Tag Archives: life

Nebraska

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.

-JY

 

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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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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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The Crystal Ballroom

The Crystal Ballroom

human-shaped

shadows.

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

Verdant

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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The Origins of a Good Conversation.

agoodconversation

Some film photos of my time in New York City.

“One person seeks a midwife for his thoughts, another seeks to act as midwife. The origins of a good conversation.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche

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After Sandy: A walk through Manhattan

From our window it was simply a minor nuisance, a storm that lasted a day.

But for those in low-lying areas and oceanside boroughs it was anything but, and the damage Sandy caused will take weeks — if not months years — to clean up and repair. Other areas, such as the New Jersey shoreline, will never be the same.

As I walked south through Manhattan the streets grew dark and quiet. Here and there someone would be rolling a suitcase or walking their dog. Occasionally an ambulance would come wailing by, a sharp contrast to the unusual silence that had settled over the streets. The click of my shutter an audible distraction as I took photos of the aftermath — from 60th and Amsterdam to SoHo and back. NOTE: For information on how to help the relief efforts, click here.

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What paths we choose.

For someone who loves nature and quiet as much as I, it may seem strange that I moved to New York City and left Oregon at the start of Fall, my favorite season and one that epitomizes the beauty of nature and quiet reflection for me.

But however strange it may seem, not every path we take will suit what we picture as our Selves, and it is on these paths that we get a better picture of who we are and who we can become. But my thoughts are scattered, so forgive me while I spend a few lines picking them up.

—–

It is raining today. The streets are loud and crowded with people hurrying from place to place, eyes bobbing up and down in answer to the siren’s call of their glowing phones. Vendors hawk food and fruit while behind them small clouds of street-born steam go drifting by from manhole to storm grate.

Firetrucks blare in the closing distance.

I’m on the street wearing flip-flops that splash the back of my legs with every step. I order coffee, black. I get coffee, tan.

I’m back inside staring out across the rooftop of the hospital next door. It, too, is pouring steam into the grey-brown evening. Big neon signs are peeking through the gloom with their red and white letters on a skyless skyline.

10,000 faces could be looking into my window, and yet I feel no eyes but the city’s.

My heart starts beating faster and my breathing gets shallow.

This city, in a lot of ways, is everything that I am not. But maybe it is because of that, that I am so enamored by it.

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