Thursday, December 29, 2011

year of fog

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

fog: Easthampton, MA to Grand Teton National Park, WY

testing materials: onion skin options, glue options
printing materials: traditional paper, or transparency mylar
folding template
testing the glues wasn't so helpful; secondary attachment (sewing) still required to attach onion skin covers to transparency text
all wrapped up and ready for post
silver stamped covers (onion skin)
(transparency text, accordion book format)
images against white background; when viewed aerially they resemble old film negatives

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

so brief, so fleeting

(quote from Issa, Japanese poet)

The snows began early, far earlier than they had been wont to in recent years. We were caught unprepared, our summer windows and white linen suits no match for the blanket that surrounded and engulfed us. The end of summer, suddenly, desperately, upon us, barbecues canceled and baseball tournaments declared no winners at all. As the days passed, meteorologists made promises of respite, reassured us that the abrupt change in seasons would only be temporary, but we could each feel it, deep in our souls, the entrance of winter.

will flights be delayed: that is the question

an astounding assortment of the avant-garde:
Reader's block / by David Markson
The curfew / Jesse Ball

Thursday, December 15, 2011

carpenter's rule

The map had so many errors and ommissions, lines for routes that were dreamt of but previously untraveled, cities designed by rulers and builders and architects of great vision, but empty of bricks, stones, wells, cottages, railways, and settlers. We would plan our itineraries to arrive at an oasis, to discover the founders surveyed the location, looked to the horizon, took their compasses and rulers and spades elsewhere, although where elsewhere was, we never knew. We never found the promised moments of respite, the communities giving succour to the weary, for while they were implied by the map, they never materialized from intention and destination to reality. Still we clung to our Atlas, patched, faded, and misleading though it was, for there was no other path open before us, no other guiding hand shaping our destiny.

Italo Calvino, Città invisibili

Geminids showers meet sleet storms

Thursday, December 8, 2011

up / away

The leaves were the deepest green of late summer, not yet turned with the shortening of the days, but full of the imminent sense of loss that autumn would bring, the sap beginning to condense deep in the roots, allowing the leaves to suffer their fate, drying in the wind. Now, though, at this very moment of a late afternoon in the precious final hours of August, now the leaves are thick, glossy, an umbrella shielding the sun from the ground below, a curtain hiding those who seek refuge in the branches.
There but for the / Ali Smith

skis! down coat! fuzzy boots! let the sun keep shining as long as it will!

Sunday, December 4, 2011

30 Poems! chapbook

Now available: 30 Poems!, the chapbook, with any and all proceeds going to literacy education, through the work of the Center for New Americans. Lots of pretty pictures and a how-to description after the text.

There was a challenge in the month of November to write a poem-a-day -- which, with certain misgivings, I did. At the end of the month, the resulting [*] poems were formatted for a two-signature pamphlet, and digitally printed onto Bugra paper, with British Kraft paper covers. (My twin obsessions are onion skin and the lovely British Kraft paper. Both are crackly and shiny and splendid to work with.)

The poems were formatted to fit onto 2 sheets of 11"x17" paper, which were printed double sided, folded and sewn. The final size is 5.5" high by 4.25" wide.

Other details: really, send money to the Center for New Americans, or the literacy organization of your choice, and I'll send you a chapbook. Postage, materials and labor donated to the cause. Some exceptions apply[‡].

[*maudlin and sentimental]
[‡ exes are not eligible to participate]

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

repetition + silence

Here there was a field of endless wildflowers, the clover with its white blooms, the bluebells in spring, dandelions with their wishes in the heart of summer. The field was everything: the site of excavations for dinosaur bones and buried treasure, the savannah where lions and zebras were hunted with rifles made from fallen tree branches, the wide wide sea where the Spanish Armada was conquered and pirates walked the plank.
the completion of 30 Poems in 30 Days!

so long November!

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

memory of

Thanksgiving: all of that, and then much more.

This week is an memoriam to a mentor: the gifts of compassion and calm beauty; the smoke of Hu-Kwa Tea; the perfect soufflé.


melt 6 T butter, whisk in 6 T flour
cook until thickened (~10 seconds)

whisk in 2 c milk, salt & pepper
stir until thickened (~2 minutes)
remove from heat, let cool

beat well 5 whole eggs (unseparated)
add to eggs 2.5 c (6 oz) grated Swiss cheese, chives

bake at 400 F for 30-40 minutes in a buttered 6 c gratin dish

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

the little dog laughed

Watch, watch closely and carefully, and I will show you magic. Not a magic trick, those cheap flashes of smoke and mirrors propagated by the men who prey on society's gullibility and desire to be deceived. No, this is real, the coercion of matter into substance of a radically different type, the bending of the laws of physics into new shapes and dimensions. This is not alchemy, it is neither chemistry nor biology, those fields beloved by technicians in pristine lab coats with official clipboards for tabulations and recordings of precision and hypothesis. Nor is this the gypsy trickery, the carnival games of fortunes, crystals, messages from the dead. You have grown cynical and disbelieving after watching the dazzle and color of the Houdini's of the world, but the magic I produce and promise is richer, deeper, than any of these sleights of hand.

The sense of an ending / Julian Barnes

this rain rain rain could be snow snow snow: tires in place! shovel in place! ice scraper in places!

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

one potato, two potato

We were to go to the fair that day, as we went to the fair every autumn, the corn as big as watermelon, the pumpkins orange and just coming in for harvest. The previous year -- last year -- I had been too short for the midway rides, not allowed on the roller coaster with a loop de loop or on the giant spider machine with little airborne cars that spun and swooped. I wasn't allowed on the Ferris wheel, the biggest in the nation, or the merry-go-round, with its fancy tigers chasing beautiful horses and sparkling zebras to ride, even though I'm sure that I wasn't too little for a trip on the Ferris wheel so high that the moon is bigger than the earth or to sit upon the gorgeous rearing black stallion under the calliope organ pipes.

Transgressions : stories / Sallie Bingham


Wednesday, November 2, 2011

knights of malta

The first day was spent getting beyond the city center, a scramble between bus lines and trains whose routes and schedules had been altered by the new regime and no longer followed any published maps or timetables. There were rumors of where buses could be caught, of when trains might appear, but the rumors were only as accurate as the intentions of the speaker. The system could change from day to day, depending on the particular favorites chosen by the transport operators. By dusk on the first day, I was approximately three miles from where I had begun, having taken a series of increasingly contorted buses and trams down streets which had previously been little more than unmarked alleyways.
Mr Fox / Helen Oyeyemi

how nice, how nice, to have light and heat after extended dark and cold

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

30 Poems in November

There's a benefit going on this month for the Center for New Americans, in Northampton, MA: write a poem a day. Get people to underwrite your poem a day. Donate to help literacy.

Poetry isn't something I write. Not even in the deepest darkest recesses of an unlit New England night by flashlight under the duvet. How does one know when a poem is done? A story finishes (even if others don't like the ending). But a poem . . . every comma matters. Every verb matters. Is that the definite article where the indefinite article would be more appropriate? How does one avoid the maudlin, the confessional? What's up with the line breaks?

How could I subject a reading public to a poem a day -- given its unfinished and maudlin appearance -- in the deep dark recesses of November? Even to benefit something so lovely as literacy? It's like exposing a marsupial mammal to the ravages of the environment when it should be warm and snug in a pouch.

Here's the compromise. I'll write a check to the Center. You can write a check to the Center. Mail it to them. I'll write poems, given the above caveats and disclaimers. They'll be compiled and uploaded here to a pdf or something at the end of the month. Maybe. Probably.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

ampersands in the air

from the aviation museum in Ottawa:

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

onset / continue

Our travels had not progressed badly, in that none of our number had become ill, or left us; we had not been attacked by any wild creature, although the questioning suspicion in the eyes of fellow men made us hesitate. Was it always the lot of the pilgrim to be feared, almost despised, by those non-pilgrims encountered upon the way? We had no way of knowing; we had never before been in these lands, we had never undertaken such a journey. We wondered if they feared we brought plague, or war, or coveted their lands for ourselves, and in their eyes we saw the desperate hold of the hopeless upon that which they have been given. None offered us apples from their orchard or lodging in their barns; but we could see their fear and their poverty, and we did not begrudge them this inhospitality.
The Big Roads : the untold story of the engineers, visionaries, and trailblazers who created the American superhighways / Earl Swift

yet more and more and more and more and more rain

Thursday, October 13, 2011

matter / antimatter

The bag contained no more than was absolutely necessary.

There was a map, which was unfortunately later determined to be a map of the wrong place and from the wrong time, but it was nice to have the map for reference, regardless.

There was a pen, and the pen almost always wrote, although sometimes to get it to start it had to be scratched quickly back and forth on some rough paper, even though I never really understood why that was.

There was a little notebook with a flexible spine and a nifty elastic band holding it closed, and I had bought the little notebook in a fit of inspirational passion -- here was a place for all of my ideas to go, jotted together at odd moments, jumbled elegantly for future access. The little notebook with its nifty elastic remained stubbornly blank, my name on the flyleaf the only mark, pages cannibalized from it to write out notes to give to strangers, but it was never a repository, only a source for sending things away. My moments of universal insight and truth continued to be recorded at random on the backs of envelopes, electric bills, and documents that I had intended to shred, and then inevitably lost, the universe claiming its truths back to itself.

Indian summer followed by storms

great article on gender expectations and norms in the Atlantic

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Valley News

(1) Currently in debate in the Senate, the casino bill that just won't die. The area senators support it, but perhaps you could let them know their opinions are misguided.
"It is inconceivable that the short-term tax benefits of making a change on this scale, which would provide a minimum of three destination casinos throughout Massachusetts, can possibly be justified in terms of their much greater social, economic, and environmental costs. That such a creation could happen, quite literally, in our backyard, with no community feedback or input, can only be described as horrifying."

(2) In happier news, I'm in an upcoming group show at  Paper City:

all things in time

The last place I saw him, things weren't going so well. He had had one or five too many and had found an old banjo behind the bar, and next thing you know he's standing on that bar, strumming that banjo with a wail that could skin a cat. You've never seen anything like it, him so obviously out of his mind with drink and at a total separation from every last one of his inhibitions, but there on that bar he's totally unaware that one slip in a puddle of beer and his head could open clean as a ripe cantaloupe.

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children / Ransom Riggs

first frost

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

the wild lands

The wild lands were not what we expected, there, as we came out of the forest under a crescent moon, into a landscape white with snow, so carefully curated that each and every tree seemed hand-placed, pruned into shape. We had wandered in the in between lands of the woods for weeks, or for years, it was hard to tell which, for certain, when one is not yet to the wild lands but is well beyond the borders of civilization. When the woods had begun to thin, it was not certain if the instructions had been accurate, the wild lands were not so very different from home at first glance. The differences were slow to appear, then gathered momentum, until a Welcome to the Wild Lands sign would have been wholly redundant.

reading1493 : uncovering the new world Columbus created / Charles C. Mann. 

autumn, Indian summer monsoons

Saturday, September 24, 2011


Wednesday, September 21, 2011


I long to hear the cathedral organ playing: deep and hopeful. But it has been many years, so very many years, since those echoing sounds filled these cavernous rooms. When they first closed down the Cathedral, the silence was overbearing, overwhelming, but a beadle was still kept on staff, sweeping the cobwebs from the altar, opening the Chapel to inquiring visitors and scholars. It is true that even in those forlorn early years the silences were greater than the many small noises of the faithful, it is true that the vast majority of the building was closed up, undisturbed. Still, the appearances of these sporadic visitors, the desultory attentions of the beadle, kept alive the belief that one day the vast eerie silence would be filled with the petitions of the devout, the reedy voices of the boy's choir, the impatient shuffles of children ready to resume their daily life outside the confines of the Holy Ghost.

Stories for Nighttime and some for the day / Ben Loory (splendid book!)

countdown to the first day of autumn, red leaves floating on the pond

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


It is true that it was not my natural inclination to remain calm. It is true that it is my natural inclination to fuss and lose my temper and blame the incompetence of my companion, the government, and god. I knew this as well as my companion did, for when I started to agitate about general inabilities of the wider population, I was treated to the dreariest possible lecture on becoming lost in the woods as a meditation exercise about letting go of the need to control destination, the entirety delivered in a faux-relaxation yoga voice specially calibrated to appeal to my sense of outrage. And thus we kept walking, me grumbling about the inanity of being in the woods in the first place, my companion dropping in nuggets about the ephemeral nature of human existence and how artificial the construct of the self really is, until I became so annoyed with the philosophical bullshit that I forgot to panic about being lost in the woods with a granola bar and an apple remaining as my sole future sustenance.

thanks to The Ampersand for a shout-out to the Ligature Project!

join us next June! Gibbs2012 : Dia Lightning Fields, New Mexico

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Aerial Theosophy

Further work on the cosmology project, which even has an official title (see above):

The full-page-spread of the parallel texts can be downloaded
as a gigantic pdf file in ZIP form.
The full suite of accompanying cosmology prints can be downloaded
as an even bigger file.

Final sizes on all of this is about 8"x10". The edition of books (two volumes, 4 inches square) has been fully typeset, and is almost ready for printing.

Friday, September 9, 2011

in the studio

Summer studio projects: started with a commission for a book on local paste paper makers, then got a little out of hand. By the time the better part of an encyclopedia was sacrificed to the cause (not to mention a healthy portion of an appropriated ledger), it wasn't just a contribution to a portfolio of prints.

Artist's book specs:
-- texts : Beyond | How to do the impossible
-- (set A) : matted 8"x10" distressed Encyclopedia pages, with text printed onto onion skin paper (thank you, Warwick Press). Total set probably equals five prints and five pages of text.
-- (set B) : two volume set of 4" square books. Constructed using Timothy Ely's drum-leaf method, which allows full page spreads to be displayed, with no loss to the gutter or to sewing, and no need to worry about the verso of the page (basically, a Japanese binding, inside out). Alternating pages of prints with a page of text, in a 3.5" square. Maybe fifteen to twenty in total, or until paper or patience runs thin. Text printed onto off-white paper-vellum (translucent and crinkly).

What there is now: lots of prints. A basic design layout. Many, many paper samples for printing the text, following three months of looking for paper. Several marked-up edited copies of the texts (thanks GofR!).

What needs to happen: the texts need to be reconciled with one another, and imported into a page layout. A font needs to be determined (keening towards Bodoni). Oh, and they need to be constructed.

Does it need to be mentioned? The pastepapers are constructed using:
1969 Encyclopedia Britannica, volume C
an old ledger
very, very strong tea for pre-staining the papers
mica powder
black sumi ink
turquoise, brown, and burnt umber Windsor and Newton drawing inks
there's something blue in there somewhere
crystal salt

They were inspired by mildew and mold. It's been a rainy summer.

Thursday, September 8, 2011


I knew not to be fussy; Mama had explained it all to me the day before, how we would wake up so very early and travel on the train with Papa, how we were going to visit my big brother and we might not see him again for a long time. I wondered why not, why we were traveling all three of us when it was always big brother who would take the train home on vacations and holidays, where we would play in the lawns beside the house or on cold days in front of the fire place, games of cards or story games or sometimes catch or hide and seek. But before I could ask why or how things were different Mama had already left my room and was off doing something else, something very important, and I had never been able to ask.

listening to Johnny Cash and the rain rain rain

Thursday, September 1, 2011

returning to the story

There is the detour that brought me here, for this was never my destination, this was not even a stop on my journey, did not so much as appear on my map, yet here I am in spite of myself, held in place by winds and roads that permit no exit, but always return me back to where I am. The ice melted and the rivers ran high and the bridges consolidated traffic to one or two streams of movement; I was packed and on the road like everyone else, had no reason not to follow the path so marked by the rushing waters and the opened roads.

decomposed Britannica pages

we were left with two bushels of apples and twenty pounds of peaches, our haul for the season

Thursday, August 25, 2011


The man who sat next to me on the bench was reading a well-worn paperback of a lesser Hemingway, wore a woolen hat, the type one associates with aged chauffeurs in British period dramas, seemed to have no intention of leaving the bench anytime this afternoon. While I had no desire for there to be witnesses to the return of the items, all of the other benches were occupied by au pairs pushing strollers or the obviously homeless and potentially schizophrenic, and the message specified the benches by the fountain. I looked about at the walkers in the park, curious how many would be arriving, what age, ethnicity, gender, and shrugged at the unimportance of it all. Who they were wasn't my business; who I was wasn't their business.

tornadoes, earthquakes, and hurricanes? In rural western Massachusetts?

Les livres ne se font pas comme les enfants, mais comme les pyramides, avec un dessein prémédité, et en apportant des grands blocs l’un par-dessus l’autre, à force de reins, de temps et de sueur, et ça ne sert à rien ! Et ça reste dans le désert ! Mais en le dominant prodigieusement. Les chacals pissent en bas et les bourgeois montent dessus, etc., continue la comparaison. (Gustave Flaubert, cited in Albert Thibaudet’s Gustave Flaubert, 136)

Translation from Flaubert's Parrot / Julian Barnes:

Books aren’t made the way babies are: they are made like pyramids. There’s some long-pondered plan, and then great blocks of stone are placed one on top of the other, and it’s back-breaking, sweaty, time-consuming work. And all to no purpose! It just stands like that in the desert! But it towers over it prodigiously. Jackals piss at the base of it, and bourgeois clamber to the top of it, etc. Continue this comparison.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


This was my first expedition, and, in the manner of all novices, I had researched and trained thoroughly, but for all the wrong things. In addition to hours spent at the shooting range and every first aid course offered by the Red Cross, I had enrolled in courses at the local college the previous semester, on natural history and folklore and literature and language for the region we were headed into. Something nagging at the back of my mind suggested that I had missed the most important considerations. There's always an annoying little voice whispering untimely reminders, and I just stopped listening to it at one point, turned off my inner ear to the pleas of the inner voice.

a brilliant brisk book with undertones of warm and fuzzy
How to keep your Volkswagen alive : a novel / Christopher Boucher.
paired with an acidic diversion
The Trip (Steve Coogan, Rob Brydon)

in the five elements system, there are also five seasons. This is the extra inning: late summer, the melancholy ripening and cool calm evenings

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

under the table

There was a boy who had grown to be a man, never leaving the nursery except for his brisk twice daily strolls around the gardens, still eating only egg puddings. He had received the schooling to be a great pilot, but his first and only appearance at the adults' table had been so dire to not only send him away for life, but to even exile his parents from social dinners for over six months. She thought it had been the soup that was his failing, being raised to see through the clear skies and faltering at the turbulent depths of the soup tureen, but she wasn't really certain what had transpired next.
A place of my own : the education of an amateur builder / Michael Pollan

one day the humidity will drop and the laundry will dry

Wednesday, August 3, 2011


Finally, there was a bus, an old, wheezing behemoth, rattling apart and without shock absorbers, driven by a man in a haz-mat suit with a gun at his shoulder, filled with what could have been ghosts, beings so vacant, detached, and fearful that they were scarcely human. The bus stopped every few miles at unmarked intersections; there seemed to be an unwritten code of where and when, since even through the randomness of the times and locations there was always a person or two leaving or arriving on board, not speaking a word to the driver, not signalling for other stops along the route. They treated each other with the same wary skepticism I was subject to, there were no alliances between riders, no camaraderie or conversation. Everyone carried the appearance of the forgotten: mismatched, worn, dirty clothes; matted hair; often barefoot; covered in bites and scratches originating from a source I could not even begin to imagine.
The Seamstress and the Wind / César Aira

loss of feeling in fingers from swimming in cold New England water

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

by the book

If only, alas!, they were true, I would tell you a tale of school woodshop classes littered with surreal birdhouses whose pieces never fit; of maps and directions unreadable because of the most basic philosophical consideration, what is right? and what is left?; of the heartbreak of losing a house to fire or flood or the apocalyptic horrors of losing a series of houses to fires and floods; of having a mind distracted by terminally ill parents and a dog with an inflamed heart; and with any of these considerations, thus, the unfinished project, merely an attempt to alter the nature of the universe, doomed from the start, and so no harm done.

finally finally finally went to the Museum of Natural History. Meteorites are cool. Dinosaurs are cool. What fun indeed, plus two newly found bookshops!

we've had tornadoes, which is crazy

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

piping plovers

I listened, though. I've been listening to these old men tell their tales of golden beds of crustaceans for several years now. It started as a joke, a toast with a bottle of beer before a lobster roll, a falsely husky voice giving thanks to the great crustacean of the sea, a prayer for the continued health of those upon whom we were about to feast. Then one year, depressed by the job market and up late helping a bottle of vodka realize its full potential, I submitted the same grant to every single grant awarding body that was listed in the catalog that was in the library discard pile: Grants for Artists, Writers, Historians, and Sociologists, all compiled by The Institute in 1988.

Miss Hargreaves / Frank Baker
The little prince / written and illustrated by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

hot hot July hot, all in!

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


The majority of the main residence hall has been preserved as it was at your last visit, within the very clear written guidelines of the contract, although certain small alterations may be noticeable due to circumstances quite beyond our control. The source of the fire which destroyed much of the main house was traced to a squirrel's nest built into the walls of the house, and while we were able to reconstruct the vast majority of the furnishings and decorative objects, the shades of the brickwork and limestones which are worked into the flooring and masonry throughout the building are ever so slightly tinged with an orange cast, but we trust this variation in the color scheme will not be offensive. The lamps, oil paintings, knick-knacks, and books were all perfectly matched using the cross-referenced library and archive housed in the fire safe stored off site, and photograph albums and scrapbooks were meticulously reconstructed.

Lost and found : three by Shaun Tan.

swimming! kayaking! full July moon!

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

imperial pint

No, you're quite right, it wasn't all in the secret arm of the publican: there are reports that the basements link to old smuggling caves on the coast, and when the tunnels were closed up officially after the war it changed the way the beer sat in the basement. There used to right enough be music and dancing most nights, then the bands started skipping our town and heading just to the cities, which was well and good for them and for the cities, but not so good for us. We've still kept up a pretty good team roster for darts, of course, and come the World Cup plenty of locals will stop in to see the action on the big screen, but it's rare indeed to have youngsters like yourself stop in.

steaming summer rain on asphalt

no more gothic novels before bedtime

Wednesday, June 29, 2011


Still staying with the same hand: there, focused now on the middle finger, the finger with the indented callus between the first knuckle and the nail, from holding a pen with such a grasp for so very long. This finger and this callus are my memory of you, of all the letters I wrote to you across so many years and so many miles. This finger bears the memory of an address scripted onto envelopes and packages, of return addresses that varied with the season, of news and stories and announcements that once seemed so very pressing but now all of which I can no longer recall. You must remember, you who have carefully read and saved each line of each letter, finding so much value in what I did for a host of confused reasons, of guilt, and obligation, and pity, and, somewhere deep and only tacitly acknowledged, abiding attachment and fond affection. week after week, postcards, letters, clippings, scrawled with what can generously be called the best of intentions, and now that you are no longer here, I can admit to love.

there are books; they aren't open

how-to-stay-alive-when-capsized lessons!

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

how to do the impossible

Now everything has shifted, not only the colors and the wavelengths of the visible spectrum, where radio waves are what can only be described as the deep russet brown of the earth of a garden that has been lovingly tended for generations and is full of earthworms and manure, but not only is it the warm, deep hue of the earth but it is also on fire, burning with an intense burgundy red; these are radio waves, and the ultraviolet rays that are normally filtered out by the atmosphere are iridescent like a firefly and a dragonfly and an oil slick on asphalt after a summer rainstorm, the ultraviolet rays which for years we were cautioned against and guarded against and took violent steps to avoid exposure to: they are beautiful and clean and crisp as perfectly tuned machinery.

Flaubert's parrot / Julian Barnes
[I love reading this book. And am saddened by the thought it will end.]


Monday, June 13, 2011

Expedition Report

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Fifteen states, three weeks*. Strong coffee and a ukulele.
Day bacon set on fire, one. Days camped in snow, 3. Days camped in rain, 1. Nights camped in howling wind, 2. Campsites surrounded by mosquitoes and gnats of extraordinary size, 3. Observed bears, 1.75. Photographs lost to user error and a dirty lens, innumerable.


{Las Vegas.}

{Frank Lloyd Wright, Fallingwater. Recursive loop.}

{Frank Lloyd Wright, Fallingwater. Cantilevered series.}

{Frank Lloyd Wright, Fallingwater.}

{Frank Lloyd Wright, Fallingwater.}

{Frank Lloyd Wright, Fallingwater.}

{The House on the Rock, Spring Green, Wisconsin: Frank Lloyd Wright on acid. Cantilevered series.}

{The House on the Rock.}
{Photographs don't do this place justice. Read Neil Gaiman's American Gods for some sense of the destination.}

{The House on the Rock.}

{Minneapolis. Cantilevered series. Also note mirroring of cantilever and broken hallways.}

{Minneapolis. Bridge series.}

{Las Vegas. Bridge Series.}

{Bryce Canyon, Utah. Bridge series.}

{The Badlands, South Dakota. Window series.}

{Bryce Canyon. Window series.}

{Zion National Park, Utah. Rock series.}

{Zion National Park. Rock series.}

{Zion National Park. Rock series.}

{Zion National Park. Rock series.}

{Zion National Park. Rock series.}

{Yellowstone National Park. Rock series.}

{Yellowstone National Park. Rock series.}

{Yellowstone National Park. Rock series.}

{Arizona. Rock series.}

{Sequoia National Park. Rock series.}

{Yellowstone. Tree series.}

{Grand Tetons. Tree series.}

{Grand Tetons. Weather series.}

{Yellowstone. Weather series.}

{The Great Salt Lake.}

{Zion. Tree series.}

{Central Valley, CA. Tree series.}

{Central Valley, CA.}

{Salt Lake City.}

{Sequoia National Park.}

{Sequoia National Park. Tree series.}

*Current location: undisclosed west coast. The above photos are in no way representational or comprehensive for the trip, nor are they presented in sequential order of visitation.