The year 2016 was a significant turning point in my life to a degree that it’s overwhelming to reflect on. I started the year riding a freight train pig with wings through a blizzard over Shasta with my friend Kevin. Drove a revolving door of various collector’s Mercedes W123’s all over the backcountry of the west mostly solo and sometimes with friends, camping on BLM land alongside rivers and monoliths, fly fishing for dinner and picking berries for breakfast. Rode a mule across the desert with Cuervo, living out of his cob house near Slab City. Wandered for miles alone through the backcountry of Zabriskie Point and Tecopa, eating dates and bathing by picking the lock of the local pool at night.
By the summer I rode freight across the south to Atlanta to spill into the street as police murdered people week after week, Alton Sterling, Philandro Castile, say their names. My time in the south extended through the stickiest months, finding love amongst many, expanding my language and sharpening new tools in what people on the opposite coast sardonically relate to as the anarchist sex cult, iykyk.
I walked barefoot through the rainforest and at the edges of the swamp. Lost friends to motorcycle and car accidents, hello Chris, hello Clark. Lost touch with the last of my family, learned what it meant to have a chosen one. Got cancelled in LA for reading The Coming Insurrection (lol). Spent a couple months near the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation with thousands of people resisting the building of a pipeline. Slept underground in a subterranean dwelling my Pueblo comrades dug out, stayed into the winter, the doors of my ’79 Mercedes had all frozen shut.
The year 2016 was a significant turning point in my life to a degree that it’s overwhelming to reflect on. I started the year riding a freight train pig with wings through a blizzard over Shasta with my friend Kevin. Drove a revolving door of various collector’s Mercedes W123’s all over the backcountry of the west mostly solo and sometimes with friends, camping on BLM land alongside rivers and monoliths, fly fishing for dinner and picking berries for breakfast. Rode a mule across the desert with Cuervo, living out of his cob house near Slab City. Wandered for miles alone through the backcountry of Zabriskie Point and Tecopa, eating dates and bathing by picking the lock of the local pool at night.
By the summer I rode freight across the south to Atlanta to spill into the street as police murdered people week after week, Alton Sterling, Philandro Castile, say their names. My time in the south extended through the stickiest months, finding love amongst many, expanding my language and sharpening new tools in what people on the opposite coast sardonically relate to as the anarchist sex cult, iykyk.
I walked barefoot through the rainforest and at the edges of the swamp. Lost friends to motorcycle and car accidents, hello Chris, hello Clark. Lost touch with the last of my family, learned what it meant to have a chosen one. Got cancelled in LA for reading The Coming Insurrection (lol). Spent a couple months near the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation with thousands of people resisting the building of a pipeline. Slept underground in a subterranean dwelling my Pueblo comrades dug out, stayed into the winter, the doors of my ’79 Mercedes had all frozen shut.
The year 2016 was a significant turning point in my life to a degree that it’s overwhelming to reflect on. I started the year riding a freight train pig with wings through a blizzard over Shasta with my friend Kevin. Drove a revolving door of various collector’s Mercedes W123’s all over the backcountry of the west mostly solo and sometimes with friends, camping on BLM land alongside rivers and monoliths, fly fishing for dinner and picking berries for breakfast. Rode a mule across the desert with Cuervo, living out of his cob house near Slab City. Wandered for miles alone through the backcountry of Zabriskie Point and Tecopa, eating dates and bathing by picking the lock of the local pool at night.
By the summer I rode freight across the south to Atlanta to spill into the street as police murdered people week after week, Alton Sterling, Philandro Castile, say their names. My time in the south extended through the stickiest months, finding love amongst many, expanding my language and sharpening new tools in what people on the opposite coast sardonically relate to as the anarchist sex cult, iykyk.
I walked barefoot through the rainforest and at the edges of the swamp. Lost friends to motorcycle and car accidents, hello Chris, hello Clark. Lost touch with the last of my family, learned what it meant to have a chosen one. Got cancelled in LA for reading The Coming Insurrection (lol). Spent a couple months near the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation with thousands of people resisting the building of a pipeline. Slept underground in a subterranean dwelling my Pueblo comrades dug out, stayed into the winter, the doors of my ’79 Mercedes had all frozen shut.
Seeking embodiment through extended awareness on land and in water. Film from a recent pilgrimage through the backcountry of the San Lucia mountains alongside the Pacific on Esselen land, guided by @wildtender . Drunk still off spring’s fragrant inflorescences of false Solomon’s seal and chaparral sweat peas. As someone said, we walk, taste, and dream.
Potential through encounter. Last year I wrote an article about identity and the ways in which we find ourselves affirmed and informed by how we move through the world. Brushing against the lives of others as a way of shaping ourselves, experimenting with the amoeba as form. Lately, I’m missing random encounters, texture, and public spaces. Here’s a cat in a window in Marseille.
