WELCOME

If you're here you probably got a postcard and were curious. Roam around if you like. Comment, check in under the postcard you got. Give us your own account of the picture. Be sure to check Older Posts to see everything.

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This project was sponsored by SEP and made by EPS after a week long trip from Ames, IA to Blacksburg, VA. The pictures are posted in chronological order, so you'll see them backwards if you start with the tomatoes.

Much love.

Turn it Out

This is for you. There's so much I want to say. Do you remember the time we boiled tomatoes? Water has always connected our ideas, and our bodies. My thoughts can't live out of water. We understand each other because I let your tomatoes wash in my pot. And I'll cook them and peel them cook them again, and eat them. Thanks for sharing your life with me. I've always been a fish in water, and that's what my postcard is for, to thank you for sharing your water with me. Some day we might make it out of here, but I wouldn't mind if we didn't.

Good Luck

Lonely Cat. I'm not going to say anything here. Nothing about cats. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to mention this picture. There's nothing to say about it. You know what I mean. You want to talk about it so badly but there's nothing to say. There's hardly anything to remark. If only the picture weren't so indescribable and plain. If only there were something remarkable about it. If only the cat weren't so obvious. Get out of here, cat. You're ruining the picture we all want to talk about.

The Hollow

When the hollow is lit up by moonlight you can't take a picture of it. It runs too fast. If you could build a dam and keep the light in, keep the space from rolling, the shot would be clear. Living in the hollow on a full moon I experienced something that moved faster than I do. I couldn't ignore it. Spilling the trees, spilling the gravel, spilling the inhabitants, out of the woods, out of the path, out of the houses, give up being rooted and tumble in it. It's really a wash.

Calendar

June bug. It's easy to tell what it is. It's not a firefly. And it's June. I'm still on the back porch of a house in the middle of the mountains. I am leaving the light on to take pictures of the bugs that come around. I'm glad to have something to focus on. The dog wants to get frisky with me but I'm not really comfortable with dogs. Bugs mind their own business. There is some kind of coating on the wood here that makes it a different color than the wood on the right. There's a dimension we prefer over others.

Ode to the Mailbox

I guess we don't need you to get mail. A little home for a letter. A bus station. A safe place for meaning. For awhile at my home in Ames, Iowa, we used a crab cage as a mailbox. This left the mail vulnerable, looking like some delicious advertisements and bills and postcards had arrived from the trenches of the ocean. We do dig something up when we read a piece of mail. Associations, that's the real eating of it, do you know what I mean? Do you have a mailbox? What color is it? What day is your favorite day for mail?

Deceiving Clarity

At night in the mountains I don't trust the darkness. Even with a full moon. The light and dark oversimplify the way the silhouettes of mountains grip me. Trying to explain myself I had to work with a gradient. You can make a house out of gray boards. It's the best protection against night. It makes its own reason. It's also a practical shelter. The brain is a muscle but what is wood? Patterns, I guess. Can you find the moth?