Ancient Relics
Ancient Relics of Years Past.
Ancient Relics of Years Past.
I wanted to breathe in the ocean air one last time before the days started to got too short, wanted to gaze out across the ocean to where the curve of the Earth meets the sky, to bang some pleasure machines.
The last time I was drove south, the kudzu was but just brown, hard vines curled like steel wire around telephone poles and trees.
Asbury Park, New Jersey. Tweet
Cars, like this great lumbering beast of the late 20th century, populate my photographs so frequently not only because of their obvious prevalence in the American landscape but because the gleam and glint of the metal makes me sweat.
Photobooth originally located at the Palace Arcarde, Asbury Park NJ Tweet
Stifling heat brings a sense of wide open youth, playful desire, endless twilight and wonderment to the world. I want a perpetual summer. I perpetually want sand in my hair and around my toes, I perpetually want sun-licked skin and sticky sweet ice cream and a light heart to make life brighter, easier to bear.
Unsurprisingly, I have been watching, like everyone else, the slope the American economy has been sliding down the last year or so. I am disheartened and worried and cynical and terrified about what the future holds for this country; I fret about my money as well as my future on a regular basis, even though I am relatively gainfully employed. I have seen and benefited greatly from, in my brief 24 years on this planet, a hugely prosperous upswing in the economy and watched, wide-eyed and stupid, as the foundation... Read the Rest →
Secretly, I have always wanted to be a Southerner, one who is born from the South. Sadly, I was born above the Mason-Dixon line and don’t get to have such an honor but I figure I can always visit. Or live there as my stupid hopeful plans go for the next year or so. When I set out last Thursday for a 8 hour drive to Winston-Salem North Carolina, the sun was bright and the weather forecast was promising for the trip: 85 degree weather with clear skies. Car packed,... Read the Rest →
During a long, cold drive home from Boston this past weekend, I zoned out on the rhythm and sounds of the road when the familiar opening lines of Springsteen’s cover of This Land is Your Land woke me up from my road-induced stooper. I reached down to turn it up and started thinking about the lyrics, about the land I was driving through. Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land makes me well up with tears. I try not to get sentimental or patriotic, since my relationship with the United... Read the Rest →