28 February 2006

Guard Dog

Not sure where this was, somewhere on the highway north out of Kunming, somewhere near N 25 10' by E 102 36'.

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Unknown Village

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Breakfast

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Lijiang

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25 February 2006

Not Really Sure What To Call This

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Electric

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Curious

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Welcome To China

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20 February 2006

Update

Oh, by the way...I'm going to China tomorrow. Want to come along?

19 February 2006

Way Through The Wilderness

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Trajectory

North Border Avenue, Landers, California

Pirate

15 February 2006

Photo Of The Day: Tough Day At The Preschool

An outtake from a project I'm working on...

11 February 2006

Zippy The Fish

But I call him "Zip" for short.

Meditation

Orhan Pamuk on the Source of All Art

"...when a good poet is confronted with difficult facts that he knows to be true but also inimical to poetry, he has no choice but to flee to the margins; it was, he said, this very retreat that allowed him to hear the hidden music that is the source of all art."

-- Orhan Parmuk in Snow

09 February 2006

Prickly

06 February 2006

Yesterday, In The Garden

05 February 2006

Bedtime Story

I'm sitting on the porch when she comes by. She would like to use the phone, she says quietly. "There," I say, pointing down the hill. "You're welcome to it." Above the house is a road. On the other side of the road is a rocky cliff, steep and red, like in a cowboy movie.

She disappears around the corner of the house to where the basement opens up to the daylight, sliding doors and windows overlooking the emptiness of the desert. The kitchen is in the basement and the telephone. She is a neighbor, I think, or maybe a friend of the family, or maybe someone I don't know at all.

A thin man in an aging Cadillac pulls off the road. His wheels crackle down the short driveway. He approaches me. He is possibly 33, or 60, and wearing a white T-shirt. I think what he's saying is that he needs money, maybe, but I can't tell because I can't hear him. He's talking so quietly and quickly, like everyone else, like he's selling me something. I think I'd like to help him. He moves gracefully across the distance between us.

I hand him $10 and some change. Or maybe a sandwich and an apple. Or a book. I think he has a hard-luck story. I think maybe he is robbing me at gunpoint.

Is it bad that I can't remember?

He is getting in his car just as the girl who used the phone is returning to hers. Above us, a third car swings into view. The thin man and the quiet girl crouch in unison, down on one knee like scouts in the dust. I can't quite see who is driving up there, but they are waving. Or maybe pointing.

I start to wave back. "Hello," I shout excitedly, "Are you the good guys?" But then I realize that they may not be the good guys and I stop.

What is going on here, I wonder.

When the car is gone, the quiet girl stands up and walks past me down the hill and into the house again. She appears to have decided on something.

I take a shortcut through the house: in the front door, down two flights of stairs. On the way, I pass my bed which is neatly made, with an unopened greeting card on the pillow and flowers strewn. I've never seen anything so beautiful. I know who left them. It is the same person who sleeps with me in that bed. As I walk down the last flight of stairs, I wonder what might be written in the greeting card. I am curious. I will return in a minute, I tell myself, and I'll find out.

At the bottom of the stairs, I come upon the quiet girl finishing up her phone call. She is talking in numbers.

Are those numbers familiar? Are they mine?

She glances up at me and walks quickly toward the door. I am suspicious. Or maybe I'm seeing things all wrong. I step outside the kitchen door to watch her. I see only her back. She is climbing into her car and driving away.

Should I call my bank? Cancel the cards?

Below me, on the desert floor, the dry grass is waving in the wind.

It was around 5 this morning that I woke from my dream. Does that mean anything at all?