The big rock in the middle of North Pond, Locke Mills/Greenwood, Maine.
Now see these:
Reid State Park, Geogetown, ME.
Reid State Park, Geogetown, ME.
Reid State Park, Geogetown, ME.
The hard structure of the world,
The world structure of illusion.From seeing too much of the world
We do not understand it.There is something unknown in knowing.
Unfaith is what keeps faith going.The Hard Structure of the World by Richard Eberhart
Reid State Park, Georgetown, Maine.
09.22.08
Reid State Park, Georgetown, Maine.
09.21.08
Reid State Park, Georgetown, Maine.
09.19.08
Here’s a little break from the Holga rivers series: Jack and Peter at the bar at Merlin’s Rest, our neighborhood pub. This picture was actually taken by my friend Arthur Ruckle (the saxaphonist here) this past winter. And it’s a lovely picture: interesting color, wonderful DOF, and a great subject. (Though I hope I don’t lose my Den Leader’s license for taking my kids to a bar; it’s actually a very family-friendly place, in the tradition of Irish and British pubs, and they’re drinking un-spiked Sprite. I’ve even seen the grandchildren and nieces of certain local politicians, with those politicians, on these very same stools.)
The reason I’m posting this, besides its aesthetic qualities, is the fellow in the background with the baseball cap. Apparently Mr. Ruckle and this gentleman had a disagreement about what one’s expectations of privacy in a public place ought to be, and he threatened to sue the photographer if he ever sees his picture on the Internet. I think it’s unlikely that he’ll ever see his picture on the Internet (and if he does, he’ll have trouble making himself out–wonderful DOF again, he’s just an evocative blur), but I tend to agree with Arthur here: if you’re in a public place (which surely Merlin’s is, being a public house and all), your expectations of privacy ought to be low. If you choose to do your drinking alone, like George Thorogood, then by all means, draw your shades and be shocked if a camera appears.
I’m not quite as aggressive as Mr. Ruckle on this–I tend to ask before shooting, and if someone’s uncomfortable I’ll put the camera away–but if you can’t stand on principal, where can you stand?
09.19.08
Peabody River, New Hampshire.
Peabody River, New Hampshire.
Now see these:
Peabody River, New Hampshire.
Now see these:
Peabody River, New Hampshire.
Peabody River, New Hampshire.
Peabody River, New Hampshire.
We’ve returned to this spot on the Peabody for four years running now, to spend a lazy summer afternoon on the rocks; it’s always the same, and always different, like Heraclitus’ river:
No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.
The hiking trail at William O’Brien State Park ends at a little stream trickling out of the hills and into the St. Croix River; and so this particular trail of pictures will end as well. Tomorrow: a new river.
Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, “What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!”
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.Playthings by Rabindranath Tagore
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
Let her be some Sabrina fresh from stream,
Lucent as shallows slowed by wading sun,
Bedded on fern, the flowers’ cynosure:
Then nymph and wood must nod and strive to dream
That she is airy earth, the trees, undone,
Must ape her languor natural and pure.Ceremony
by Richard Wilbur
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific–and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise–
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer by John Keats
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
09.4.08
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
Once I nudged a canoe through that water,
letting its paddle lift, drip.
I was sucked down smaller than the sound
of the dropping, looked out
from where I had vanished.Skin Canoes by Carolyn Forché
St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park, near Marine-on-St.-Croix, Minnesota.
