Nebraska Plains

Leica Mini-Zoom, B&W Ilford FP4 Plus 125

A dark house on an arbitrary plot of land on the plains of Nebraska sits silently as cars and trucks drive by in whirring monotonous drones of pistons pushing multi-colored cages inhabited by blank nodding faces unknown. Its black-lidded eaves droop over empty windows staring with dead eyes.

I’m walking along an aged fence stumbling through tussocks of bladed grass.

No cars stop to pull in the driveway to grind the relentless weeds beneath the wheel.

No dog is barking as I walk up unasked for.

Only the crunch of gravel meets my step as my eyes make contact with the clouds.

I line up the horizon in my viewfinder, press the square button that opens the shutter that gathers light and captures a moment as the streams of change flow steadily around it carrying only fragments of the photograph over time until this moment too is dissolved into the canyonlands of time.



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Open Windows

Open Window

“Look at you,” a woman’s voice says, “you can’t even put your shoes on!”

A door slams across the lawn.

“And don’t you dare come back ’til dark!”

Through the window I see the lady who regularly rides her pink-and-purple children’s bike around the parking lot. She’s shuffling toward the pool leaving splotches of steaming grey rising from the afternoon pavement, slowly twisting the yellow inner-tube around her waist.

“Don’t come back, now, or I’ll beat the shit out of you,” the woman’s voice says, speaking lowly through the window screen.

Head down, the lady disappears around the corner.


Hours later she’s back and asks for a towel, peaking timidly through the cracked door of the apartment, limp hair dripping across her face.

“You left with a towel, what happened to it?” the woman asks.

Not waiting for an answer she goes on, “You have no business being inside this house dripping all over the carpet — Get out!”

The lady stands still.

“Now!” the woman says. “And don’t you dare come back without that towel.”


I pace across the living room. The woman’s voice ringing within my rage. At her. At myself for doing nothing.

Our lives on display as the summer sun opens our windows.

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George Clinton has a joint


George Clinton has a joint and I probably shouldn’t have handed it to him.

A few minutes before this realization I’m standing behind the barricades watching a thousand cheering fans dance on the ball-bearing floors that bounce in time with the funk that fills the century-old ballroom.

Behind me and up five feet are George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic singing, “Oww, we want the funk, give up the funk,” as they riff and trumpet, marching in place while a lone bandmate in back bangs on the cymbals in a beat-less rhythm.

George is holding the microphone with his right hand as his left grasps the stand, his leg tapping in time with the beat, swaying his head above the crowd as beads of sweat gather beneath his grey fedora and roll down his face onto the lapel of his baggy beige suit.

“George!” screams a middle-aged black lady near the front. She is jumping up and down with an un-lit joint pinched between her fingers, reaching between the heads of those in front of her.

The band is still playing as I notice her but before I can act I see George making a come-hither motion, looking expectantly at The Joint and in the direction of what I can only assume is my face. I glance back and forth at the gesturing funk god and the joint-bearing supplicant, weighing my options.

I should confiscate the joint — it’s my job — but I can feel the weight of a roomful of eyes on me and I imagine (one), it is probably some kind of enormous Funkadelic faux pas to deny a man such as Mr. Clinton a completely appropriate gift brought by an adoring fan, and (two), it would be pretty cool to personally hand a joint to George Clinton, but (three), will this get me fired?

I step toward the bobbing woman and reach for the joint.

“You’re gonna give it to George?” she asks.

I nod and she hands it over with a hesitant release of her fingers. I turn and walk two steps to the stage and hand George Clinton the joint. His heavily lidded right eye has a small spasm (or, was that a wink? I’m not sure but I’m blushing) as he smiles down at me.

“Thank you, baby,” he says to the woman, giving her a big grin, then to the crowd, “Y’all gettin’ down?”

The audience roars back as a shirtless bandmate wearing a furry white pimp hat appears in front of George and ignites the cone-shaped joint emerging from his greying beard.

“Yeah, baby,” he says taking a deep pull. “That’s all right,”  breathing out and enveloping the mic in a dense halo of smoke.

He turns and walks to the middle of the stage where a chair is set-up for him to rest while the band continues to play, and there he sits, king-like on his throne smoking myrrh as I realize I probably should’ve let his shirtless pimp-hat wearing bandmate retrieve that joint because I’m pretty sure that may be his main purpose on this tour.

Five minutes later I see the lady who gave him the joint light up one of her own.

“Ma’am,” I say, taking the joint. “You’re not George Clinton.”

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Fog and snow in the Santiam

Santiam Forest

We reach an impasse in the failing light and choose a bend to pitch our tent and table above the foggy valley floor.

It’s nighttime now and with the icy logging roads behind us, I uncap the Old Crow to heat my stomach and blow life into the gasping fire against the rain and rivers of mist that flow through the hills and swallow us whole.

Icy road

The flames begin to gather and grow hot against the frigid night, vaporizing raindrops back up to their other being, adding with our breath. We draw our chairs closer to the fire and talk. Bringing us back into our bubble, words straining at the darkness in electric fingers of light.

Night lasts long outside and by morning we are ready to return to warmth. Thankful for a presence with the calm.



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Rain in a redgrey sky

It’s been hot here. And dry. Strange words in the Northwest.

But the Wet is never far away.

I’m drawn outside to the first patter of rain, the faint knocking of a long-missed friend, feeling the warm clammy drops of rain on skin.

The downspout begins to creak its metal-water warcry. Drip. Drops connecting, weeping together, a rivulet. A stream.

Green leaves unfurl beneath cloudy skies and the promise of a healthy soak.

Gregory, the Garden Guardian

I look at Gregory, the rescue lion turned guardian of my garden.

I found him sitting on the edge of a dumpster, one step away from an early grave. He’s actually a broken clock, but he fit nicely over the gap in my fence, thereby finding his new home and purpose.

I’m a little obsessed with gardening. The earthiness of it. The satisfaction of growing, sustaining, and mutually benefiting from each other’s attentions.

It’s a form of meditation on the present and a calming way to be productive after hectic hours spent working.

It’s not the act of traveling great distances. It’s a travel through time.

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Flight to Cordova

Ice Flows

Ice flows – Flight to Cordova

Fujifilm X20
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The Crystal Ballroom

The Crystal Ballroom



fading threads

of light.

A glow,

then gone.



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Grey over Alsea Bay

Bridge over Alsea Bay

Salt and seabirds early morning,

monolithic grey.

Looming, in the glowing shade.


(Leica mini-zoom | Kodak Ektar 100)

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The Pacific Northwest


I’ve found myself boomeranged back to my beginning. Or nearly the beginning.

But it is only natural, I suppose, to prefer what you’re used to.

So, here I am in the Oregon Spring, breathing easy as the sun plays tag with the clouds.

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