Capturing The Moment

Sunsets are to blame for countless tomes of affected poetry, super sappy kisses, and if you drive the perfectly east-west streets of Salt Lake City, rush hour fender benders. And yet I still love them. I love sunsets because they are The Moment personified. The sunlight you see on the mountain will never rest in that exact same spot in that exact same way ever again.

My parents house faces east and the mountain rising sharply at the end of their street has always held the sunset in such a gentle way. My old room, the boxes upon boxes upon boxes of books I still have stashed in their garage a decade later, the neighbors circling the cul-de-sac, none of these say "home" to me. This particular mountain however, has always been a version of home.

Random D.C. Surprise | Iranian Paintings

I visited the National Cathedral primarily to see the "Dreamers & Believers" exhibit honoring the cathedral's centennial year; but I was in turn surprised by an exhibit of paintings by young Iranian artists.

After wandering through the nave and poking my head, and camera, into little chapels, nooks, and crannies, I snuck past the "Closed to Visitors" sign to board an elevator headed up up up to the observation deck. Even the architecture on the tippy top of the cathedral in random dusty hallways is beautiful. After snapping a few pictures of the buttresses perched on the edge of the roof, gargoyles up close and personal, and incredible panoramas of the city, I turned a corner to see a gallery of paintings tucked into a pocket-sized room.

I really regret not writing down the names of the artists but I was so surprised and delighted by the paintings that I just took a moment to enjoy the space. **Note to self: not everything has to be researched. Below are two of my favorites.

** She says as she adds a hyperlink to both pictures directing readers to "Payvand" (an Iranian website I'm not familiar with) and an interesting article about the exhibit. I couldn't help it.

Protest March | Washington, D.C.

The air is electric, the feeling incomparable. The raw force of 100,000 people marching in unison and common vision is inspiring. I've marched many times in Salt Lake City and was in San Francisco for the ANSWER (Act Now to Stop War and End Racism) rally in 2005 (for the March 19th anniversary of the invasion). While that march was larger than the recent march in D.C., there is something wholly unique about marching in our nation's capital. We were marching 120 people wide, completely shutting down eight-lane Pennsylvania Avenue, and nearly 10 blocks deep.

There were Iraq veterans clad in Army fatigues leading the march, as well as Vietnam vets, Korea, Afghanistan... There were the ubiquitous hippies and obligatory drum circles, but the hallmark of this march was the sheer number of teenagers, college students, professionals in suits, concerned grandmothers, and middle Americans. ANSWER published an excellent article on this rise of this new movement. The article articulates well how this march shows a turn in the tide and that this march is reminiscent of the protests in the peak of dissent over Vietnam (ie: arrests, demonstrations of civil disobedience, tear gas, riot gear, etc.)

[Chanting: "Tell me what democracy looks like!"
"This is what democracy looks like!"]

I've said I want my country back, I also want my words back. Patriotism, for instance, is one word the political right has hijacked and twisted and destroyed and handed back as a slap in the face. Do they have no sense of history? Dissent protects democracy and protest is the highest form of patriotism. How dare anyone accuse me of not loving this country because I speak against its policies and leaders. Stop spinning the story. It's not about the troops, it's about our immoral leadership.

The irony and hypocrisy are astounding. As I left the crowd to walk back to the Metro I was barraged by counter protesters. I was one single person, five blocks away from the protest at this point, when a man saw my blue sign with a white dove sketched in the middle and ran up to me. He stuck his bullhorn up to the side of my face and shouted in my ear, "Support America! Support our Troops! We are the Christians, you asshole, and you're going to hell!" Awesome.

It is because I love this country so much that I protest so loudly. It is because I love this country and because I have taken the time to gain a realistic and well-informed knowledge of its history that I know that we can be so much better than we are. We can be more compassionate, more fair, more ethical, more respectful, more curious, more critical. The degree of my anger as to the direction this country is heading is equivalent only to the degree of my love for it.

And yet, even with all that has gone awry, how fortunate are we to be able to gather, rally, chant, protest, dialogue, debate, march, voice dissent, and call for the impeachment of our leaders...right on their font lawn? That's the America I know and love. God bless that.

Finally, what would a protest be without The Crazy Guy?
This is for you, Crazy Guy. Keep rockin!

Random D.C. Surprise | The Bricks of Georgetown

I forgot how intensely red the bricks of Georgetown are. My shoes were bright white in contrast.

This visual elated me as I wandered through narrow streets snapping photo after photo of squishy row houses and coveting the life that lives in a five story brownstone with no yard.

Random D.C. Surprise | My DNA

I have a vile of my DNA hanging from my lamp at work. How Angelina v. Billy Bob.

I was minding my own business at the Arts on Foot Festival (post forthcoming), admiring paintings created by prisoners in art therapy programs, when a small voice chimed in, "Want to see your DNA?"

"I'm sorry..." I pulled my mind out of a pencil sketch of Tupac and searched for the voice.

"Would you like to take your DNA home with you today?" She repeated with a smile.

"I suppose I planned to do that anyway..." I quipped. She was not amused.

I subsequently agreed to participate in her activity primarily as an apology for my lame joke.

I scraped my tongue with a wooden stick, swished sour liquid around in my mouth, spit in a test tube, used an eye dropper to combine this spit with some sort of alcohol and drops of a mystery acidic fluid, and then shook shook shook the tube.

A little strand of what looked like a stray sweater thread suddenly appeared in the tube. She ceremoniously tied a thread around said tube, put it around my neck and sent me on my way.

National Cathedral | Washington, D.C.

"Great windows, great music, great architecture, all have a cosmic quality.
They need no interpreter."
(James Sheldon)

My fingers sputter each time I start this post. I begin to describe the soft light, delete delete delete. The High Gothic arches I cherish so much, the ribbed arching, delete delete delete. I can't seem to find the words. I've been all over Europe and experienced some of the most inspiring architecture in the world, and I would say that our National Cathedral easily holds its own.

It's the 6th largest cathedral in the world. The nave stretches a tenth of a mile and soars to 100 feet high, thus qualifying it for coveted Gothic status. It took 83 years to complete (1907 to 29 September 1990...Happy Centennial Birthday, Cathedral!). A unique feature of this cathedral, which reminded me of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, is the contemporary scenes depicted in the stained glass. European cathedrals tend to be fairly predictable with the stations of the cross and the obligatory statue of Saint So-and-So; whereas U.S. cathedrals, much like the U.S. itself, tend to set their own standards and write their own history.

I know people who are really bothered by this; however, I find it not only interesting social commentary, but charming. In the National Cathedral you'll find stained glass depicting Maryland Bay, Woodrow Wilson, the Apollo XI mission...complete with an actual moon rock stuck in the design of the glass, and more. Grace Cathedral, for another example, sports murals depicting the history of California, the Gold Rush, and ruffians of the Western frontier. To some it may seem irreverent, but to me there is something deeply hopeful about immortalizing the contemporary. To understand your place in history, to know that a cathedral built in your lifetime will still be standing 1,000 years from now and that people will marvel at a stained glass window depicting the ancient story of two Civil War generals, is a fascinating idea. I wish more Americans had an awe and respect of their impact and place in history. This world would be a gentler place.


I don't know how accurate the architect's statement really is, but it's aches and I enjoy it: "I know of no other architect who has ever consciously designed a building with the knowledge that he would not live to see its completion. Therefore, I must draw every details more carefully and be more certain of its accuracy and beauty." (Philip Hubert Frohman)

There's an unspeakable pain in loving something so much and yet knowing that you will not ultimately experience the very best of that thing you love. Was the architect dating the cathedral? Because that sounds really familiar to me.

National Postal Museum | Washington, D.C.

They soared on biplanes, leaned out of speeding trains, ran steamboats through blockades, and charged horse-drawn coaches past armed robbers - all to deliver the mail. (museum brochure)

Where has the National Postal Museum been all my life? How have I passed this up on previous trips? This museum rocked. my. world. The way the museum portrays mail, mail carriers, the delivery process, etc. is outrageously charming and quirky.

One of my favorite moments was watching a video installation about the evolution of the transportation of mail (ie: horses, boats, planes, cars, etc.). The narrator explained that in the 1950s the USPS converted their delivery vehicles to jeeps returning from WWII. The jeeps were "proven machines, nimble, fast, and capable of withstanding weather and the unpredictable roads of both urban and suburban environments..." behind the narrator's baritone movie-trailer voice rolls archival footage of soldiers packed into jeeps off-roading riotously with machine guns in hand, mud splashing, huge grins on they're boyish faces as they intentionally made the ride as rough as possible. Hard core. And you thought it's just ValuPak coupons, electric bills, and magazines you never get around to reading.

I'm not a stamp collector and was surprised at how interested I was in the exhibit of stamps from all over the world. I was particularly interested in stamps from Pakistan, Iraq, Qatar, and some African countries. They're gorgeous. How can you not be intrigued by an exhibit titled "Trailblazers and Trendsetters: Art of the Stamp." Trailblazers. Right on, you rogues, you. I've decided that by the time I die I will serve on the Citizens Stamp Advisory Council. I wonder if I can nominate myself or if I need to lobby for a position? It's all who you know in this town.

The evolution of the envelope. The milestones of rural mail delivery related to the development of the interstate highways. A workshop titled: Poetry, Prose, and Postage, and an exhibit of Mail as Art. The museum boasts the largest and most comprehensive collection of philatelic materials in the world. There's our word of the day.

Penn Quarter FreshFarm Market | Washington, D.C.

The colors and textures are riotous. Nothing compares to the smells, the tastes, the sounds of friends laughing and feeling a distinct pride and sense of community. I love juicy fruit and crisp vegetables, fresh cut flowers and warm scones. In addition to this pleasant assault on my senses, I'm in love with farmer's markets because they hearken to something nestled deep in my soul: the sense of community that modern America has abandoned. Buying locally and supporting the hard work of your neighbors and friends has a literal power in it. The energy that comes from feeling a respectful stewardship of our resources is unparalleled.

I was enchanted by the Penn Quarter FreshFarm market (8th & D-E Streets NW). By comparison to the Salt Lake farmer's market it was tiny (they do have four different markets across the city), but the fundamental sense of space was identical. I overheard people catching up with each other and vendors greeting their weekly regulars by name. If I had a nickel for every hemp tote, bicycle, and hand-written chalk sign boasting "organic" I would be a very rich woman. I would use my fortune to support community markets in every town across America. Then I would buy tree-ripened peaches.

On the Road Again | Washington, D.C.

I had grandiose intentions of blogging each night, posting a few photos, rambling on about the interesting places I'd visited and things I'd seen that day. Well kids, it's 4:00am, my cab comes in 30 minutes to wisk me away to my insane red-eye flight, and I've yet to blog a single line. Go figure.

I do plan to blog about the trip, I was just naive to assume I would be able to manage it each night (or any night, for that matter). I'll work on these posts over the next few weeks. I have family that wasn't able to come on this trip and friends who love DC as much as I do and want to hear of my adventures. Stay tuned for news about the wedding (the catalyst for this trip), and the three days outside the wedding that I ventured into DC. I've been to the city numerous times, but it always leaves me wanting more. This time around my itinerary included the 15th Annual Arts on Foot festival, the Postal Museum, an anti-war march of thousands of peaceful protesters, Penn Quarter farmer's market, Frida Kahlo exhibit, National Cathedral centennial showcase, to name but a few of the highlights.

More later...

ilovermont

Out for a lazy Sunday drive to enjoy the electric spark of fall in the air, I came to a once-gated community no longer protected. Turning into the property I drove only a short distance before coming to a covered bridge. The community seemed to be a haphazard attempt at pseudo-Elizabethean-ish design. I assume this covered bridge was meant to be cottage-like and to remind people of simpler times; times when people paused for their neighbor's carriage, allowing others to first pass through the single lane before trotting your horses across. I must have slowed as I passed over the bride, trying to see more clearly the exposed roof beams constructing the cover, when, unlike the friendly folk of 'yore, some jackass in a monstrous Hummer H3 honked loudly and swerved wildly around my car in utter annoyance at the delay.

Regardless of Mr. Big Balls H3 I still found the bridge beautiful and was immediately transported to our college apartment. Having completed my 60-minute morning ritual, I wake her up five minutes before our class starts and walking through the rainy campus we engage in detailed conversations about this week's Shakespeare play we were both assigned to read but invariably I am the one who finishes it.

I was at Stonehenge taking goofy pictures with her, thinking that looking overly confused next to the Celtic monument of myth and lore is hysterically funny and proud that our joke is now captured on film. This process of nerdy hysteria is repeated in Dorchester as we pretend to be famous Jane Austen characters while standing on an obscure street corner no one but a true bibliophile would recognize as critically important to the cannon of English literature.

I was in Vermont visiting both her family and the 19th century mansion she called home and loved so profoundly. We were hiking through rolling hills, spending endless hours swimming in the chilly river as we slid down mossy rocks approaching the waterfall. Our car windows rolled down, the world smells green, Dar serenades a folk tale of Christians and Pagans, and we cross bridge after covered bridge on our way to nowhere in particular.

I miss her.

A version of home

It's not the building itself, though the building is beautiful. It's not the symbolism or the religious function of the building, having never been inside the ritual does not affect me. It's the sense of space. The space is a tangible, physical presence that I can still feel as I approach and that still fades dramatically as I drive away.

Timpanogos is translated as "river of rock." When the Piute Indians look at the mountain they see a tribal princess lying on her back, her head-to-toe profile a delicate silhouette against the sky. The temple was constructed in the foothills of Mount Timpanogos and stands majestically below her jagged skyline.

An entire decade has filled the space between me and the time that I would drive to this space to meditate, cry, write, sleep, pray, and eventually leave it behind. The gracious space at the feet of the princess and within the warm glow of the temple would hold it for me and patiently wait for my return. The space would show me, as only a trusted friend can, the progress I had, or had not, made since my last visit.

When I look at the mountain today I see the Piute princess. I also see a version of home.

A day in the life

Take an average month and imagine each Saturday's to-do list. About half the time my agenda runs a responsible, mundane cycle of groceries, laundry, and scrubbing the bathtub. The other half is packed full of volunteering, community festivals, farmer's markets, travel (business and pleasure), and the like. Yesterday resides amongst the more colorful half.

I started my day as I've started nearly every other Saturday for the past three and a half years, volunteering at Ten Thousand Villages. A national network of non-profit retails stores, Villages was started by the Mennonites in 1946 as an alternative to our country's shameful trade practices. Each store has a few paid managers and is then staffed entirely by volunteers. With incredibly low-overhead and 501(c)(3) status, the mission of Villages is to provide a fair and living wage to artisans in developing countries.

There are 100+ artisan co-ops in 30+ countries who have long-term relationships with Villages. Selling their goods in North America provides income they would not otherwise earn and therefore provides a life for their family, children, and village that they would not otherwise be able to provide. Many of the co-ops are comprised of disabled persons, or women involved in micro-credit businesses, or tribes who scarcely have economic mobility without these fair trade relationships.

The energy inside the store is tangible and radiates with light. Partly this is because the people who "work" there are actively giving their time to a cause we passionately believe in. It is also a result of the karma Villages is putting into the larger, global system. If we have to live in a capitalist society, we might as well find more ethical modes of operation. As evidence of this karma, I saw something yesterday that, in various forms, I see often at the store.

A woman came in with a receipt from early-June. For the past three months she has been waiting for her purchase to clear her bank account. When it never did, she came in to tell the store that the charge didn't go through and she would like to pay now. I strongly believe that positive action for the common good put into the system will equal positive results for the common good produced by the system. I love spending time at Villages and seeing this energy in motion.

It's not every day I'm finger printed and asked to leave permanent record of such on the merchant copy of a receipt, but then it's not every day I make a purchase at Salt Lake's largest sex boutique. This week I'm traveling to a wedding in Washington, DC. After the rehearsal dinner the girls are gathering for a champagne-flooded lingerie shower. We have specific instructions to bring "one thing naughty and one thing nice." One thing naughty left no choice but to visit Dr. John's.

One thing nice left no choice but to visit a boring department store and purchase, uneventfully and without criminal-style ink pads, a sweetly off-white linen camisole/crops sleep set.

One might feel that being the only person shopping in a sex boutique the moment it opens on a Saturday morning would be uncomfortable. I would argue that fighting hoards of housewives and salivating Christmas shoppers (I said Christmas shoppers) at an arts and crafts megastore is by far the more uncomfortable environment. It's the 8th of September and already Halloween gear is a thing of the past. I did manage to get in and out quickly with my intended items in tow: a black bag and black tissue paper for the naughty shower gift and a white bag and white tissue paper for the nice shower gift.

I also made the obligatory run to the grocery store. Even though I only have a matter of days until I'm out of town, the sad bachelor-esque vision of my ranch dressing, three eggs, and half a wrinkled cucumber begged me to pay even a small bit of attention to my pathetic fridge. I love traveling, but it takes its toll. On my way home I made the traditional weekend stop at Luna for my quart of mango Italian ice. Luna is the locally-owned gem that was forced to relocate in the wake of the Sugarhouse redevelopment disaster. They relocated to the ever-increasingly hip 9th & 9th neighborhood. 9th & 9th is a great example of an intentionally designed/developed urban character district, with walkable streets, mixed-use buildings, an art house theatre (Sundance hot spot) complete with indy film rentals, local businesses, single-lane traffic, trees and art doting every inch of open space, perfect.

I topped off the day with a movie at the $1 theatre in my neighborhood. I saw "Waitress" and even though Jeremy Sisto plays a total dirt bag, I fell in love with him all over again. His black eyes were a lovely end to my random day.

First Friday Films | Take One

First Friday Films | Take One
Subtitles & Split-screens

In August I indulged an a-typical lull in my schedule with a veritable film fest. I work in higher-ed and while the rest of the world was vacationing just prior to the new academic year, I was squinting at subtitles and split screens in the cool A/C of my living room.

L'Avventura
Director: Michelangelo Antonioni

When this Italian film premiered at Cannes in 1960, the audience absolutely hated it. They heckled the screen, walked out, you'd have thought it was stand-up at the Apollo. After the screening, a number of critics banded together and published a letter in the festival bulletin endorsing the film. Although it was entertaining to read the back story of L'Avventura's premiere, it seems fairly typical. Critics tend to praise what the public hates and vice versa. I have to side with the critics on this one. I thought the film was well-paced, lush, and gorgeous (and not just because Monica Vitti is ridiculously beautiful).

The word "avventura" appears only once in the screenplay and in spoken Italian it can either mean "adventure" or "fling." The basic plot follows a cadre of bourgeois 20-30 somethings drifting aimlessly (think Fitzgerald's Paris 40 years earlier) until a girl from their boating party suddenly goes missing. The boyfriend of the missing girl soon makes advances on the missing girlfriend's best friend, who eventually responds in kind.

Antonioni, in a statement at Cannes, said that we are all "burdened with a heavy baggage of emotional traits which cannot exactly be called old and outmoded, but rather unsuited and inadequate. They condition us without offering us any help, they create problems without suggesting any possible solutions." He doesn't justify, rationalize, or psychoanalyze the boyfriend's actions, or the best friend's reactions, for that matter (though the Cannes audience clearly did). In his opinion, it is what it is. (What is the Italian equivalent of c'est la vie?). His point is that the social mores that would either endorse or condemn the "avventura" are irrelevant.

Antonioni continued, "Every day, every emotional encounter gives rise to a new avventura. For even though we know that the ancient codes of morality are decrepit and no longer tenable, we persist [...] afraid of the moral unknown. Starting out from this point of fear and frustration, [we] can only end in a stalemate." Which is exactly how the film ends. At first it doesn't feel like a satisfying ending. It's one of those endings where you stare at the blank screen thinking, "What?! Seriously?" But when you understand that it's not intended to satifsy, and that it actually intends to alienate you, you realize how genius the film is.

Time Out
Director: Laurent Cantent

Throughout the entire film I thought of both Sloan Wilson's "Man in a Grey Flannel Suit" and John Updike's "Rabbit, Run." The common theme being the plight of bored suburban men. Culturally we are conditioned to focus more attention on the kept housewife popping Prozac and crawling out of her skin. Rarely do we consider, or allow, how difficult and tedious marriage, kids, and a 9-5 can be for men.

This is a French film, begging the assumption that the marriage malaise is trans-cultural. The man in this film goes so far as to construct an elaborate but fake career, travel itineraries, investment deals, an entire second life outside his marriage and kids. The crescendo of the film is when his wife, children, and friends intersect with his patchwork of lies.

It was a very slow-moving and quiet film, and yet it was creepy enough to hold my attention. I kept waiting for the grand climax when the story would unravel in a burst of fireworks and drama; but it's not a slap-you-across-the-face American film and so it remained esoterically French through and through. I liked it and thought it served as interesting social commentary, but I wouldn't watch it a second time.

Conversations with Other Women
Director: Hans Canosa
Writer: Gabrielle Zevin

This film debuted at Telluride in 2005 and proceeded to travel the international festival circuit, making its first theatrical debut in France in June of last year. It can now be found at a Redbox near you.

Aaron Eckhart (yum) and Helena Bonham Carter (perfection) play "man" and "woman," respectively. It seems at first a simple tale of a wedding hook-up via a bride's maid's one-night stand with the bride's brother. Only it's not that simple (it never is) and as the story unravels, the movie throws serious punches and surprises. As soon as it ended, even before the credits rolled, I went right back to the opening menu and started it a second time. I loved it even more than the first go-round.

I mention the writer and the director because both are insanely brilliant and are names-to-know. The script is fresh and honest and witty and sexy. It's one of those scripts where you blush half way through the film and think, "I don't know the writer, do I? How does he know that about me? Was that out loud?" Brilliant. Canosa and Zevin worked in perfect tandem to create this work of art. I don't throw that term around lightly because it's become so irrelevant, but this film is truly Art.

The entire film is hand-held and still cams. The entire film is split screen the entire time. Brilliant. Their thematic concept was that every love story has two sides (at least) and so one side of the screen is the woman's perspective and one side is the man's perspective. For instance, when the man is leaning in to flirt with the woman at the bar, his perspective is of a lock of her hair curling and falling over her ear, and that's what you see on one side of the screen. Her perspective is the top of the bar and her fingernails as she looks down while he whispers to her, and that's what you see on the other side of the screen. All the while the conversation is rolling and there are long continuous shots. Brilliant. The continuous shots are no "Russian Ark" or anything of that magnitude, but it is truly incredible film making. Can you imagine the editing?! That's what kept going through my mind.

The sex scene. Ohmigosh. Can we talk about the sex scene? How fascinating to watch a sex scene in split screen from two completely different perspectives and then revel in the poignancy of the moments when both sides of the screen show the exact same image. It rarely happened, but that's what makes it even more beautiful. It was a sweet moment when Helena bounces quickly into Aaron's frame and kisses him, but is quickly back in her own screen. You have to see it to understand. Drop what you're doing and get to a Redbox as quickly as you can. Like now.

Sancharram (The Journey)
Written, Directed, and Produced: Ligy J. Pullappally

I love Indian flims. From eccentric Bollywood to Deepa Metha's profound masterpieces, Indian films always manage to enchant me. The tag line for this film whispers: "In a land steeped in tradition...a secret love." Turns out the secret is lesbian love between teenage school friends Kiran and Delilah.

I watched the previews (a great way to discover other independent films, btw) and soon realized I'd stumbled into a "Wolfe" film. Surprise. Wolfe, I learned, is a movie studio that caters exclusively to gay/lesbian themes. I suppose, if you think about it, it's fair to say that nearly every commercial Hollywood studio caters to heterosexual themes.

"Sancharram" falls perfectly in line with the iconic elements of Indian drama: colorful, sensual, lyrical, spiritual, haunting. The small, highly traditional village where Kiran and Deliliah live would never welcome their relationship and Delilah is already promised to a man her parent's arranged for her. The film aches and drips with all the passion of thwarted love, add to that the passion of thwarted teenage love. Yet you soon forget that these girls are 15ish and age is wholly unimportant. It's a mature story, a captivating story, and a very strong feminist piece. The underlying theme of empowerment and living authentically leaves you feeling hopeful and happy. Magical.

Once
Director: John Carney

See it. See it. Then see it again. If the fantastic music isn't enough for you (a side project of Glen Hansard, Irish band The Frames, with Marketa Irglova) or if for some reason you don't enjoy tender, funny, honest, bittersweet love stories, then I have two final words for you. Glen. Hansard. Enough said.

Our morning in Pleasant Grove

Boasting the most generic landscapes imaginable, the suburban wasteland known as Utah County is nothing but fast food, big box, and monstrous McMansions. Each square mile contains its own shrine to the Holy Trinity of Suburbia: a Vietnamese nail studio, a tanning salon, and a Jamba Juice (or other similar made-to-order fruit smoothie establishment). With a Walmart on every corner and an SUV in every driveway, Thomas Wolfe is right, I can never go home again.

Nonetheless, I'm in Orem visiting my parents and enjoying a Monday off work (thank you, union organizers). This morning my sister-in-law and I stumbled into a town called Pleasant Grove. While I assume the actual boundaries and residential neighborhoods of this city sprawl out endlessly, it was the historic downtown district that surprised and delighted me.

I have been through this downtown many times over the years; but it was one of those magical moments when you see something very familiar for the first time.

It is charming. It is quirky. It is nostalgia with sugar on top. I would have loved to see it in the glory days; the family drug store next to the theatre on Main Street, across from the barber shop and city park, everything nestled in bricks and gaslights. In the time spent capturing these photographs, we never saw another living soul.

Flowers feed the soul

eve was framed

even eve
the only soul in all of time
to never have to wait for love
must have leaned some sleepless nights
alone against the garden wall
and wailed
cold, stupefied, and wild
and wished to trade in all of eden
to have but been a child

in fact, i gather that is why she leapt
and fell from grace
that she might have a story of herself
to tell in some other place

("History" Jennifer Michael Hecht)