Black and White in Bloomington ii.

Several hundred yards down the track, the rain started to fall. So much for keeping promises. Pocketing my camera and exiting an unlocked gate, passing a sign saying "Class D Felony", I walked through neighborhoods to meet with Pops and JAH for dinner. A good meal is just what I needed. It usually is.

Pops.

An hour earlier, wanting to shoot more than study, with camera in hand and music in ear, I wandered out. I was tired of sitting and didn't have time to wait; clouds loomed overhead, taunting an early arrival of late night storms. Walking with misplaced deliberateness past the restaurants on Walnut Ave. idly awaiting their dinner guests, I could think of only one place to go. 

Sometimes getting on track is just a few minutes away.

Hopping the fence next to a train station turned cocktail lounge, I was back atop a familiar overpass. The clouds hung heavily, threatening nothing more than continued taunting, or so promised the weather report.

On Track.

This wasn't my first time there this semester. I did so with greater clarity, or so I thought, this time.

JASH. May, 2012.

The 1219

Retired in Sanford, NC.

3 Points of Contact.

General Electric.

Marseille

Waking up 25 minutes before your train's departure is not advisable. I took off down the hallway in my boxers, past the hostel's cleaning ladies standing amused (or confused) in the doorway to the eight bunk room, and feigned composure as I called for the desk attendant to hail a cab.

Just barely making my train to Cerbere, once seated I found time to catch my breath and suck down the final drops of a one liter bottle of water wisely placed beside my pack in the hostel. Relief settled in as the train disembarked and I was quickly asleep, soothed by the sensation of motion and the sounds of For Emma, Forever Ago.

The train came to a stop and the noise of people lining up at the door roused me. Confused about being the only one still sitting, I grabbed my pack and hopped off. The herd mentality is troublesome. As the doors closed behind me, the gravity of my mistake emerged. "Figueres." At the home of the Salvador Dali museum and apparently all of my fellow passengers, I was not where I needed to be. According to the itinerary I needed to follow to make it to Marseille, I had just trapped myself in Spain for the remainder of the day.

Do I go back to Barca to enjoy another night out and risk repeating this hectic morning? The next train to Cerbere wasn't coming for two hours and at this rate I would be stuck in some little town right before the French border for the evening.

Catharsis shouldn't come easily.

I let the anxiety and frustration go. As I watched Barcelona-bound trains pass every thirty minutes, I reminded myself that I would figure this out.

Onward, to Narbonne.

I did.

Notre Dame De La Garde from my hotel window.

I arrived in Marseille at 11:30 that evening and would soon discover that my only actual mistake was not staying in Barcelona for another day or two.

The absence of hostels meant I was truly on my own in this city. I was restless in my hotel room, but at the very least, I got some much needed sleep after the consistently long evenings in Spain.

Knowing what I left behind and what lay ahead, I was disappointed by my surplus of time in the city.

 I tried to stretch the hours while in Spain; here I had to learn to slow down and compress them.

The views from the Notre Dame De La Garde were stunning and well worth the long walk up.

The hidden path up.

Over the course of this trip, I realized I was rarely on level ground. My seemingly constant climbing led me to new views and perspectives; the only thing that mattered was seeing something different.

Remnants of one of my favorite meals- moules avec frites. 

A preview of the sun-bleached colors of the Riviera.

Creatures along the harbor.

Ready for the Riviera.

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.

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.