http://www.straymatter.com/ The sky is an endlessly variable slide show, evolving from minute to minute, second to second, all the while hinting at mysterious, ancient shapes that disappear so quickly that you question if you even saw them in the first place. The sky today is different from the one a day ago, a year ago, a hundred years ago. At any given instant, when I crane my neck in Durham, I know I'm seeing something different from the guy in Minnetonka. The sky is a gallery of vast personal paintings that we rent but never own. You look on with wonderment, and then the show leaves town ... forevermore. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1123 Sat, 29 Sep 2012 16:08:51 EDT There is a place not far from where I live. It is my own private Stonehenge, a solemn ground with crumbling walls and grotesque, incomplete structures whose function is a mystery to anyone who might inquire. Not many do. For while folks skirt this place regularly, they have no apparent interest in these homely, forgotten monuments. This fate will befall all of us at some point. Obsolescence lies at the core of all things. I only hope a curious boy will one day tread upon my own ruins while an ancient wind lashes his face. May he toss pebbles and wonder, just as I do. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1122 Sat, 01 Sep 2012 23:51:10 EDT As the shadows of late winter deepen and expand, we often repair to a place where light and dark sit side by side on bar stools, if only for a quarter hour or so. The moment is as brief as it is magical. And though we are as garrulous as any group, we're mindful to pause and take stock of that magic shaft of light. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1121 Sat, 31 Mar 2012 16:11:47 EDT Every so often I stumble upon an image and my camera is many miles away. I can only sigh with resignation and reach for my phone. On the list of great truths about photography, surely there is a line that reads, "Thou must carry your camera at all times. No exceptions, bucko." Then again, upon closer examination of these phone shots, I wonder if maybe I'm missing the point. Somehow the cruder the instrument, the more perversely beautiful the image. How else can one explain the fiercely stubborn existence of Polaroids and Holgas in the era of a jillion pixels? http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1120 Thu, 12 Aug 2010 01:02:46 EDT There is nothing quite so discerning as the eye of a dog. It registers all with a mixture of curiosity, wariness and duty. Even late at night, when I have been motionless for the better part of an hour, I know the slightest movement--the scratch of a nose, the flex of a neck--will activate that shiny orb in the dark. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1119 Sun, 01 Aug 2010 23:20:36 EDT When the road goes from asphalt to crushed gravel to dirt, the sensible person turns around. I plow straight on ahead. I'm in search of a place everyone else has forgotten, and you can't get there on a freshly paved highway. Sometimes, sadly, you can't get there at all. I discovered this on a recent evening with the sun hanging low and the pup licking the desert air. I'd latched onto a road that promised to take me nowhere, which was precisely the place I wanted to be. On this day, though, nowhere was somewhere I'm not supposed to be: an Indian reservation. As seductive and tempting as it was to keep on going, it felt wrong. I turned around. It's a bittersweet feeling to live aside a forbidden nation. But there is sweet justice to it, too. And so I'll be content to gaze longingly at those roads that stretch out into nothingness and imagine all the nowheres I'll never go. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1118 Fri, 23 Apr 2010 04:24:09 EDT It's commonly held that a smell can transport us anywhere in time. And that's undeniably true. But time travel is not the exclusive province of the nose. The eyes can take us on quite a ride, too. For me, it can be as simple as spying an old typeface. The mere shape of long-out-of-style letters can dislodge an attic full of memories. There was a time when these letters were fresh and new and a sign of modernity. Now they are reminders that all things grow old. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1117 Mon, 11 Jan 2010 06:56:18 EDT How did I know? Let me tell you. I knew when he clambered to his feet and fixed me with the most hopeful gaze in the universe. I knew when he chewed on my finger as if it were the most succulent thing on earth. I knew when he fell asleep in the crook of my elbow on the ride home. It's a story told a million times, in a million different ways. He was mine, and I was his. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1116 Tue, 24 Nov 2009 01:59:42 EDT Slashing south and west through Arkansas, I saw a sign for Hope and decided to pay a visit to the birthplace of our 42nd president. I slipped into town on a side road and was struck by the lack of presidential welcome. There were signs for bingo and karaoke and tattoos. But nothing for Bubba. Dusk gave way to night, and despite my best efforts, I could find no trace of the Man from Hope. No matter ... my wandering eyes had settled on other sights. Hope might well be the birthplace of a world leader, but on this night that was least interesting thing about the place. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1115 Mon, 12 Oct 2009 23:53:09 EDT I don't often traffic in set shots. And I sure haven't let a work-related photo wander into my exclusive clubhouse for photographic doodlings. But I don't much believe in brick walls, so this one comes sailing in from the other side. The commercial side. I make this exception because photography is about discovery, and sometimes we discover things in unusual places--even at work. As was the case last week when I got to goofing around with an articulating desk lamp and a scrap of gauzy fabric. The minutes passed trancelike as I manipulated the arm of the lamp, up and down, back and forth, like a kid working over an action figure. And then I hooded the lamp's tiny halogen head in gauze as if it were a Turkish woman in hijab. And just like that, a mound of cubed cheese became a little bit like art. And work became a little bit life. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1114 Wed, 30 Sep 2009 04:57:20 EDT