorilla glue their anuses shut at least 24 hours prior to entering the monument. Remember, the best way to pack out human waste is to recycle it back into your own body."

"Keep in mind that it may take rescue teams hours, or even days to find you. If you need help, fall, or get bitten, remain calm; you're going to die and there isn't anything you can do about it."

"At night temperatures can drop well below freezing. If you think the inside of your car will protect you from the cold, think again. 12 out of 9 people freeze to death in their cars every hour in Coyote Buttes, even in the summer."

"By the time you feel thirsty...you're already fucking dead, bro."

I've made the necessary arrangements with my femme French liaison and entrusted her with tending to all the details of my death. She agreed to place the proper inscriptions upon my tomb:

"Your unusually small penis Will be missed. God knows how well you knew how to use it. Forever"

She also said she would lie about my life to make it seem grander than it really was. She is a true friend. 

What if I did die though? What if this was my last post? Would I want to be remembered this way? Talking about death and feces, dicks? I think we both know the answer to that question. 

Hmm. Is there anything I'd want to say if this were my last chance to say something? Given enough time I'm sure anyone could think up a litany of things, but if I had to decide now, in this moment, what would I say? I'd want to right those I may have wronged; to apologize to the hearts I was reckless with and the friendships I've let fall to the floor; to tell the people I care about that I love them. That I never knew what I was doing, even when it seemed like I did? That the moments I enjoyed most were the ones I wasted? 

Nah.

I think I'd just talk about dicks.

Also, why do people always talk about drug problems? People I know have drug solutions. Is that even a good line? I'd have to roll up a dollar bill to find out.

I'm here all night folks.

Good Saturday

It's a rainy day here in Sad Frank's Disco. Strange dreams last night, of people I haven't seen or talked to it years. In one of them there may have been a death, and weird frogs, and in another there were scorpions and cat paws. All night my brain simmered in a curious hoodoo gumbo. I dreamt so much I felt tired when waking.

Yesterday I finished my taxes and squeezed in a morning workout before much of the day had gotten away from me. With what was left, I rented a car, packed in my camera gear and took a ride up to Mt. Tam. Once I entered the park I realized I'd never actually been inside it before. I'd only ever skirted around the edges while meandering through Muir woods on the way to Stinson Beach. The park is a gorgeous little oddity; vast and sprawling with thin trails that crest upwards over the spines of hills and mountains, the bay perched in the background looking like a miniature model of San Francisco, Mt. Tam owns a quiet peculiarity. It reminded me of giant sand dunes covered in grass and decorated with little orange flowers. When the wind would blow the grass would ripple in waves, like the fur of a long haired dog. As I drove into the park I was greeted by two people waving at me conspicuously, so I did what any rational thinking person would do: I slowed and rolled down the window.

They were hitchhikers. One of them asked me if I could give them a ride just up the mountain, the other just stared. How far up is it, I asked. Just about 5 minutes. Okay. They got in the backseat and we began our ascent. Bob Dylan was singing "Poor Lazarus" on the car stereo and I found it oddly comforting if I were to be killed by these two strangers while listening to a song about death and murder. They saw my camera and asked if I was a photographer. Of sorts. One of the voices behind me told me he was a dancer from New York, an old choreographer and costume designer, that he'd moved here 35 years ago. The other voice kept muttering something about a wild turkey, but I didn't see one. We listened to Bob sing and continued winding up the mountain. They were older gentlemen, maybe lovers maybe not, and they were grateful for my kindness. It would've been quite a walk for them. They thanked me as they got out of the car and into their own graffiti-covered mini winnebago. Before I drove off they recommended I drive west for some stunning views. So I did.

I hiked around the hills and enjoyed the quiet and the color. Clouds quickly blanketed the sky and veiled the sun. I was completely alone. Behind me a cold wind howled as it got tangled in the shaking branches of a shivering tree. Soon my hands were numb and I couldn't feel my face. Setting up my tripod became more arduous a task than it was worth, so I had to take most of the shots handheld. With a 70-200mm lens, this meant most of my shots would be useless. But I was there primarily as an explorer, photographer second. I heard a rustling in a bush beside me and a bunch of pheasants flew out like buckshot. They scattered and took flight, reassembled tightly in mid air, and then landed in unison 20 yards away startling a wild turkey. Holy fuck, there was a wild turkey. How did it find me all the way up here? It just stood there looking at me, unafraid, unconcerned, yet curious. I took my cock out and shook it. Cock a doodle doooo. The grass took its interest and it wandered away. I called it a faggot lesbian cunt bitch and zipped my pants.

I saw the sun set fire to a few trees on a distant hill. I saw the small shadows of young people stretched out and silhouetted by a gooey light which drooped below the clouds. I drove further and saw spears of light pierce a thick cherub's cushion and stab at the rippling skin of the sea. Further still and I saw the sky's blue canvas covered in pretty purples and soft pinks, smooth creams and electric flesh tones that haunted the sky like neon phantoms. It was a good day.

House of the Rising Sunspots

I've been wanting to write for days but each time I get home some task takes my attention and I wind up preoccupied until it's time to go to sleep. It almost happened tonight, too, if I hadn't given up on cleaning my camera sensor. Given up isn't the right phrase; I'd run out of sensor swabs. Apparently I have a few very stuck-on pieces of dust or other particulate matter pressed against my sensor. Think of dead flies stuck to your windshield after a few hours of a long road trip. I swabbed and swabbed and only reduced the appearance of the spots marginally. Still, it's better than it was originally, and even then the spots were hard to notice in photographs. Maybe after my trip to Utah I'll send the camera in to Sony for a real thorough cleaning.

Speaking of Utah, it's the other task that's been eating all of my time. I leave for another solo photo trip next week, so I have to draw up a thin plan prior; a place to stay, a loose itinerary, weather reports, photography tours for Antelope Canyon, flights, car rentals. I hadn't known this prior to booking a flight, but you need to enter Antelope Canyon with a photography guide if you want to bring in a tripod and have a few minutes to grab a shot. It's mandatory. They charge you obviously, and make the whole process seem kind of hurried and transactional, but what am I to do. Looking at the pictures of the place, bathed in haunting beams of light and delicately curved rocks, you wouldn't ever know wolfish things were happening out of frame. A metaphor for life I guess.

It's funny just how little of life's big picture we actually do get to see. The area we see is always blurry and out of focus, tight, underexposed, crooked and oddly composed. And then, once we're finally able to make sense of it, only after looking at it for so long that we stop seeing it - and then we really see it - it usually turns out to be something entirely different than what we thought it to be. Does that even make sense? If it doesn't, you're not looking at it right; it's not what you think it is.

What else?

A new Bob Dylan album was released the last week of March. I stumbled across it this afternoon while I was at work looking for some groovy-ass melodic distractions. The album is fucking fantastic! It's a collection of old recordings, 25 of them, including some great covers and live performances I'd never heard before. One of them is a cover of a Lead Belly song made famous when Nirvana covered it during that notorious unplugged session on MTV, called "Where Did You Sleep Last Night," or, "In the Pines." Dylan's version is equally stunning, sounding like Kurt could've stolen it, but his cover of "House of the Rising Sun" easily eclipses it. He seems more willing to howl on this record; his harmonica playing more frantic, his pleas more desperate. It has a rambling, southern, highway-traveling sort of sound to it. Brilliant, dirty, bluesy folk.

I know what I'll be listening to in Utah next week, riding alone with the windows rolled down, speeding through rock canyons and slapping the steering wheel like a drum, racing toward the horizon, trying to beat the sun.

Back to sensors and spots for a second. There's something symbolic about the concept of cleaning your sensor. Ideas are like lenses - every time you switch one to get a different perspective, a little bit of dust falls onto your sensor, altering it, changing what you see when you look through the lens. These little relics subtlety decorate the photo, hiding in corners and floating against bright blue skies. You can see them if you stare up long enough. It's important that we take the time, and the risk, to try and wipe our sensors clean.

To see the world as it is, we must remember those dark spots aren't actually there.