If they are cut to pages, they can be shown in combinations. Frames and actions. They become the anti-Flickr. They are not easily captured by the viewer. They not easily placed. The photographs are familiar but misleading. They're not about "randomness." They are about "accident." It about good battery life. The photographs are absent any appetite.
I’ve been pulling files together that have been far flung. I wondered if this was on the site already. I wrote that I had driven for hours, no radio, just the cold air and hot engine, tires and road, the hard rush of air against the SUV. No iPod. Early spring.
The Forester is not quiet.
Running is life affirming in dreams and I ran down a hill on Sunday to an open bay, which is always too flat a body of water to swim. The sun is always out. I always feel carried forward by some uncontrollable push. Try to swim.
I throw myself on some hard bottom of sand or shale and crawl out through a channel to some greater blue body of water that fills the horizon.
And there is this voice--my voice--that as observer, narrates, witnesses, comments on how the back engines run, how it feels to swim so far from the shore, how meaning is wired to mechanics.
Tomorrow, I drive back to Poughkeepsie. Aaron's maybe snorkeling. Talked with him Thursday. He was planning a solo bike trip. It was to be a spectacular weekend, end to end, first the train, then Kangaroo Valley, then Jarvis Bay. But it wasn't.
I left for home early on Friday, moving 75 miles an hour once I hit 87. Started at 5:30 and was home by 9:30 PM.
Stayed up late. Talked. Watched a movie. A movie I couldn't remember at first in the morning. Ate too many rolls with Finocchiona. Finished off the beer. Swallowed a handful of tums. Got up late still filled, feeling swollen.
The sun was the day’s motor. It was 60 degrees and wonderful to walk about outside. We strolled along Kershaw for over an hour and were leisurely about it. After getting the laundry started when we came back I ended up on the patio. Mac in my lap. Writing. Resting my foot on another patio chair. Stretching for a beer. Crossing my leg. There are two chairs that I dragged from the garage. The table is still lodged against the house. The legs are still crammed with leaves from last fall.
Thursday already and half the week spent trying to find the fittings comfortable. But they’re not. Not after half a week and not after a quarter year. But Thursday is more than half the week. It’s near the end and suspicion subsides as the week ends. There is more of a difference between Monday and Friday than there is between any two days. There isn't the same readiness for the weekend on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday. But Thursday? Thursday is different.
Saturday ended with our watching the movie Hereafter. Directed by Clint Eastwood, I had watched the movie a couple of weeks before in Poughkeepsie.
Steve and Jill and Elaine had been over. Talked about movies and talked about the wedding. Celebrated Steve’s birthday planned for the week before.
When I resorted the view for archive, Gary Conrow ended at the bottom of Florida sunsets, no picture, random month, it had no more a connection than it did at first. Except for the coincidence of the name of someone now dead, who I once stood in the middle of Marion Street in Rochester, just off of Humbolt Road, throwing a baseball to as hard as I could, and he did the same.
What's a shit rope, indeed!
Fire in Phoenicia. A library gone. Pops ill all weekend and Ron and I ill the last two days. She's worse and feverish. I've been sleeping all day but awake now and feeling better. Head's lighter. Eyes open.