Bristol, New Hampshire, summer 2020. Portra / Rolleiflex.
By the fall of 2011 I had been living in Texas for a little over a year. Things weren't really going that well. I took three weeks off from my job and from some other shit and went home to the coast of Maine. On my way through Massachusetts I borrowed a leaky Mamiya 7 from my friend/former college professor/former landlord and bought a shitload of Kodak Portra and my scumbag friend Dan picked me up in his mom's minivan and we drove to Maine. I'm not making this up. I missed Maine so badly. I took all of these photos in Acadia National Park in October while extremely high on marijuana. I had never used a rangefinder before, which is to say I figured it out in two seconds and then promptly forgot it was any different from any other manual focus film camera, but go ahead and use that hashtag. I went back to Texas, lost track of all kinds of things including my self, and eventually got the film developed a year later when I gave up and moved back to New England. I remember cutting the film, putting it into plastic sleeves, noticing that it had come back very dirty, and putting it in a box. Guess what, eight years later we've got ourselves a pandemic and I don't have to go to work in the morning, I scanned the fucking film. LOTS of dust and garbage on the negatives, just real bad, but here are some pictures I took while I was high and feeling free.
striding cracking across the white cellophane
ice atop the mud, dead leaves dusted, late snow
just trees, jumbled and mismatched
mossy stumps to mark the tall ghosts
the gloom, the morning, the afterward darkness of
among vague constellations of stone, cairns
to hold the corners, inscrutable
one thousand sagas sung at sunrise, junco
songs and pileated hyena hymns in the cold
lacing the understory, the stone walls
time-tossed and doomed to be forgotten
I walked through my own plume of white breath
weaving into this invertebrate
forest, to haunt it
for a few moments of my own.
Bristol, New Hampshire, March 2020.