3.5.12

 Harlem, NY October '11

 Delancey St, NY Winter '12

My subway entrance, 7th Avenue Q/B, Brooklyn.

11.30.11

  Brooklyn, NY  Nov. '11

New York, Freedom Tower (Ground Zero) Fall, '11

 Jaipur, India  Feb. '11

10.31.11

 I woke up from a dream yesterday at 4 a.m. because I had just been broken up with by a make- believe Girlfriend that my subconscious had created for me. I had never met her before, of course- but I really, really liked her. Guess what my subconscious had her say to me. It had her say this: "You and I just never really connected... everything was just so... even sex, the sex was just so... painful..."  

So, a couple of things: I was in a great mood when I got up because I got to experience a rush of gratitude at realizing that no one had actually said those words to me- and I also was happy because I have respect for my subconscious these days. If I'm in need of some ego deflation and I'm not getting it from the outside world, my brain steps in, creates a lovely girlfriend from previously stored data and has her dump me in a not-so-gentle way and then lets me off the hook by waking me out of a dead sleep, as if to say "smarten up, Buster... next time it could be for reals. We can kill a few housepets tomorrow night, as well... or make you have the tropical fish dream again." As for my make- believe ex Girlfriend, I just want to say briefly: "Tammy (I'll call you Tammy, if that's ok), I really enjoyed our time together. I don't remember much about our relationship but I'm sure it was nice, with some sweet moments. The last 11 or 12 seconds were hard for me but I appreciate your honesty and really wish you well in future fake relationships. Don't let the (dream) door hit you in your (make- believe) hind- quarters on the way out." Which brings me to the very next thought I had after ending things with Tammy and regaining consciousness: the Occupy Wall Street protests. 

Here is a *slideshow of my photographs from the last couple- o' weeks of my hanging out down there. I will try to say this "in a nutshell", as they say. OWS is now a movement. It was a protest but mere protests are easy to stop with indifference or pepper spray and batons. 

Few people really appreciate or enjoy extremism. I've learned in recent years that for me, extremism is a drag. It's irritating, it's violent, it begets more extremism and ends, usually, in a very sloppy, bloody mess with very few people the better as a result and with many people missing body parts, or worse. I've spent a fair amount of time down around lower Manhattan over the last year- when Osama was killed and during a couple of 9/11 anniversaries. I avoided OWS for two weeks because of these past experiences. What I saw and photographed during these past events went something like this: A heavily guarded media event on the inside and a vaguely startling collection of anarchists, conspiracy theorists, fundamentalist religious people, communists, tourists and zealous patriots on the periphery, all being stiffly directed here and there by a tense and heavily armed police force... and lots and lots of t-shirt sales. I got the impression that everyone had an explanation for 9/11, terrorism, whatever- and that everyone had a solution. Their solution. There was an unpleasant edginess, even with the quiet ones who stood silently behind intricately hand- drawn signs, what with so many people jockying to co-opt the tragedies of the planet and spit them back out in such a way as to promote their own world views and agendas. During the 9/11 memorial, I hardly thought about the victims. I left, edited a few photos and put them away and haven't looked at them since. 

 The slideshow I've made is trying to make a point about what I've seen so far at OWS. Some of the media and much of the political machine has been doing it's best to portray the OWS movement as simply a "protest"- a rag- tag group of extremist, bored or privileged radicals and frustrated, unemployed recent college graduates who are pissed off, jealous, lazy. What I've found is that that's actually an assessment that's either based in ignorance, fantasy or a deliberate attempt to discredit what is happening with OWS. Those elements must certainly exist but they alone could never sustain something like what OWS has become- and at this point they're outnumbered by the "regular" people. When a protest starts to resonate with the middle, lower and even some of the upper classes- with Fathers, Mothers, Siblings, Neighbors, Children and Grandparents- that, like it or not, is called a "Movement". Have a looky-poo!

* please go to this url for a much higher resolution version:

http://youtu.be/bZmPK_Fc0XY

 NY, Oct. '11  East River Ferry. This boat ride easily ranks in the top five scariest ferry boat rides I've taken in the last year.

  Randolph, Vt. October, '11  Kitty and "Joe",  pt. 2

10.3.11

 Tunbridge World's Fair, Vermont Sept. '11 The Tunbridge World's Fair takes place in rural Vermont  every fall and has hardly changed in almost 140 years. I love it. I hadn't been there since I was a little kid and all I could remember about it were some teams of oxen, apparently competing against each other by pulling blocks of granite, some very large vegetables, chickens in a barn and bikers- which turns out to be accurate... but this time in Tunbridge I saw that there were also pig races, which made me feel confused. It was just very... I thought they would be funny- actually, I don't really want to write about that right now.
Ok, listen- I had a little break and I feel like I can write something about the pigs now- not directly, but I'll just give you this: When I was a senior in high school, we had a class picnic during our graduation week, attended by ourselves and the school faculty. We were allowed to drink back then because Vermont was the last state to change the drinking age and most of us had been "grandfathered" in- so we were partying at Lake Champagne (a body of water in my town that looks nothing like the larger, more majestic Lake Champlain. Lake Champlain, in the northwestern part of the state, is the 6th largest lake in the U.S. Lake Champagne is a pond in a campground/trailer park. The only thing the two really have in common is that if you jump into one, then jump into the other, you'll get wet both times). At some point, after several beers and hot dogs, a small-ish group of us decided it was time to take some revenge, veiled as lighthearted shenanigans, on some of the faculty whom we had harbored resentments against over the years. I think we splashed some water on the science teacher, maybe put some pie on someone else... it was good fun. I don't remember if we consciously chose to save Mr. Duffy for last (real name Mr. Kilduff but I'll just call him Mr. Duffy here) but by the time we got to our endomorphic guidance counselor (who kept a couple of goats on his front lawn so he didn't have to mow... he also refused to let me take typing class because it interfered with a required home economics credit or something- I'm typing with three fingers at this moment, still, after all these years) the energy had become  more aggressive and a bit surly. Everyone was still having a reasonably good time, I think, but the smiles were a bit more severe, more purposeful on our side- more hesitant and questioning on theirs.  I remember Mr. Duffy backing away from us slowly with a stiff grimace on his face that seemed to say "I'd like to take this opportunity to... to just apologize if I... if you'll just... no... I don't want you to do that...". As we seized him, knocked him down, grabbed his arms and legs and began dragging him to the water's edge, he started to struggle as if we were about to hurl him into a volcano. It was disturbing.  There was something about his humorless state of panic and the way he gasped and groaned, twisting and convulsing to free himself, that I found depressing. It was such a shocking character break for a guy I'd only ever seen sitting behind a desk. I had a moment of pity and almost let him go... but by this point the group conscience far outweighed my own  and we threw his ass into the pond.
Later, I drove (under the influence of canned beer) with two female friends to my house in the village. I was covered in mud and decided to jump in the shower. I had come to within what I now believe to have been seconds of convincing one of my female companions to take off her clothes and join me in the shower when I heard my Dad's car on the gravel as he arrived home early from work.
I still wonder sometimes what it would have meant for me, for her, for all of us- if my Father had caught his naked, teenage son in his shower with someone else's naked, teenage daughter. 
My Dad would be obligated to tell her family. My Mom would be deeply hurt. There would be shame, guilt, remorse, lengthy punishments and restrictions, probably the school would be involved, there would be meetings, councils, tribunals, seminars, sentences, lost trust, news vans. A Priest would want to speak to us both (separately- I would never be allowed to see her, or any female, again). She likely would be beaten, sent away- but rather than go, she would hang herself dead. I would to this day be learning to cope with the repercussions of my self- centeredness and irresponsibility.
I hope this helps to illuminate my feelings about the pig races somehow. Try to make it up to the Tunbridge fair sometime, though.

Bethel, VT.  Post- Irene

New York, Sept. '11

 Randolph, VT. ? '10    I like these horses.

 Randolph, VT. Sept. '11  I'm only partially ashamed to admit that, as a young person, I had a running feud with the family that lived in this house. I had a feud with the family- not an individual family member but the entire household. They were called the Andersons. They hated me and I hated them. I don't remember why. The house was at the foot of the hill I lived on, so I had to walk past it twice a day. Once, I pushed one of the Anderson kids to the ground. I don't remember why, probably because I was in a feud with his family. A few days later I was walking home and I saw the Andersons all gathered in the yard, staring and grinning in my direction. Then I saw the biggest Anderson boy- much bigger than me- a giant, really- crossing the street, coming at me like a baseball player in a home- run trot. He pushed me down in the ditch and the Anderson family cheered. Man, that was weird.

 Sao Paulo, Brazil Aug. '11

9.9.11

Rajasthan, Feb. '11  I grew to appreciate how Rajasthani men often looked like they were about to slit my throat for taking their picture but would end up inviting me to a wedding. This man did not invite me to a wedding.

 I don't know for sure if my friend Samantha appreciated how Rajasthani men felt about her. Here she is surrounded by curious Rajasthani men.

 New York, Feb. '11  Us (cast of "Monodramas") laying around at rehearsal, probably talking about people we know who have had bedbugs.

8.27.11

I give you... Buddy. This dog lives across the street from my Old Lady's house in Vermont. Buddy is a Blue Tick Hound, which is a breed of dog developed especially for barking. Buddy barks at everything, all day long, soulfully, with his entire being. Look closely at this photo of Buddy- he's barking so hard his front paws are coming off the ground. This happens every time he barks, which is about five- hundred times a day, at everyone, for any reason. He's been barking at me for five years, every time I show up at the house, every time I walk to my car to go to the store, every time I get out of my car and walk back to the house with my candy bar. When I go biking and head out up the hill, he barks as if I were wearing a grizzly bear costume. When I arrive home a few hours later, he barks like he's never seen me, or any other human being, before. He's so cute, though and I really want him to like me. I went over there with a piece of steak once and he barked like I was going to slit his throat, then ran behind the house, where he continued barking... so I waited... about three minutes later, the barking stopped and Buddy came trotting back around as if nothing had ever happened, saw me again, freaked out even more and ran back behind the house. I will pet Buddy.

New York/Sao Paulo, August '11

    New York, Fall '10

8.15.11

From Chernobyl, Ukraine/surrounding region from April '10. I recorded the sound outside of the Chernobyl Orthodox church as the Easter service was getting out at around 4:30 A.M. The sound at the end was recorded outside my cabin in the woods in a village called Orane. I recommend using headphones when you look at this slideshow.
The resolution of the slideshow is crappy- you can see the higher-res version at: http://youtu.be/YMc4jer-suE

8.7.11

 Sao Paulo, Brazil August '11

Colorado, Summer '10  Jen

New York, March '11  I got to act in an opera at Lincoln Center over the winter. The man in the photo is the conductor, George. I marveled at how seemingly effortlessly he made sense of the (to me) impenetrable  score, conducted three sopranos and an orchestra, maintained a relaxed and positive vibe for the three months of rehearsal and still somehow found the time to impersonate a vampire. The person reflected in that thing on the right is Amanda, one of the other cast members. That thing is a mirrored cube hanging from the ceiling. For this piece there were 50 or so of these cubes hanging on the stage. They rose and fell in various patterns. Each cube was operated by one stage hand holding a string. The first few dress rehearsals were basically a game of whack-a-mole, only more avant garde. Cubes flew in and out at random times and velocities. We cast members ducked and shuffled. A soprano got bonked on the head. I kept imagining the crew back there smoking joints and looking confusedly at their cue sheets, all standing around the rigging station holding their strings in the dark like slave boat rowers just kind of winging it, pulling and releasing, shrugging at each other, unaware of the carnage just a few yards away.

8.1.11

 New York, March '11  I was walking to the bakery on the corner in a tank top and sandals earlier today thinking "I love summer... I love my neighborhood... I love this bakery... look at that nice tree..." I remember late March, just a few months ago. Everyone wanted spring so badly but every day was like this one- wet, cold, crappy...with people lining up in quiet solidarity and mutual disgust to step around slushy puddles with scrunched up faces, hunched over, trying to pull themselves deeper into their coats. I think it was this same day where, a few blocks up the street, there were chunks of ice falling off a skyscraper and landing on the sidewalk. I looked at a bagel cart vendor standing a few yards from where some ice hit and we smiled at each other and shrugged.

 Under the F train elevated tracks near Smith/9th streets in Brooklyn, Winter '10

Rajasthan, Feb. '11  Who here doesn't like goats?  How can anyone not like goats? I walk about 200 yards into this desert and am about to take a shot of the herder sitting quietly with the high voltage towers in the distance. It's mid-day- very still, very hot...  then this goat sneaks up and sticks his head into the frame like a hand puppet. Hilarious. Don't talk to me about how their eyes look satanic with little rectangles for pupils and how that scares you- baloney. I love goats.