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.

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.

4/26/12

(picture removed)

In what has been a  maelstrom of turmoil, more personal than academic, I was asked if I was going on an outdoor adventure. With neither context nor reason to believe that such activities lay ahead, I thought quickly as I finished my business at Salvation Army- a new pair of L.L. Bean Bean Boots tagged $8.99 in hand. With intrigue established and restlessness unending, I thought of one place we could visit within the one hour time constraint.

In the car, songs from a playlist weeks late and still unsent to a dear friend dulled the silence.

Familiar businesses gave way to the gently rolling hills of southern Indiana.

"Where are we going?"

I responded only that providing a proper name compromised the integrity of the location, instead mitigating the mystery and AF's doubt by letting her know that this destination was somewhere very special to me.


It's a place I've kept secret for far too long, even from myself.


Stopping in front of the familiar yellow gate, I felt as if I was visiting a stranger. The circumstances, my circumstances are different every time I've returned. To date, I've only taken one other person, AF aside, to The Other Quarry, but in time, I'm sure I'll bring more.

My trio of cameras watched from the top of a monolith that would dwarf JAH's Mini. With our backs to the teal and cerulean waters, glistening unusually bright under the clear sky, I found a shard of catharsis as we whipped a stack of forgotten clays at a jagged wall of stone.

Sometimes you just need to break something.

2/18/12

M.

Reunited in Georgetown

BWmF

Walls