feeling the fall turn

Tripping over abandoned railroad tracks, stumbling amongst the obscure docks and semis and delivery vans. Criss-crossing the hulking metal ghosts, spent for the night. The tide rolls gently in and out. Irregular waves echo, pulled not by gravity but propelled by benzine, lightly rumbling along I-84 led by incandescent winking.

The rain tears imperceptibly, streaming gracefully through the cylindrical, amber halos created by bare bulbs. My gaze drawn up to witness this natural eloquence, my eye bats and flickers with the liquid bolt between my lashes. The drops keep falling, cooling, refreshing.

Silence. Relative to the club and deafening boom. The only moment of peace. Solitude. After so many bodies and voices.

A place where I can let go of gravity. Let my body melt into the asphalt. A placid spot in a concrete jungle. The bustle only stops for an instant, even in the madrugada.

Looming warehouses, bleating sirens. Awake. Serenity can't survive here.

hondureña

Yes, I googled "hondureña" today, and what have we learned?

1) Hondureñas are sexy, especially when filled with beans and cheese.

2) Financial services are important to Hondureñas.

3) Cervezas are important to Hondureñas. I recommend Port Royal, the only one that comes in a green bottle.

Have a look for yourself, there are videos further down.

why...

Do I take thousands of photographs and then neglect to even view them for years? Here's some Italia nostalgia on my Flickr page.

Mi mancano le belle giornate pieno di sole e vino rosso.

bon voyage

home

pastels

eye spy

Dark, empty windows stare blankly across the dull steel sea with pairs of vacant eyes deeply set in aged facades, vacuous minds impaired by scant use. Homogenized rows of faces, void of identity, stained synthetic earth tones – beige and sepia, cream and chestnut, trimmed evergreen and topped with rough slate – that stand out sorely against peat shores. Lanky firs with bare trunks point like hors d'oeuvre toothpicks garnished with daubs of greenery to clustered rooftops below. The fog lazily seeps down from a high, enveloping the dwellings, lulling unlit corners to fall into a frozen, dreamless, daytime oblivion.

Nocturnal beings blink awake as the gloaming descends. Four, fifteen, fifty pairs of eyes pierce the black night. Peering, spying beacons that cast peppered reflections all the way to my toes. Thinking unknown thoughts, living behind flickering luminescence only to fade again at dawn's first gray streaks.

looking glass

sea salt

divergent