Diane.

Get in touch about this entry.

Clock the leaves in the photograph, see how they slip in the swish of the valley wind. The scene feels plucked—just one frame of 24, 48, 72 over one, two, three seconds, maybe. She between the sprockets and I behind the lens are in media res. We are in the middle of things, here. We know what happened before and we know what’s happened since. But this frame is eternally happening, as long as it’s cared for and protected—the sun is always going down on the valley, this scarf swings softly back and forth as her gaze does, and our path is grown thick and surrounding.

Today I was reminded again of my friend Steve Lambke’s line: “Departure and reunion, until the difference has collapsed.”

Get in touch about this entry.

“If you can believe it, it’s a Friday once again.” 

I bought the Twin Peaks gold box set in my early ’20s and devoured the series with my then girlfriend. Most of the collectable postcards are still in my desk. The strangeness that pours out of David Lynch’s works feels like an offering that could only be gifted by someone deeply alive and tuned in. There was something about him that reminds me of my granny, but I don’t think I could explain that. She was born some 10 hours northeast of where he was born; both of them blessed with slick white hair. 

In 2019 I took a detour on a road trip so I could go ”where pies go when they die.” It was, indeed, the best cherry pie I’ve ever eaten. I saw the Snoqualmie Falls, where it seemed no one cared about Twin Peaks, and then the Salish Lodge (aka The Great Northern Hotel), where it felt like everyone was on pilgrimage. The “Welcome to Twin Peaks” sign isn’t where it’s supposed to be anymore because people stole it all the time. 

I think often of this line: “Just slow things down and it becomes more beautiful.” 

Get in touch about this entry.