(See what I am saying?)

The Cost of Living

"but at what cost?"

he asked the question the way you do when the question is easier to answer than the trouble it is worth to say out loud. it was the kind of question no one needs to answer out loud. he leaned back in his chair and allowed the conversation to continue over the spilled whisky, uneven tables, peanut shells, and the man quietly packing up his rickenbacker guitar at the back of the dark room.

We sat in the bar as the evening wore out and the waitress swept the broken glass and lonley drinkers out the side door into the rain on 23 st. All the tables were pushed to the dark corners and the chairs were stacked upon them. We talked about careers and lifestyles and consequences of putting one in front of the other. We talked about ever being able to afford the space to strech out while in a situation to take it all in. And we talked about the hair care products needed to create the singer's duck tail packing up his harmonica on the stage in the back of the dark room.

She leaned her head back against the wall and began to talk about something only she could see in between her eyes and the dark rafters above the anemic red bar lights. she spoke of dishwashers, double sinks, and all the things she wants someday. she spoke of tomorow and a career and a life with a vauge but confident sense of hope like a child writing down their christmas list and never letting anyone read it.

in the dark corner we talked about 16 hour work days. We talked about the overseas migration of the technology sector. We talked about dropping out of college, and the difference in living to work and working to live. i listened to details of owning a home the and the work that comes with it. I listened to details of owning ambition, and all the work that comes with it. and I thought about what it was like to own nothing at all. The white haired woman who was singing to herself in the coon skin skin ski hat had left. The bar was empty and the music stopped. right then and there i summed up my current situation:

I was happy because sean made it from denver and was sitting across the uneven table from me. It took at 5 hour plane ride, and software conference, and $20 cab ride to get him here.

I was happy because had finnally found George Dickel in New York City. It costs $6 a glass and is no where near the strength of a Perez-poured dickel-discounted $1.50.

I was happy because i felt i have found something i love and was fine with the sacrifices to make it happen.

I was happy i had people and reasons in my life to spend time with that are more important than spending making money. I was happy I had people and reasons that understand the trade off for $6 drinks, single sinks, and the sad ability to touch opposite walls of my bedroom without moving.

And somewhere in between my eyes and my friends i saw a glimpse of clarity. i realized I can make money and I can spend it. but I can only spend time. both of which i was happy spending with present company around the uneven table in the darkroom red light in the middle of the night. and no matter what my christmas wish list is, and no matter how I clean my dirty dishes, no matter how I make my money or spend my time, life is most often one big 'getting by'. and i can chose how, where, and with whom i do it with. I smiled in the dark. and right there i thought for a minute that tonight, the price for such a chance was fair.

We cashed out and the bar tender asked us to leave. I finished off the last of my $6 dollars sitting in the melted ice, and was swept out with the broken glass and lonley drinkers through the side door into the rain on 23 st.

slow world fast shutter

Cabin fever was creeping in the windows. Rain was falling down between the buildings and the air felt thick like maple syrup. I felt like the prehistoric mosquito they found in the amber. I felt static. I felt stuck. I felt entombed and bored and extinct and it felt like no one would ever find me stuck thick as the world solidified around me. The rain was falling down, but as long as i could see it, i knew the world hadn't thickened up on me completely.

I was supposed to meet him at 3:30 in Little Italy. But i couldn't wait. I was afraid the rain would quit falling and the world would stop moving. I took the subway downtown and as i walked up the stairs onto Spring street, the rain had stopped, and it looked as if the world had turned to amber. But thankfully for Soho, the world was still moving.

The sky looked like malted milk and the rain on the streets sat sloppy in puddles like beads of sweat as the city heated up. I walked to the predetermined street corner. Suddenly i realized i was about to photograph a man who is a more than a minor hero to me and whose work has provided a soundtrack to my life for over 3 years - and had no idea what i was going to do when he got there. i was about to finally put a face with the words i have listened to on athens barstools, and black interstate drives, back-porches, and countless hours on this keyboard - and i had no plan.

The storefronts in little italy look like a salvation army sweater rack, with each store stacked tight beside the next in perfect mismatched color and texture. i put on my 50mm lens and opened it up to 1.8. the milky sky sat low above the narrow streets. I set the shutter to 1/2000th a second and decided i was about to take the most mundane photographs i have ever taken of one of the coolest guys i could think of.

Mike Doughty walked across spring street with his headphones around his neck as i had hoped he would. He hopped across a puddle and apologized for being 4 1/2 minutes late. i apologized in advance that he was about get the most generic photos he has ever seen of himself. with that out of the way, we went into corner market and bought an apple, a bouquet of daisies, and a bottle of water. The rest of the props he had in his pockets. i paraded him through the salvation army color palate of little italy and held the shutter down as he stood there in front of me and did what everybody does, but this time Mike Doughty was doing them. And i took pictures of it.

As the afternoon began to end the amber began to harden into a darken shell. We headed towards his apartment. the rain on the streets sat sloppy in puddles like beads of sweat as the city began to get restless. I ended my time with him on his rooftop in the east village, the malted milk sky stirring just above us. I could hear the barges rumble behind me on the east river as they said goodbye to brooklyn and headed out to sea. i finished the last few frames over looking the manhattan skyline as he sat on the corner his empty rooftop. I put my camera back in my bag and suddenly saw what I was doing and where i was. I looked up through the milky sky swirling above me. I smiled as I stood above the amber colored world and knew it hadn't thickened up on me completely.

The First Day of Spring

Some where in Europe woody is careening down the wrong side of the road, shifting into 5th gear with his left hand, and even though he probably can't read the language on the road map, i am sure he probably has, prior to his departure, memorized the transportation systems in his current country of travel.

Somewhere south of the US Coast Guard's jurisdiction in international water Prescott is somewhere under it, checking his depth and keeping time on his oxygen tank, as he dives somewhere off the coast of some island ending in letter 'a'.

Somewhere in Los Angeles County Leanne is riding with her seat belt snapped, down a 10 lane freeway. her window is down and she is probably laughing as the breeze tangles her hair and pushes it across her face.

To be certain, I really have no idea what any of them are doing. I have no idea what time of day it is where any of them are. They are some of my closest friends.

Under the streets of New York i sat alone tonight in my own country and read the subway posters - subtitled in english, and tried to imagine what they all were doing right then tonight, or today, or whatever time it was in their given longitude on earth. I walked through Lincoln center and sat on the wide benches in the plaza and watched the well dressed people in the glass buildings. they were dwarfed by the tall ceilings and scale of the building. Each floor sat upon another and rose up the glass wall into the darkness. I sat and watched the people inside stacked up like ants in an elementary school ant farm. I watched the reflection of the Juliard School lights reflect in the pool. I felt the breeze that left leanne, blow down the 65th street corridor as it took a short cut between the Hudson and East River on its way across the Atlantic ocean to Woody.

Being alone in the rocky mountain wilderness is different from being alone on a park bench in a city of 8 million. I am glad that in my life i will have known the difference between them.

but missing my friends feels the same.

The white walls of the Lincoln center glowed from the lobby lights and shown soft through the glass like scenes at the zoo where the cave men and saber-toothed tigers stand. I sat there like a visitor at a zoo, like at a drive in movie, and wished i could take my friends and put them all behind glass. i wished i could put them all in the same plot and on the same movie screen. i wished i could put them all in one place. i wished i could have them all inside an ant farm. i wished i could collect the people i missed and put them all safe in one place with me.

It began to rain and the reflection of the Juliard School lights in the pool began to wrinkle on top of the water. I began to walk home in the rain and realized that no matter how loud i yelled, no one i knew would hear me. I realized no one i could call would pick up their phone. i realized there is no ant farm, no zoo, no container in life small enough to keep me from missing who i cared about. And if there was, by virture of being my friends, we would all want to break free from it to seek out different longitudes and lifestyles and language and leave behind what we already know to be good for the thought of what we know is likley no better. So i headed down 8th avenue, and hoped they all were happy and well, where ever and when ever they are, and enjoyed the rain on the first day of spring.

"What is it that you want?"

I was the deer and her question was the headlights. She asked me so plainly and direct and the words felt so big i couldn't get out of their way.

We sat alone at the bottom of the staircase. it was dark and the hallway light stared at the blank wall. the cockeyed steps rose to the roof access, and through the thick glass and wire mesh in the skylight panes i could see the glow of manhattan reflect off the atmosphere. in the corner of the staircase at the landing pieces of plaster collected like cookie crumbs reminding me time is always eating away at everything. but no matter where i looked, i couldn't come up with an answer.

My brain was boiling with contradictions and cross continental contemplations. The atmosphere glowed like eyeliner and cried like mascara dripping onto the thick glass and wire mesh in the skylight panes rinsing off what was pretty and showing me what was real. My mind felt like one big bruise and somewhere up in the atmosphere airplanes were flying and satellites were orbiting and birds were migrating and everything in the world was moving away from me and everyone knew where they were going but me.

She sat there and looked at me. I was good at playing dodge ball in elementary school. i could always make it until the other team was allowed move up to the 3-point line on our side if the court. I was good at avoiding anything that could hit me and break me open like a piggy bank for everyone to see what i am worth. But i couldn't avoid her. I couldn't not look at her. i couldn't not hear her and i couldn't not try to answer her. she was sitting right there beside me at the bottom of the dark staircase. the black sky cried down on us. it was real. and in a new way, it was pretty. she was breaking me open. she was seeing what i was worth. we sat still at the bottom of the dark stairs but in my mind she was waltzing with my life across a dance floor as big as north america.

she sat there fair and square. she sat there while we danced in my head. she sat there as the black rain fell down and airplanes flew away and birds headed north and my heart went south and everything i ever knew once again felt like it was somewhere else. but this time she made me think. she made me answer. she made me stop dodging and stop dancing and tell her what i wanted. she asked me like maybe, if i told the truth, maybe if i broke open and saw myself, that maybe, just maybe, what i wanted could be found. maybe just maybe what was moving away wouldn't leave. or at least, wouldn't leave me sitting in the staircase as the world around me cried in the dark.