The tree under which my grandfather’s ashes are scattered.
Every trip to the ranch has its theme, probably because everything there resonates in me. Some trips seem merely diverting and some seem momentous, laden with epiphanies and euphoria, but always after I return to the city everything settles back into its ordinary place. Our breathless realizations have little effect on us, whatever their initial revolutionary luster. Nothing disturbs the habits of our selves.
Will, John, Spencer, Andy, and I were accompanied by my dogs, some deer, and a ludicrous number of pigs; they’re taking over the forests and pastures. The full photoset is here, and below are some excerpts:
Will in the pasture late at night, shining for animals. I did a lot of moonlight shooting; most of it I screwed up.
I am fonder of clouds than I was now that I have a use for them.
In the ruins of the shack my great-grandfather used to stay in I found checks from 1931 which he signed (his name was Roger Mills Thomas), an old Christmas card, various oddities, and this newspaper from the day Oswald was shot (lower part of page here).
John seemed to think that long exposure ghosting was a superpower, as though his translucency in the shot gave him translucency in real life; he referred to this as “the Predator effect.”
Around the fire (which was partly made through Darwin-Award-courting heroism).
Spencer and his “king size” guitar behind the house.
I don’t want to disappoint Kevin, so here is Bayou after another ineffectual effort at getting an armadillo and here is Five in the same state; it’s nice to let them go crazy without fear they’ll harm anything. Toward the end of the set both dogs demonstrate their relative climbing prowess, and Will his firefighter guts.
