Retreat.

Introductions were made as I grabbed grocery bags and set them in the back of the white Mercedes van. A week prior, I agreed to spend twenty four hours somewhere in the mountains north of Beijing with friends of friends; people I'd never met.

The Po Shang house beautifully demonstrated minimalist and functional furnishing.

We talked and laughed. I grilled for the first and last time of the summer. We ventured through the village and mountains. We ate. Repeat.


Inside:

Waiting for me the next morning.

小白prior to departure.

Outside.

Tower to tower.

That evening we carried couch cushions outside, filling the silence with exuberance fueled by a night sky that remains unrivaled except for that seen on January 1, 2012 in the Outer Banks.

One of my favorite recipes- a dish made too rarely and for little reason.

1. Prepare several servings of Strangers and Acquaintances. Measure generously.
2. Good food. If you can't, find someone who can.
3. Mix company and food and garnish with good conversation. Speak freely.

A portrait of (a young man as his older brother.)

Wm. graduates in two weeks. Lil' bro is growing up and going off to college. It's terribly cliche, but it happened so fast. 

As I sorted through my closet, packing for my upcoming two month stay in Beijing, I stumbled across a torn paper bag. A Southwick tweed lay inside, wrinkled and forgotten; it was one I bought when BWmF and I were leaving the Outer Banks in late January 2011 and far too small for me, especially at that time. Made up in a bold gun club check and featuring all of the details any Trad/Ivy enthusiast would want, I figured I'd eventually find a home for it somewhere. I tossed it to Wm. who sat aimlessly in my room in typical fashion, his vibrating phone adding an erratic rhythm section to selections from a recently mentioned playlist (now almost two months late and to be mailed this afternoon.) 

Admiring the fit on the tweed, I told him to grab an oxford and the pair of raw denim I bought him at Christmas. Duke came along, too. He grabbed my glasses after a few frames. Weird.

Though we're not related by blood, he increasingly resembles me when I was his age. Comparing photos from the summer after my graduation from Mercersburg and my first semester of college, his typical swept hair, backwards hat, and Top Siders seem eerily familiar.

Wm. and Duke. May 2012.

Wm. and I've an odd relationship, though congruent in practice with many of my long-running friendships. Dictated most by vicinity and presence, one could offend our friendship by suggesting it was one of convenience; our brief time backpacking together, especially after our last evening in Rome alone, can dispel any such notion. "I love you, man, 'cause you're my little brother." Some jokes needn't be remembered to endure.

There's less and less I can do for him these days, and I don't mind that. We've shared moments memorable both independently and mutually, and though the frequency of such opportunities wane with every passing year, I look forward to what the future brings for both of us.

Good luck, Wm. 

Self-portrait, sort of.

The slow shifting of pebbles across a stony shore lie hidden below the surf. The gradual turn, equally imminent to his being and unencumbered by volitional considerations oft requisite to migrations, has led him to this place. As he looks back, ever carried forward, memories tinted dull or histrionic through the years will scurry past; he will carry on once again as if naught but an idealized moment was ever reality.

P is for...

A purple poodle.

My 6th grade English teacher, Ms. Kopp, showed poodles in dog shows. Often considered the mean or scary teacher, something not helped by a voice made abrasive from years of smoking, she was disliked and/or feared by many students.

Come springtime, I finally mustered the courage to inquire about the mason jars sitting on the edge of her desk filled with colorful shards of homemade candy.

Turns out she brought it in for the students, but no one had ever asked.

Turns out she wasn't really mean.

Spotted in Richmond.

Bits from North Carolina

My final days of summer in North Carolina.

Seen through my back window at a gas station. He waited patiently in the truck bed for his owner.

I like this font. Goldsboro.

Safe distance.

The start to good Carolina BBQ at Wilbur's.

I'm working on getting caught up with pictures, but lately my attention and energy has been elsewhere.

Walking with Duke.

On a walk during my brief return to MD this weekend.

The "royal" Rhodie.

Stream-fed mosquito factory.

The light was magnificent as it shone through the trees; the humidity and mosquitos were not.