Responding from somewhere new.

The adventures I've had in the past seven months only whet my appetite for movement and exploration. With the reality and awareness of Bloomington fast becoming the place I've spent the most time, my restlessness has grown quickly.

10 days ago. 10:00 pm. Fresh with inspiration, I grabbed my Parker Jotter and began to write an overdue letter.

I know I need to be better at keeping in touch, writing, and writing back; do you?

Just an excerpt-

"7:45. I skipped dinner, too tired to cook and too restless to sit down and study. Leaving the issues of Chatham v. Pohle on my desk, I quickly grabbed my backpack and stuffed it with my camera and lenses. With a vague set of directions, I drove south, anxiously watching the time as the sun began its descent.

Past the turn for “Rooftop.” Somewhere ahead lay a small road and a quick turn towards a stretch of highway I’d never seen. I stopped to take a picture of an abandoned tractor trailer adorned with Indiana University in large red letters. Was the decoration done before or after its retirement?

Cutting through the forest, the gravel road meandered gently like a river. At several turns, the gravel extended into the brush, partially burned and forever forgotten pieces of trash and furniture sat waiting to be consumed by the tall grass.

Impatient, yet wary of the large puddles and myriad bumps and dips, my foot was forced to dance between pedals. I missed my Landcruiser.

The pedal reached for the floor as I drove up a large hill, fearful of losing traction on the loose gravel.

Despite the signs instructing that visitors be escorted into the quarry, it was apparent that no one had showed up for work in years.

The rusted gate and padlock relieved any apprehension about proceeding.

The sun committed to its descent and with camera in hand, I took off in a jog towards the closest corner. There’s never enough time at sunset.

In the spontaneity of this trip and the warm glow of the sun, I was invigorated by an anxious serenity. Since delving into cases these past three weeks, I’ve struggled to keep hold of my voice. In the presence of the abandoned, I found inspiration and joy.

In the warm light, the limestone glowed a soft shade of yellow.

Two structures sit alongside a tall pole in the middle of the quarry. Their foundations and walls sit submerged, leaving only roofs  to remind visitors of their presence.

I’ll have come back to this place before you read this. 

Here, there was an urgency I needed to respect and abide by; this was my presence in a moment purely private. 

My legs struggled, but carried me forward reluctantly. From within the heat of my jeans, my muscles cursed me for my reunion with the squat rack just ninety minutes prior.

I continued around the far side of the quarry; the heat remained as the light softened. The airy weave of this new New England-sewn madras pop-over lent no relief.

Leaving my backpack on top of a rock near the path, I clumsily climbed down piles of loose stone towards the clear water, agility and steadiness lost to iron and denim. Size was no indication of stability, I learned. I tightened my grip on my camera.

The dichotomy of madras and raw denim was vilipended by the lingering heat and humidity; both shirt and jean clung to me. Sweat dripped into the viewfinder as I made a futile attempt to capture the light.

The sun shifted orange, signaling it was time to turn back. Just a third of the way around the pool, I took off towards my car, tired and content with the thirty minutes prior."

I still haven't gone back to the quarry, but I will soon.

Here's to remembering that even in the most familiar places, there's always more to discover.