I shot this photo in 2009 but I didn’t get it until just now.
It’s an Arizona Cardinal.
I’ve been all over the great American Southwest, to towns that time passed by.
Speeding down the mother road, a smoke in one hand and snacks littering the floor. Camera gear in the back of the car and hippie deodorant stinking since the day before.
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Two years ago, I fled to the Sky Island Mountains to seek shelter from the turmoil and recharge my soul under the blazing sky.
In retrospect, that is why all of us were there. Why so many would travel from so far to meet on the mountain in the name of finding the flow?
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Facebook has a major case of the poo-butt. Everyone is heartbroken over the demise of Brangelina.
It’s the end of an era, like when the dinosaurs died out and you could no longer buy cars with 8-track players in the dash.
I wonder if they can return all those children? Probably not, but maybe if they still have the receipts. I mean, it couldn’t hurt to ask. Right?
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-Richard Brautigan
I heard the news today.
He died of cancer.
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Earlier today I found this piece in my Google Drive. I had saved it there on August 8th, 2014.
I was recently divorced but somehow already involved in a toxic relationship, living alone for the first time ever (at the ripe old age of 38), drowning in oceans of paper and unpleasant memories.
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Here at 30,000 feet the weather is below and the sun is above; hot, bright, burning her face and unchanging.
I’m not even speaking English now, she thinks in vague images.
She’s sleep deprived and hungry but sees the edge of happiness on the horizon.
East Coast Ira walks in the leaves of autumn.
They smell like fall.
They smell like frost.
They smell like change.
No Rest For The Wicked 