A jaunt through New England — my roots. A reminder from all the stone fences that adorn the region. Left pondering our seemingly innate need to build fences, create the stranger, and judge the neighbor. We’re all in this together.
MENDING WALL BY ROBERT FROST Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
iii. Rome, a city of layers and stories. Deposits of time all built upon one another. The Forum, expanded by the first Caesar, where so many egregious and triumphant acts took place: executions, auctions, populist reforms, soaring rhetoric, political horse trading, whispering plots, gish gallop, lurid gossip. Later, home to medieval families huddled and building their homes against the columns where the mighty and powerful once absconded.
The Colosseum, a colossal distraction from the inequities and exploits of a corrupted class of plutocrats and autocrats. Brutal entertainment for a brutal age. Not unlike what we see today here and elsewhere. Red meat for the Populusque.
And what still remains are those statues of those whose egos caused the suffering of so many. Their quest to be remembered endures, but not until the weathering of the rock and the churn of time buries their tributes back into the earth. Where we all go one day to rest.
Italy is a country replete with stories of who we are as a people, as a society. Within its history is the promise of a true democratic Republic & the slow destruction of a government by the people through the avarice and ambitions of corrupt men. There are the cycles of religious reformation and also the preaching of end times & the horror of dogma. The commitment of financing the arts & the greed of consolidated money and power.
And yet, all through it, people worked hard and tilled the land, were born, had children, experienced profound joy, heartache, pain, and expired from the earth. Through the Republic, Empire, Kingdoms, Revolutions, Fascist Regimes, and Democratic systems, people loved and lived.
And history is simply a reminder that the times we’re in today are but another thin layer that will be built upon by those who come after. And on and on. Yes, by not knowing our history we’re doomed to repeat it, but we are inexorably part of a churning system we have little control over.
So, like the Stoics, focus on what you can control: how you respond. In our time we can choose to be kind, charitable, good-hearted, deferential, honest, virtuous, patient. Let the future archaeologists dig us up and make sense of it all.
Sundown rituals. Gatherings and solitary walks. In those quiet moments before nightfall, there’s some stock we can all take of our day. Moments of weakness and strength. Triumph and failure. Unrequited or realized love. The descending orange ball represents our best shot at this thing called life, just for a day. That until it’s gone in a flash and we turn back for home. The show over until the next day when the sun will stir and rise again (for most). Clean slate as my Mom used to say. Another opportunity to be who we want to be.
“The Canyon will change you if you let it.”
So many peer down it’s deep canyon walls, gaze across the expanse, and gather — knowingly or unknowingly — to just feel something.
Despite their true depth of understanding, all are drawn by some spirit that moves within, the workings of deep time, and the awe that elicits a feeling words fall short of containing. Of those who flock to it’s edges, few enter. Of those few, even less cross the canyon to the north rim and back.
That was our purpose at the time, to showcase both physical feats and the deep spiritual connection the land will give you, if you’re willing to receive, give back, and travel across with deep reverence.
Angel sat upon the rim and shared wisdom I wish all the bus loads and throngs of tourists would internalize into their being. Earlier, in the middle of the night, she graciously blessed the runners who would tred over sacred land and return in the same day.
I yearned so badly that all the visitors would put down selfie sticks enmass, stop their hurried pace, and just sit and be. It’s not a relevation to be forced on others, yet in those moments I wished to. A condor streamed across sky mid-interview and Angel greeted her father — we all shed some tears.
Before it was a natural park, the Grand Canyon has always been, and will forever be, sacred land and ancestral homeland to the eleven affiliated tribes — Havasupai, Hopi, Hualapai, the Navajo Nation, the Southern Paiute bands — Kaibab, Las Vegas, Moapa, Paiute Indians of Utah and the San Juan Souther Paiute tribe — the Yavapai-Apache Nation, and the Pueblo of Zuni.
In the tradition of the Diné (Navajo) people the Colorado River is known as Tooh, Tó Nts’ósíkooh, and also honored as Bits’íís Ninéézi, The River of Neverending.
Let the canyon change you.
CASTING CALL 🌊 APRIL 16-20
*dates subject to favorable weather.*
Part 1: MALIBU
We’re looking for an ocean loving family with two kids for a few days April 16-18. We will be exploring Malibu beaches, coastline, tide pools. Located in LA/Malibu.
+Must be comfortable in the outdoors, ocean environment, must be able to swim (at least parents and older child)
+Ideally kids ages between 5 and 13
+Fun, adventure loving, family
+Includes shoes, daily modeling fee, meals and a good time with our salty crew!
+Live nearby, have their own lodging
+Prior modeling experience is nice but not necessary
Part 2: CATALINA ISLAND
We’re looking for 2-3 adventurous, ocean loving friends, 20s-40s. Dates April 18-19/20. Located in LA.
+Must be comfortable in the outdoors, ocean environment, must be able to swim.
+Fun, adventure loving, laid back
+Includes product/shoes, daily modeling fee, meals and a good time with our salty crew!
+Long day trip to the island
+Must be able to convey usage full rights and sign waivers and adhere to production safety procedures.
📸 @nate_stephensonn
TO APPLY
Email, [email protected] or DM Chaparral.Studio here
>Enclose IG link, some photos of yourself, family and brief description of yourselves and prior experience that is relevant.
Summer in Canada. Dan and I voyaged to Vancouver Island with the Canadian masses. We were unlucky (and naive) to arrive on B.C day, the largest migration onto the island by mainlanders. We found a long ferry wait with the aroma of blooming flowers and lines of cars, trucks, and RVs all in que. We quickly learned the increased popularity of the island was a point of provincial friction — albeit friendly and subdued— between islanders and mainlanders. But, alas we Yankees assimilated, patiently filling the space with pleasant conversations and polite waiting that only Canadians could endure. 🌼🌊🚢
Note to self: spend more summers in Canada, but get a reservation.
🌟A little video of the fun to be had at SFR to get you through the rest of the week🌟
Dan and his friends celebrated his birthday a few months back at SFR. A weekend packed with long, sunny days full of adventure and a side of relaxation and nights of star gazing and music making around the firepit.
🎥 @dansflavor
⛺️ Director @fieldnotesfromtomorrow
#humpday #glamping #surfing #santabarbaracounty #vacationmode #jalama #jalamabeach #santabarbaravenue
One week north of Desolation Sound felt like a month at sea.
Hemingway once said the sea is the same as it has ever been long before men went on boats. Gallia glimmered at anchor, hummed along, and catched the wind whenever she could. Skippers, Nate and Meg, took up the helm while Salty Dan, Barky, and I were along to crew.
We found ourselves enmeshed in this web of life as full participants in it. Living close to the water and grateful for all it provided. Each salmon, crab, clam, long cod and prawn was a gift to be celebrated.
When the tide was low, the table was set. Our ritual of late night dinners, conservation, and laughter began only when the long northern light faded into darkness. Each night the anchor light pointed up toward the stars and the gentle rocking of the lulled us into the doldrums of a deep slumber.
Sail on @nate_stephensonn + @meggiestewie ✨🪢⛵️
A tribute to the best road there is in California: Highway 33.
All the serpentine bends and twists. A forced pause at the CalTrans checkpoints. Clandestine swimming holes. Look back into a window to the sea as you head toward the desert. Summit Pine Mountain to find snow on the pass or flowers in bloom. Descend into the Santa Barbara backcountry and discover Cuyama badlands — an alien landscape most coastal dwellers never see. Up here there’s no service or gas for sixty miles. Drive up the dog leg of the Cuyama Valley and arrive at the village of Ventucopa — small but proud. Revel in the drama of Caliente and Sierra ranges and the Los Padres National Forest on all sides. So far away yet so close to home.
