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№ 75 Posts

A ghost of music

Creekbed, Kalaloch, March 2008

I wanted to capture the sounds of pouring rain, the ocean breaking and the alders mingling. I sought out a composition simply to be able to spend some time in this wonderful sound resonating up the creek bed. I respond to sound much as to light, and there are as many perfect sounds here as there are tones of light, and the scale of each describes the infinite.

Sound can be an achingly elusive thing to capture on film. It sounds odd, of course, but some images come so complete within their moment that the natural progression of appreciation gathers sounds, smell and memory in weightless ascension, almost like falling upward through an experience, finally bumping your head on epiphany. The heartbreak is that photography’s a visual medium, and there’s no hitting anyone over the head with it outright, and subtlety is usually an entirely conscripted event. So the sounds of rain look like a pale alder, and the music of the breeze looks like a ghosted branch, and the rest of the forest can be a tuning fork for all resonant concerns of tide and season.

Meanwhile, an interlude of literal snap(s)

Crescent Bay, November 2006

It occurs to me I haven’t posted any actual ‘wintery’ (aka snow) shots here, so in the spirit of literal compliance, here’s one at least. I’ll post some more if I can ever find them.

My scanner is down, so I’ve been raking the archives. The weather has been cool and rainy lately and so I’ve already begun my forays back to the coast and am very excited about posting some new work, if my scanner issues get sorted out.

The coast of winter

Ruby Beach, April 2008

“And God prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah…

If you get the chance, see Orson Welles deliver Mapple’s sermon in Moby Dick. I don’t know why this slightly dazed picture reminds me of the parable, except of course for a dazed Jonah ‘vomited out on dry land, ears like two seashells, still multitudinously murmuring of the ocean‘. The eyes of the rock almost like a vicarious warning before falling back to the sea. It has a hum of a rung bell, a periphery of destination where familiar icons do not reign.

I guess I am here to see the ocean at it’s most ceaseless, the sum of all apportioned time amid such perdurable fantasy of symbol and motif, and the actual leviathan of the cosmos in weight and liquid and light, and to see the infinite reach exactly this far now, if never beyond.

‘Oh Father, mortal or immortal, here I die. I have driven to be thine, more than to be this world’s or mine own, yet this is nothing I leave eternity to Thee. For what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?

-Herman Melville, Moby Dick


Ediz Bay, December 2007

The infrastructure is regressing around here. Dams are scheduled for disassembly, the lower Elwha Bridge has been demolished, and this pier is no more. It would be refreshing, but the genetic drift of commercial structures is never what it seems, and I can’t be sure that this pier didn’t just disintegrate in a storm. And there may be something in the works to take it’s place.

Recessions are always interesting in a small town. I’m an early casualty, getting terminated as residential and smaller commercial construction takes the first wave. Large projects on the state or federal level fare somewhat better. But it’s a little irritating to see a guard rail project begun for the length of 101 in this economy. We must be protected from blackberry thickets, soft shoulders, ourselves. Our drunken driving and falling asleep at the wheel. The contractor appears to be from out of state.

Blessings, though. I get to work on my stuff, which is nice. I’ve never drawn unemployment before, so it’s been an learning experience. I’ve paid into it for around thirty years, and I have 8 months’ worth if I need it. It’s odd to reduce 28 years of full-time toil into an eight month stipend. All the injury, swollen knuckles and collateral damage that comes with learning how to deliver newspapers, stock shelves, bag groceries, wash dishes and make Béchamel, pour a perfect B-52, toss a drunk out on his ass, stick frame a Dutch gable roof or cut crown molding…I feel the indignation simmering, but the fact is I’m nothing special.

Monday I went to unemployment class, got a refresher course in bureaucratic comedy and personal uncertainty. The instructor was nice but had developed a dark almost desperate sense of humor. She joked as she showed us how to make a resume on the overhead projector. Everyone was distracted. Some seemed almost peripherally appalled at the levity, but few had the confidence to be offended outright.

Thinking about starting over at my age is chilling. I’m only 41, but the thought of building pole barns piece rate in Quilcene isn’t appealing. I used to love building, building anything, but the thought of getting up at 4 am some anonymous February morning to drive around the Olympics so I can run along icy purlins by 7 am…Build a barn in 3 days or be consigned to minimum wage… Gee, my mind almost sound made up! Think I’d rather go back to kindergarten and just start over.

Naming conventions

Bridge over the Clallam River, October 2007

This is a sort of bridge to nowhere shot, though I wouldn’t dream of giving it so precious a name. It’s bad enough admitting that’s what I saw and felt at the time.

Visiting Clallam Bay is a mixed bag. It’s a profoundly depressed area with all the usual afflictions- meth labs, no industry and packs of feral cats roaming vacant lots. A maximum security prison sits atop the hill and surveys the Strait and Seiku headland like Elsinore. The only grocery store closed several years ago. But the local bar has three pool tables and there is an interesting new gallery down the street.

I sometimes feel like I should give these important social elements consideration, but political notions make me flounder horribly in thoughts of exploitation, intrusion and general brinkmanship.

The construction outfit I used to work for did the repairs to the bridge after a particularly hard winter, and also repairs to the prison roof. After work I would often come down to sit a spell before the drive home. Some autumn afternoons the fog, light and icy breezes mix for wonderfully ethereal lapses into nowhere.

A moment not here

Rialto, February 2008

A little interlude from a personal favorite-

The river runs fast at the mouth where the shore is made of the sky, and the waves curl inward fanwise from the sea. For the swimmer there is no warning posted against the sharks that enter and patrol the channel.

Some time before sunset birds come to stalk or scurry along the sandbar, but before dark they are gone.

Paul Bowles, Points in Time

High water mark

Rialto, February 2008

Everywhere are these little piles of stones. Cairns, if I’m not mistaken. They mark trailheads, campsites- I can only assume this one was meant to gauge a high tide. If so, I hope little was at stake.

I was tempted to get way in, set up very close and have the pile fill the frame. But of course I fell for the semi-tragic scale of the tiny pile of rocks against the scope of the Pacific and the sea stacks off on the horizon, especially with the haphazard teeter of the stone on top of the pile. The tinyness of some things can be, I suppose, touching when paired with the reliable futility of collecting things, arranging them. One has only to suffer a scant glance around to see similar collections- little tableaux of driftwood, shells, kelp hearts. Ultimately hapless but hopeful monuments against the crush of time.

Correspondingly, I wanted the foreground of the print to look bright and optimistic; the background to be less certain. Turbulent, inevitable, if not yet altogether distinct. Not sure it works, but I can’t seem to print it any other way.

The long dark night of the…housepainter?

Crescent Bay, July 2008

The rush is on to paint my house before the rains return. Not so much because you can’t paint in the rain- I’ve painted in the snow before- but because it’s my favorite time to head out to the coast and snap away. I started to re-side my house LAST summer and I’m only now agonizing over color chips. But the mind wanders, and such petty anxiety is generally symptomatic of larger concerns.

I think/hope this project will continue for as long as I live here. Humans bind themselves to the abstraction of purpose in odd ways, and this certainly qualifies. I feel I’ve found my reason. In doing so I’ve neglected my job, friends and any sort of plan for future security, so I guess I better make it count. So, trying not to seem self-important streamlines nothing in the process; it certainly doesn’t flatter the necessary vanities of creative impulses, or even neurotic impulses for that matter. Saying otherwise is pretense, and tiresome at best.

Kafka comes to mind:
From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back.
That is the point that must be reached.

Principium soberer: the uncorrected text

Strait of Juan de Fuca, February 2008

Good dag,

They had been the doomed passengers on a sinking rosewater, mingle it with a quart of cream, six had reasons, said sir charles. Quite natural ones. Sufficient light penetrated the place to reveal locked, our bodies intertwined, and that infernal m. Poirot! Cried jane. What is it? It is, said her room. A note was left addressed to the would be taken direct to the hirondelle, so i say,’ answered rupert ‘i have just read miss and being cold, fill your poultry, either in cauls when the skullfaced man was taken away, it was and true men will not unfrequently damn their…

Can spam get any odder? This, to sell V1@gRa..The words seem designed more to trigger sleeper cells than sell pills. Like the line from The Manchurian Candidate: ‘Why don’t you pass the time by playing a little solitaire?

Although, I do especially like the doomed passengers on sinking rosewater imagery, as mingled with a quart of cream. I’m thinking of compiling a tome of spam abstracts for bedtime reading. But should I worry about copyright infringement? :p

A spacious split second

Rialto & Cake Rock, September 2007

I waited for over an hour for the tide to do again what I thought I saw from the corner of my eye. I’m always chasing peripheral impressions. But I waited more for me than the tide. I was about to pack it in when the cycle finally repeated. The next time it happened I was sure it would be too small, and so on..Must learn to count. How many second chances do I get?