The Further Adventures Of My iPhone Camera

Today’s now-obligatory, interesting-to-only-a-handful shots of Maine:

Geometric teal and gray filtered through the whole wabi-sabi thing–need I say more?

“Sitting in an English garden / Waiting for the sun”

Headlands (150 feet tall–did I say I hate heights more than Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo?)

Wild ducks, sensing my love of pop music, form a series of Flying V Stratocasters . . .

Twenty-Four Polychromatic Hours In Maine

Dove gray? Of course. Crisp white against slate? Yes. Variations on spruce green? Sure.

But also this–random bursts of intense color made more so by the often severely limited palettes of their contexts:

Morning Staff Meeting

Gaylord and I go over an admittedly spartan agenda regarding the day’s upcoming events . . .

Scientific Proof

The only thing that friends and associates back in Washington, DC need to understand about mid-day Maine:

Office Space: Elvish Holiday Iteration

At last–a genuine reason to wear shades while writing, and not feel like Hunter Thompson.

Well, yeah, okay. Maybe a little like HST; there’s a scotch just out of frame. (And thus for the duration of the week, I shall be referring to the work-in-progress as Bad Craziness In Maine: A Savage Journey In The Heart Of Downeast.)

At least it’s not Bat Country . . .

Writer’s Retreat Mixer

They said I’d quickly make contacts here, and–hey–they were right.

We plan on reading each other’s pages later this evening . . .

The Smallest Writer’s Retreat In The World . . .

. . . In possibly the world’s smallest cottage on the Maine coast.

After I wrapped my head around the fact I’d seemingly rented from the Keebler Elves, I was instantly smitten. Inside it’s like a houseboat somehow tossed ashore intact during a storm.

If you need me, I’ll be dipping all those cookies in the fudge.

Cottage from, er, the front yard:

The front yard (1):

The front yard (2):

The front yard (3):

The living room/dining room:

The entire width of the bedroom:

Angel / Wings

On a sweltering day in front of Washington’s Union Station, pigeons protect their leader–The One Not Like Them Who Never Interacts. Avian legend says that if The One Not Like Them Who Never Interacts ever moves, it will signal the pigeon End Times . . .

The Calm After The Storm

A sudden afternoon deluge, gone as quickly as it arrived, leaving the yard glistening and Monet-like in the sun.

A Folding Of Seasons

Two overlaid shots from one window equals a February haunting . . .

Lush Wabi-Sabi

I’ll admit to growing fond of the low-tech nature of my iPhone camera–its limitations are also interesting opportunities.

Think of giving a man a chain saw and pointing him at a tree (boring efficiency). Now think of giving that man a hammer and chisel and pushing him toward the same tree (intriguing unpredictability). Sometimes the right tools for the job lock you into a very specific execution. Just as sometimes the wrong tools–or those that are less-than-deluxe–allow for execution that takes you somewhere, well, unexpected.??

So yes: an unintended-but-welcomed lush wabi-sabi–decadent asceticism . . .

Sent from my iPad

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random observations about and sidelong glances at American consensual delusions

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