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A walk near what is dear

House, Crescent Beach Road, April 2010

My fidelity has been shrinking on some levels, and maybe expanding on others and as such I’m a little unbalanced in my habits and cautions of late. My outings now encircle the house, mostly on walks of less than 2 miles. I’m suddenly suspicious of the local. Powerlines, the bend of a marginal alder mimicking the road, and cozy destination squatting in the crook of a familiar road. Rain borders on introversion,  like a personalized curse from some nightroaming hag offended in a dream.  There is a domestic immediacy to all I want to photograph, like I’m shuffling though the landscape in inmate slippers, pinning butterflies in a ledger. My work hasn’t changed so much as gotten smaller. Maybe it’s just backlash, like a gear that has to overtravel before it can finally start going in the opposite direction.