By Appointment and Chance

This morning I made my way through a misted and icy Harriman State Park, across a fogged Bear Mountain Bridge, and into a winter-ish Peekskill in order to help my brother and his girlfriend move into their new apartment. I could only stay for a few hours and in that time I started to rekindle, or moreso re-open, my love for taking photographs. It has been quite a while since I have had sufficient "time" to simply take photographs, and although I cannot wait to return to using a manual SLR, a borrowed digital SLR sufficed fairly well. Today became a focus in pattern, texture, and design; the results lie below.

Happy Day of Birth...

In case you (whoever 'you' are) did not get a chance to go out in the snow this weekend, excellent skills in cinematography were made use of in order to bring you the following.

Front stoop lights and snow.


Golden Slush.

Te Amo, Nieve: finding peace

Over the past week or so more and more of the northeast's typical winter weather has been surfacing; it's about time. Wednesday's ride home from work brought me back to snowstorms in the back country: hiking out and strapping in, chest deep snow, silence and serenity--heaven, expcept that I was on a road bike with skinny, balding tires. If I recall correctly I did not stop smiling once on my blurry midweek ride home. of course not, for the white stuff was dumping.

Friday's forecast stated 100% chance of more snow, upwards of an inch an hour. An evening phone call from my brother held the flint for a Friday venture up to Hunter for the a day on snow. I struck his statement against my insides and instantly a light began to glow. I decided to call work in the morning and inform them of my mature decision. Bags were packed and my truck and I headed northbound for a sleep-shower-eat-stop in Oakland, followed by a morning ride over the Bear Mountain Bridge to my brother's place.

Although we got a late start, due to my personal incapacity in navigational skills, it was for the better. Snow just began to fall as we came within 20 minutes of Hunter. Much to our delight, the snow simply did not cease as we made our first blessed turns of the year. With Sigur Ros as my soundtrack we bounced, spun, carved and yipped our way through a constant renewal of white. The feeling of sliding sideways on snow is always an experience beyond comparison. One is often brought to a point of lost words, that even if they were to be recovered, would not do any justice. The feeling is an electricity, a certain confluence of energies.

With ten minutes until close my brother decided to head back to the car while I went up for a solo run. No audible words were exchanged between myself and the white squall that encompassed my moving body and the mountain it moved on; there was no need. The conversation was an internal, constant presence, an instinctual call-and-response. We had missed one another, and like two individuals who need not words in order to remain understood and respected in one another's eyes, the snow and I embraced a silent reminiscence, at peace to be together once again.

Sweet Soweto

Most likely he valeted for the restaurant, perhaps he did not; nevertheless, he guided our car into a space reserved for Casa Vasca Restaurant and received a modest tip in return. After an authentic, simple, and absolutely exquisite Basque country meal, my mother and I headed over to NJPAC in order to get settled for the Soweto Gospel Choir performance. Seeing as how we get the opportunity to attend a show perhaps once a year, we try to make it count, and Soweto delivered enough to make it count for years to come.

Lights in the theatre dimmed to a soft, grey, dust of dark as more than a dozen individuals clothed in vibrant South African garb filed across the stage. The first notes caused a smile to spread across my insides, and like burgundy wine on a white carpet the feeling only seeped throughout the rest of my consciousness with each song. In the strength of their voices, in their unique sound and guttural expression of deep history, I felt the social construct of race and color dissipate until the audience was one.

Whether we acknowledge and embrace its presence or not, it is in us all, the rhythmic beat of palms on the stretched skin of an animal, the ancient calls and mixture of South African languages, the song and the dance; it is within us all. Traditional songs from Soweto led into variations of "This Little Light of Mine," "Go Tell it on a Mountain," and "Amazing Grace." Because of the truth and strength found within their natural movements and deep, solid voices, a salt of emotion slid from the corner of my eye, streaking my cheek for the time being and a standing ovation ensued.

An unexpected encore followed the fading flutter of hands clapping, as the choir broke into a series of Christmas selections, including "Silent Night," "Little Drummer Boy," and "O Come All Ye Faithful." The last notes of the night saw a sea of human beings, out of their seats and dancing, keeping beat and singing; each person feeling and living in their own reality, while the audience as a whole shared the reality of a truth presented them by the Soweto Gospel Choir. Glancing over to my mother, beaming in the moment, I acknowledged in her the gifts she had passed into me at birth, those of a free spirit and an appreciation for life.

Walking out into the soft silence of snow falling, now an audience of common ground, we became strangers once again, creating divergent paths in a thin layer of white. Each individual car ride home, each family's walk around the block and every couple's train stop brought us further apart. Perhaps, though, strands of the night's performance would hold steadfast, tied with string to the thick of our hearts, and preserve the common bond between us all.

Night Rider

When temperatures begin to drop and certain hours of daylight have been tucked away until spring, when the wind pierces through layers and stings skin, when the energy of impending snow permeates the air and lakes grow thick with ice--the notion of commuting to work becomes somewhat of a mental challenge to overcome.  No, not because I dread the dash from warm house to cold car, and not because I can't stand a frigid walk to the corner bus stop; but, rather because the thought of facing that piercing chill with but a few thin layers of spandex is less than inviting. It is not until the first few minutes of pedaling have passed, when the heat generated by a body in motion gives life to fingers and toes, that I come face-to-face with the mental game of cycling in sub-freezing temperatures.  At such a point, I seem to arrive at the same conclusion as always: I would not have it any other way.

One might suppose that as a cyclist commuting to work by bicycle, the arrival of winter would necessitate the use of a vehicle, one with heat and windshield wipers and headlights.  On the contrary, I will tell you that the onset of winter signifies one thing: warmer clothing.  Rolling out of the driveway, these days I find most mornings glazed over in a delicate frost, with fog slowly lifting from schoolyards and stretching across the silence of lawns. The air smells of winter and firewood, its frigid presence made known with each deep inhalation.  Peeking rays of sun, which only a month ago transformed trees into gold, illuminate the earth's mantle like finely crushed glass.  Each car that buzzes by creates a visible plume of exhaust, while my own combusted fuel exits my body in the form of heat and perspiration.  To travel distances , to do most anything via one's own manpower, yields an unmatched feeling of satisfaction.

When night falls and time arrives to make the six-mile spin back, helmet-mounted lights, winter riding boots, gloves, and a second skin of spandex and neoprene come to serve a purpose all their own.  It is as if I am inside a muted cocoon.  At times I feel as though, walking to my chained bike, I am either an astronaut or a scuba diver; the outside world muffles slightly through the filter of my earflaps and I can hear the Darth Vader rasp of my breath as it synchs with the cadence of pedaling legs. 

With the holidays at hand, the glow of electric decorations becomes a beacon for my night ride home.  The sensation while gliding through darkness, lights flickering before they streak into the peripheral of my vision, the recognition of coldness in the sight of one's breath; it all remains beyond description, bringing me back to the point of contentment in being able to ride my bike to work, and not wanting it any other way.