A Visual Journal

Growing up, I never kept a journal, despised school and spent most of my time staining clothes with blood and grass and scratching my knees and elbows with my younger brother Tim. As a dyslexic, my interests and intellectual appetite quickly surpassed my ability to read. Instead of fighting tooth and nail through Charlotte's Web, I spent my time looking at pictures in books during reading time in elementary school. My first memories of an Encyclopedia were the colorful diagrams of airplanes, not a list of the 50 states and their capitals. In order to make it through school, I learned to use my visual perception and stored my experiences as etchings in my mind.

For the last three months, I have carried my camera with me. Sometimes I see special things, sometimes I see monotonous things but mostly I see juxtaposing parts of things that make up my life.

An inlet in Reid State Park in late February.

Hope on a walk in mid February.

A shanty Down East in early February.

A gray, December day in southeast Portland, Oregon right near the Hawthorne food carts.

Picnic table at Fort Popham in January.

Ed's shanty catching some rays in February in Palermo, Maine. I love the font.

Christmas lights in Portland, Oregon in December.

Pumpkins in February.

An old logging road in late December in Skamania, Washington.

Down East in early February.

Waves breaking in late February at Reid State Park. I love the meandering footsteps in the foreground.

This space shuttle crashed on a frozen lake a few miles inland in the Mid Coast region. Well actually it's just an ice shanty.

Weathered shingles on Valentine's day.

Instead of writing notable parts of my day down in a journal, I take pictures of inspiring things around me. What inspires me a year from now will certainly be different than what inspires me today. Having a collection of images and my thoughts helps me keep track of my creative process.

Here are some more links,
A Visual Journal (Picasa).

Drawn to the Sea

I am drawn to the sounds, smells and seclusion of the sea. At the sea's edge, I wander for hours taking pictures, kicking sand and watching waves roll in from somewhere out in the expansive heather-gray pond. The clapping of the waves, squawking of the occasional gull and whisper of the sand skipping through clumps of tall grass instantly remind me where I am when I close my eyes.

I could never live in Denver or Austin. Sure they each have their advantages: the dramatic Rockies border Denver's backyard and Austin gets 300 days of sun per year. Despite these incentives, I would rather live in a cold, rainy place where I could go walk along the ocean each day and listen to the sea slap against the shore and smell the bitter scent of salt in stagnant tidepools. In my free time, I often drive to the sea, even for just an hour or two, to meander the shore.

My favorite sign, Owl's Head state park.

An oil shed on Pemaquid Point.

A sunset Down East.

Ernie looking for footing on the a rugged point in Owl's Head state park.

A granite beach in Bass Harbor.

Dogs know the sea is playful. They run feverishly to and fro, chasing other dogs and kicking up sand in their wake like jet contrails in the sky. I try my best to follow suit.

Looking south from the southernmost tip of Mt. Desert Island.

A weathered tree on Owl's Head.

Ernie skipping stones in West Penobscot Bay.

I am drawn to the sea.

Here are some more links,
A Storm is Coming (Picasa),
Owl's Head (Picasa),
Up Here We Take Canadian Coins (Picasa),
A Point on the Mid Coast (Picasa).

A Hike in the Beginning of Spring

Sitting on a barren ridge overlooking the Belgrade lakes, I kicked spots of lichen looking for marble sized rocks. Wind gusts flexed the trees and wrestled pine needles as I picked up a small dice sized piece of granite, pulled back the pouch of my wrist rocket and let go in the general direction of a nearby tree. With a zing, the rock chipped off a quarter sized piece of bark and ricocheted towards the frozen lake some 600 feet below.

After exhausting the aerodynamic rocks within reach of my feet, I set my wrist rocket down to enjoy the unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon unfuddled by boyish temptation.

I kicked my feet out on an ottoman-like rock, rested my head on my scrunched up Filson Mackinaw cruiser, and crossed my fingers on my chest.

Two hours earlier, Dan and I had set off on a quest to carpe diem despite having celebrated my 22nd birthday the night before. After deliberating between a trip to the coast and a local gun show, we opted for a more feral outing and headed due west towards the Belgrade lakes region of central Maine. I threw two wrist rockets into the back of our car and we set off. After a thirty minute hike under the canopy of fir trees, the foliage opened up exposing an easterly view of central Maine's lakes and rivers. For the next few hours we shot at trees with our wrist rockets, captured the season's first cosmic rays and watched the occasional jet on the final leg of its transatlantic journey.

After twenty minutes of daydreaming and listening to the sounds of snow melting, my boyish impulses returned. I thumbed the blade of my Swiss Army Knife open and whittled a fir branch with no intended destination or journey other than tapping the smell of fresh fir. As the branch shortened and narrowed, my mind jumped to an earlier day some 15 years ago when woods-lore captured my imagination and time.

Building on my countless hours spent struggling to make fire with pieces of wood in my back yard as a seven year old, I started shaping the piece of fir in my left hand into a spindle as part of a bow drill. A bow drill uses a friction to create a small coal.

After finalizing the spindle, I set out in search of the board and hand piece. Scavenging through the underbrush, I narrowly avoided two branches to the face and eventually settled on a dead fir branch and spent five minutes banging it against a pointy rock like one of those dudes from a Geico commercial. Next, I pulled out my red lace from my Danner boot and was off to the races. A half an hour of swearing, bloodied knuckles and frantic blows into a small nest of dried grass later, we finally got a flame.

The fruits of our labor.

Yours truly in my Filson Mackinaw Cruiser and an LL Bean Chambray work shirt.

Dan letting one rip.

Searching for a target.

As the sun sank towards the mountains we shot our last rocks off towards the distant lakes and headed back towards town and the promise of warm food. It was a good day.

Here are some more links,
A Hike in Beginning of Spring (Picasa),
Hiking (ART).

Out of Reception: A Dry Winter

Defined by Wikipedia as "a transformation from the solid to gas phase with no intermediate liquid stage," my only knowledge of sublimation before moving to Maine was 10th grade chemistry. Applied to pubescent science labs this translates into tedious experiments on dry ice turning into C02. In the bitter Maine winters, snow and ice skip a step and evaporate, creating low-tide like formations on snowbanks and fields. In January and February, the snow slowly receded exposing dead grass, frozen dirt and the remnants of a warmer time. Taking full advantage of the lack of snow this winter, I have traveled far and wide, exploring the state and taking photos with my iPhone along the way. Here are some of my favorites from the last six weeks.

Smelt Shanties near Wiscasset, Maine.

A Canoe at low tide at Popham Beach, Maine.

A frozen river near Farmington, Maine.

Soft sand at Seaswell Beach, Maine.

A space capsule on Damariscotta Lake, Maine.

Looking out at some islands at Pemaquid Point, Maine.

A log skidder near Whitefield, Maine.

An old fuel pump near South China, Maine.

A look out over Lake Champlain from Charlotte, Vermont.

The Johnson living room in Charlotte, Vermont.

Someday soon, the warm, wet weather from the Atlantic will meet cold air from the arctic and blanket the dead and frozen grass in a few inches of snow. When the snow returns, I will be there, taking photos with my iPhone and using the Camerabag Application.

Here are some more links,
Out of Reception: January and February (Picasa),
Out of Reception: Valentines Day (Picasa),
Out of Reception: A Sunny Winter (Picasa),
Out of Reception (ART),
Camerbag.