(un)events by the river.

Worn brick and ivy in Georgetown.

Rosslyn at night.

In moments held too long, the Key Bridge shares its luminescent inconsistencies.

The Blue Line to National.

I drew a few looks from others waiting in the parking lot while I sat patiently, head out my window and camera in hand, listening for the train to come by.

Scranton by way of...

Bar Harbor.

At around 12:30AM we finally decided to look for a place to sleep. It was somewhere between Hartford and Scranton, and closer to Scranton. I didn't know what part of New York we were in then. I don't know now. It was liberating and relaxing. Spend a night in a town and don't worry about where you are, only that you're there.

It's been two years since gSF and I last saw each other. Odd how quickly time passes and things change. Around December 2005, we moved into the same dorm room, one of the two massive rooms under the stairs of Main Hall. It was the type of room that underclassmen would randomly visit out of amazement, not just curiosity. 520 square feet and hardwood floors, we didn't know that it was all downhill from there.

The sleepy town, well past its glory years from the turn of the century, looked soft and desaturated. Aged brick and stone both encouraged the calm of a quiet Sunday.

The temperatures rose, but the clouds remained as we walked through Nay Aug Park in Scranton.

To the bridge.

Down to the water.

We followed the stream down the bank, our ironically matching Black Rapid R-straps held D7000s by our sides as we negotiated the wet and slippery path.

The steep walls of the small canyon rose up around us, covered in moss and moisture from earlier showers.

Back onto the path, only to scramble down from it again.

Inside the tunnel.

Not being able to climb back up to the path, we followed the tracks into town.

There was a lot more to see; I'm glad we did.

As we walked from tie to tie, catching up and talking about our recent foray into photography and the future, I thought of Stand By Me, close friends on an adventure down the tracks. As easy as it was to enjoy the moment, it's hard to forget it could easily be another year before we meet again.

They say you meet friends for life in college prep school.

With law school classes starting in six weeks, I continue making the deliberate decision to embrace reality and the looming change, not ignore it.

...the security of being first, with full sight and full knowledge of one's course- not the blind sense of being pulled into the unknown by some unknown power ahead. It was the greatest sensation of existence: not to trust, but to know.

ME.

Driving through Maine on Rt. 1 did not meet my expectations. Perhaps, only because my expectations were wrong. Instead of the jagged, rocky coast I imagined below me, the road separated from the ocean by only a steel guard rail (not unlike the PCH), I found rolling hills, sprawling forests and fields, and stone beaches leading to quiet harbors and inlets. This is not a complaint.

Passing through Bath, I somehow forgot about Popham Beach, the location of the background image on my Droid X for the past 6 months. I would, unfortunately, continue to forget about it until we were driving South again.

Breakfast at the Wiscasset Diner in the eponymous town was charming and satisfying.

Driving through the Mid Coast, with its charming towns and pastoral fields made me want to stay. Maybe spend a summer working on a fishing boat?

The lobster roll from Red's, touristy as it may be, is near perfect.

We passed a number of flea markets. This mount for $500. A bear pelt for $900. I once saw pictures of a Stanford White property with two polar bear rugs; such furnishing is probably not as acceptable as it once was, but I wouldn't oppose it.

Buoys for $15? I'm glad I found mine on the Cape.

Yours truly doing who knows what.

We eventually arrived at Bar Harbor. Passing by named estates and local hotels, I dreaded the thought of the crowds that would emerge in the summer months.

An afternoon hiking down (and up) Acadia's Cadillac Mountain and stopping along Ocean Drive lent spectacular views of the coastline, from far and near.

I finally found the rocky shores I had been yearning for.

As the sun set on our last night in Maine, I raced through Acadia National Park chasing the orange glow. Miles of road on the Park Loop were passed in a rushed blur; my eyes focused on every bend and curve of asphalt.

I wanted more time then. I still do now.

Ezra was right; make like Walcott.

After a quick stop in New Haven for a pie at Pepe's, we continued northeast, our eyes set on a campground twenty minutes outside Provincetown.

The clouds appeared just outside Boston. I should have known better; though I was born just outside the city, it seems that the city is constantly discouraging my attempts to return. It's better through the rose-hued lens of memory, anyway.

By the time we drove through Hyannisport, the clouds continued to taunt us, patiently and persistently releasing a light shower. Passing signs for the Hy-line Ferry to the Vineyard, I laughed at myself for once planning a trip in March, three years ago. Hemingway would have cursed me for bringing him along on that trip or this one.

The cottages along Route 6 flew past, most lost in the misty sea of grey. Where lights shone behind windows, I wondered about wintering in a place still so dreary in May and the warmth of my sleeping bag.

Making an abrupt turn off the road, we stopped to take pictures. The cold, humid air was thick with the smell of pines and salt.

Littered in the grass and along the shore, bodies of various invertebrates lay disassembled and damaged. Pieces of horseshoe crabs lay cracked alongside the damaged hulls of these small boats.

As we continued further, past seemingly endless numbers of cottages, motels, and liquor stores, we finally reached North Truro, not far from Provincetown. By then the rain had slowed to a drizzle and we set up our fire and tent for the evening. Sleep came easily after a long day and a few Naragansett's.

I awoke at 5:30, the tent filled with the relentless, dull, light of another overcast day. Paralyzed and compelled by the cold, I decided to explore the beach, remembering our campground's signs. Sliding into the cold, rigid 14 ounce denim of my jeans, I was invigorated in a manner not unlike running into the ocean. I quietly climbed out from the tent, once again grateful for bringing my Patagonia down jacket and frustrated for leaving it's sibling shell and car keys inaccessible.

My joints stiff from the long drive the day before, I trudged towards the corner of camp where signs pointed to the beach.

The sandy trail meandered through lichen covered pines.

Sustained and soothed by the cold, moisture-laden wind that was sure to be an onshore breeze from just beyond the dunes, I continued on. Eventually reaching the beach, I passed parked cars; their drivers sitting comfortably inside with a hot mug of coffee and the day's paper.

The mist formed not by low clouds, but by a thick mixture of spray and sand relentlessly battering the shore. At this moment I appreciated the weather-sealing on my new camera; the body and lens accumulating beads of saltwater as quickly as I could wipe them off.

I am always invigorated by the ocean. The texture of the air. The smell. The sound. The elements are intoxicating.

I sat on a piece of driftwood, silently enjoying the ruggedness of the coast until my hair was soaked and my jeans clung to my legs like a plaster cast, stiff and saturated by the ocean. Inside my Bean Boots and my layers of flannel, fleece, and down, my feet and torso remained warm and dry. This was not the Cape Cod I visited as a child.

Beautiful in it's own right, but equally miserable we followed Vampire Weekend's sage advice from "Walcott." We ran north to Maine; encouraged by the promise of blue skies and warmer temperatures.

The best souvenirs are found, not purchased. 

The Burning House- revisited

I realized that the previous "Burning House" picture was not an accurate reflection of what I would probably take in that situation. Careful, but brief, reflection and a distinct sense of urgency are important elements I failed to incorporate in my decision.

Looking back at my initial response, I realized those were all things I don't want to get rid of, but not necessarily things I would really have wish I kept.

What will you be glad you have in a month? A year? Five years? Ten?

A lobster buoy from my road trip, camera lenses (and the unseen camera), computer, car keys, monogrammed belt buckle, handmade Sutherland handkerchief, an unfinished painting, favorite shoes, picture of my grandfather, and my great grandfather's sword. These are the things I know I'll be glad I kept. 

The Burning House

The flooding Mississippi is just a reminder that calamity can strike at any time. The sanctuary of homeostasis and a comfortable home is easily interrupted.

If your house was burning down, what would you take with you? 

Foster Huntington, writer of my favorite blog, A Restless Transplant, asks this thought-provoking question. The responses are multi-faceted in both content and philosophy. What's most important to you? What can't you let go of? Or in my case, if I had an opportunity to get rid of everything, what would be most important for me to keep? What do I use?

Foster's creation of The Burning House was ironically timed. I've always felt as if I had too much stuff; however, I've always used it at one time or another. Yet, for the past two months I've been entertaining the thought of significantly simplifying my life. We are encumbered by our possessions, our relationships, and our past. What we carry with us is in many ways just as much of a deliberate decision as it is not. The act of removing clutter- emotional, psychological, and physical, alike, isn't easy, though.

As I prepare to pack for a four week trip to Europe and moving back to Bloomington just days after my return, I'm given the opportunity to reassess myself and my relationships with my possessions.

Catharsis.

What do I need? What do I want? What do I use? If I were to walk away today, what would I bring?

Though the hypothetical situation would demand quick thinking and action, I can only imagine that the others who have and who will respond, like myself, spent more than thirty seconds looking around their room. Moments after I sent Foster my response, I felt as if I should have retracted it and sent a new one. The jeans and OCBD I'm always wearing. The money clip, wallet, and pocket square already in my back pocket. My car keys. My belt buckle. My camera and lenses. My Computer. My loafers.

Not looking back is easy; it's walking away that's the hard part.

Three weeks.

Reflecting on three months of posting on DeTOx, and my favorite pictures from the past three weeks, a consistent lack of direction is evident, and irrelevant. Our boredom is often a decision, whether or not we choose to concede this fact. Look around. Light. Color. Pattern. Texture. The oft overlooked, the unique, and the overly familiar.

Here's to three more months and not being bored. 

Abandoned.

Hop. Hop. Hop.

Ben's.

For Endres.

Armed and Angry.

"I don't care anymore."

Rooftops.

Want.

The light and dark side of parquet.

Yours truly.

More color amongst the grey. Evanston.