21 July 2010

3










As much as I despise wrenching cohesiveness from a story and stamping a lesson on top just because it is ending, I have to admit, this one does have a bit of a theme.  And there is an ending, if not of thought, at least in time and place.  Today is day number 365 of this wild cloud pursuit. Tomorrow, I fly home.  So in celebration, in thanks, in reflection, here are three images from three very memorable moments this past year.  Here's to wrapping up!
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1. Morning Glory clouds in Queensland, Australia. September.
2.  South Island, New Zealand. November.
3.  nacreous clouds over Kiruna, Sweden.  January.

20 July 2010

tracks

we move like glass
words through a tunnel
bow to the wind and away
from sky.

like clouds clotting air
obdurate confidence
and scarce of color
lackluster

wearing things too tight
in places where the wind
pinches us uncomfortably
and whips us into attention

we lull and we stir
awe with saturation
in steps. black rock
beaches

unfinished tunes
distraction and always
the wind

running running running like
it forgot to turn off the oven
somewhere on
the other side of the world

sharing our photos taken
from unsuspecting prey never
to be put back in the right
places

filtering light from water
and wind. we all delve
deep unto the black things between
our hands.

except these machines
are always mercilessly leaving
our fingers bent and our eyes
with a metallic residue, but somehow
lackluster

11 July 2010

horizon

The everpresent perspective in a treeless place. Telephone poles add a bit of dimension, and I've developed a penchant for these wooden processions of wire and glass.  Funny how the trees found their way back.  Same substance, different space.

07 July 2010

between pilots

Happy birthday, Dad.

05 July 2010

soapball madness



The soapball madness is rolling out of hand
to lengths we could never comprehend
in legs, in hair, forgotten like the wind
that rolls up the years behind us in a great re-raveling.

Re-raveling because we've come undone in traveling.
And soap is never on my list of things
to bring.  What I search for I must conjure -
silence and space and places with words that cast shadows.

In any case, we've gone through rucksacks apiece
and what's in them never matters.  There's rain,
there's snow and sometimes the birds that rain
to render temporary backlumps useless and spectacular.

And sometimes it's the uninvited we take to most -
the hitchhiker seeds that cling to your shirt,
the small mountain stones that stick in your boots -
because the best parts just fit and noiselessly go

like there's some overarching symbiosis that our bodies know.
So if we had soap, we'd wash it away
and keep memories spotless and fresh and new
and withdraw them often and never let ourselves roll out of hand.

photo: Vestmannaeyjar runway

01 July 2010

centre de la terre

standing before this giant, it's easy to see how Jules Verne's imagination ran wild when he saw Snæfellsjökull.

In Sneffels Joculis craterem, quem delibat umbra Scartaris, Julii intra kalendas descende, audax viator, et terrestre centrum attinges; quod feci. Arne Saknussemm.

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