This was an irritating shot to make because every time I accounted for one point lining up I’d see another and have to adjust perspective. Then I had a bout of indecision about depth of focus. After about 20 minutes of this I started to loose interest in the composition so I just took the shot. My irritation with this experience shot colored the result for several months. It looked more like an exercise in discipline, like playing scales on a guitar, than a creative endeavor. But I like how the geometry both radiates from the sidewalk and truncates the radial shapes at the same time. Which is a good enough visual metaphor for the literal-minded bollixing I often subject myself to when taking pictures.
Hey, I love weekends again. My first free weekend since March, when I started on the kitchen. Even laying in bed this morning I was taking careful inventory of things I would not have to do, and what could fall into the spaces left behind. But before luxuriating in all the possibilities, a little more sleep.
There’s a sound that plays in my head when I know I’m going to sleep well and deeply. The tremor in my muscles change, almost aural, like the 3/4 octave drop of a G tuning. The tension unwinds in my jaw and even my eyes feel lighter. I almost fight drifting off because it’s so comfortable and I don’t want to loose the sensation to unconsciousness, but resistance is useless.
Last Sunday was a beautiful rainy day, and well spent out at Salt Creek/ Camp Hayden. I clung to the the bluff trail above the Strait and then around the point into Crescent Bay, but the old artillery bunkers crowning the hill beneath the maples and cedars do make for a deadpan rebuttal to a fanciful stroll, and it’s a dry and sheltered study besides, so I spent several hours adjusting to the dim light and looking for patterns in the murky geometry while minivans passed through the complex, foggy with sleeping children. Something about the era’s leadbased paint seems to emit a fabled hum in the low light, a palette of bruises and internal murmurs.
Speaking of lead, elsewhere beneath the maples and cedars, the EPA is setup up for a lead survey and cleanup of the old WWII era shooting range.
I’ve been neglecting Camp Hayden, a old coastal defense installation near the house, an alder-veiled network of subterrainian bunkers atop the worn basalt bluffs over Crescent Bay and Tongue Point. Most mornings are foggy and the Strait is obscured by a thick carpet of fog, so I’m not sure how much practical appliaction the fort had in its day, but it is a fun place to haunt as the sun starts to light up the fog. Much newer than Fort Worden, it nevertheless has eased into obscurity and earthly reclaimation much more vigourously. There is more of a post-people dynamic here, belied by the constant stream of RVs and popup trailers that frequent the campgrounds below.
Ah, on a clear day you could shell Canada…