Sometimes A Great Notion

One chapter of Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion bled into another  as we hummed north out of Los Angeles.  The Syncro revved up towards the redline in first gear, obscuring the narrator's voice.  Fresh off the plane from a three month stint in New Zealand,  Tim was adjusting to the pace of traffic in the San Fernando Valley from the passenger seat. Periodic grunts and his constant gaze at the seemingly endless lines of suburban landscape conveyed his feelings.

"Pretty different from New Zealand huh?"

"I haven't seen this many people in three months," Tim explained. "The cars here are totally different too. Pretty much everything that's 4wd has a snorkel on it.  They use 4wd drive down there.  Not like that."  Tim motioned to Cadillac Escalade weaving through traffic.

"They are different animal," I agreed nodding towards the vanishing Escalade.  "Want to listen to some tunes or stay with the book?"

"Leave it here.  I'm getting into it."

Kesey's novel about the brotherly corrals of a logging family in Coastal Oregon continued as we left LA's smog behind us.  A few days earlier, I had dropped off Tucker in Northern California and bee-lined it down to pick up Tim at LAX.  For three months, Tim backpacked, sailed and sea kayaked on New Zealand's South Island. Save for a few two line emails and ten minute Skype call, I hadn't heard from him since I headed south towards Baja in January.

Two years and two months separate us in age. Growing up, we spent all of our time together.  If one of us was into something,  the other soon would be too.  Our relationship was less of brothers, with a clear hierarchy and boundaries, and more an impervious friendship.

For a few days, we wondered LA catching up.  For a short while,  our conversations focused on his experiences in New Zealand,  but they soon gave way to familiar conversations and idiosyncrasies of two very close people.  After a night or two and few hours spent bumper to bumper in LA's signature traffic,  we decided to head north and explore the southern Sierras.

A year ago, sitting in my Manhattan office building, the importance of maintaining and contributing to this relationship with my brother was slowly giving way to a storm of professional aspirations, grown up responsibilities and the desire to build a new life.  Following in parallel with Leland Stampard's (a character in Sometimes a Great Notion) return to the Northwest,  I too left New York, and headed back towards my routes in the Northwest last August.  Unlike Leland's desire for revenge on his older brother,  a burning wanderlust and desire to spend more time with people important to me drove me home.

For 27 hours, Sometimes A Great Notion provided the backdrop for our travels.

Painted.

Yours to keep.

Cairn Culture.

Wet roads.

Sage.

Hammocks.

Dark and Stormy.

Toppings and Salsa.

For longest time, I called Tim my little brother.  He's 6'8. Now he's just my brother.

Green hills.

"We never fought like this did we?  I mean we argued some when we were little, but nothing this deep-seated," I said turning down the stereo, after the climax fight between the two brothers in the book.

"Yea, never like this," Tim said as he grabbed the binoculars and peered out the window towards the distant hills.

"I think the last time we got in a fight was, maybe 7 years ago when you threw that stool at me."

"Yup." Tim adjusted the focus. "I don't think we ever will."

"Me too."

Here are some more links,

Sometimes A Great Notion (Facebook),

Sometimes a Great Notion (Amazon).

The Burning House Revisited

A year ago I started asking my friends what they would take with them if their house was burning.  As an example of what I envisioned the photos looking like I sent around a post I did here.  A few weeks later,  I launched Theburninghouse.com as a home for these images and hopefully others submitted by friends and people I didn't know.

Within a week the site had grown larger than I ever could have imagined.  Submissions were coming in from around the world.  It was wild to see people responding to an idea and question that I thought had merit.

Despite appearing to be about objects, The Burning House is a project about people told through their most cherished possessions.  When I first thought about what I would take,  I included all sorts of stuff that at the time I felt was important.  Jeans,  A Rolex watch,  my iPhone.  Now after leaving New York, hearing answers to the question from thousands of people and living in a van for the last nine months, my material priorities have changed a lot.

I hope that Burning House has prompted other people to consider what is important materially to them.

Name: Foster Huntington

Age: 24

Location: Mexican Hat, Utah

Occupation: still working on that

List:

• A few rolls of undeveloped film from the last week of my travels including the half-shot one in my Contax t2
• The keys to my VW Syncro

For more photos from people around the world and info about the upcoming book that comes out July 10, head over to theburninghouse.com

Here are some more links,

The Burning House Book,

The Burning House (Facebook).

Granada

The cab pulled into Granada late Friday afternoon, just as the sun was sinking over the jagged horizon of the volcanoes to the west.  Bouncing around the cobblestone streets in a constant fight for right-of-way with horse-drawn trailers, tourists and the occasional Toyota Hilux, we eventually found Hotel Con Corizon.   After checking in,  I left my bags in my room and headed out to explore the 500 year old colonial city.

The central square felt relatively subdued for a Friday night,  save for a few groups of fellow gringos and a handful of street vendors.  Semana Santa,  a week-long holiday celebrating Nicaraguan's resilience, assaults of Tona's (the local beer) and cheap rum, the week before had apparently taken the wind out of their sails.  The streets were vacant and the restaurants empty,  rather fitting for my last night in Nicaragua I mused.

Emptying my pockets and hunting around in my camera bag, I collected the last of my Nicaraguan Cordobas in my left hand.  "That's a nice dinner," I mumbled to myself as I pulled another wrinkled 200 note from my coin pocket.   365 Cords.  That works out to be about 15 bucks, I estimated.  With no sense of urgency,  I wandered the streets looking for a dinner spot.

 My attention was heightened by the knowledge that at 7:15 the next morning,  I would be on a plane back to the states. 

Hand painted signs.

These buildings were built long before electronics.

Double parked.

Scooter.

For whom the bell tolls.

Note the string bike lock.

Garden.

2012,  could be 1972.

After sticking my head inside a handful of cafes,  I eventually I settled on small restaurant with a garden in the middle.  I ate by myself and listened to the conversations of the other travelers.  A group of middle-aged women discussed their trip to a nearby organic coffee plantation. "Tourist trap," I grumbled.  Two recent high school graduates assured each other of the importance of a gap year.  Probably not a bad thing.  My steak came quickly, and I tipped with the remainder of my Cordoba coins.

Even though my flight didn't leave until the next morning,  my mind was already elsewhere, ready for the next leg of my journey.

Hera are some more links.

Granada (Facebook),

Twitter.

Siesta

Out of delayed frustration, I rolled over and brushed  a gallon of sand out off the cot with a flick of my forearm.   Enjoying the newfound smoothness of the unfitted white sheets, I adjusting my head on the pillow and studied the knots on the plywood ceiling.

Slowly my eye lids drooped and I dozed off.

My watch beeped, indicating a change of the hour.  2:00 PM.  Still three hours until low tide and it was hot as fuck outside, too hot, I thought to myself.  Through the screen window,  top 40 hits from yesteryear blared on an over worked set of outdoor speakers.  Investigating, I leaned up and peered out at group of European and Australian travels smoking cigarettes and engaging in some heated conversation.  The thick accents,  distance, and Lupe Fiasco thumping in the background made it hard to deduct the subject. That Dutch chick sure was steamed.   Perhaps they're debating their favorite Dubstep DJ I chuckled to myself.  They love that shit.

Rolling over on my stomach I put the pillow over my head.  Still more time to Siesta.

Here are some more links,

Gigante (Facebook),

Changing Tide (ART).