The Problem With A Camera

The problem with a camera is, it only gives you a limited portion of what's really going on.

My motorcycle and I went for a ride yesterday. We took the camera, too. I couldn't take a picture of the camera, but trust me it was there.

Anyway. I wonder if I'm turning into a loner. I don't mind so much being alone. In fact, there are times when I like it a lot. Almost as much as I like short sentences. I mean, I like people too, but I'm finding more and more enjoyment in places of not-people.

For example, I stopped at this turn in the road on the Cascade River and sat and took pictures and felt the kiss of God in the air. Now, men aren't inclined to use this word very often, but I must say--it was lovely!

As I traveled further down this road it wound and weaved through tunnel-like trees and into wide open clearings, I sped up to speeds in excess of 90 mph and screamed and hollered at the top of my lungs. I sang some James Taylor, some Eagles, but mostly just corny little homemade John songs that can't be repeated simply because they're just that corny.

Maybe the fact that a camera only gives you a limited portion of what's going on isn't so bad after all. :)

Tonight I decided to go take a walk after dark. The decision was actually made before dark--to take a walk after dark.

It's a beautiful night. The eastern sky is deep, deep blue. Not quite black. The outlines of the foothills that surround our valley are still distinguishable. The stars are just beginning their light show, and over there in the west, a lighter hue of blue still hangs on at the point where sky and earth meet. The aromas of early fall have become increasingly noticeable. At first a faint and delicious blackberry smell gives way to a distinct and homey cedar that is fueled by the slightest breeze. My senses are alive and I myself am pleased that they are.

As I walk I can't decide if I've come to collect my thoughts or merely to take inventory of which ones I'll keep and which ones I'll let go.

Walking is a nice way to remember my thoughts as a boy. Maybe it's because I revert back to my first mode of travel, or maybe it's because it's so simple and serene like I was way back then. Either way, it's nice. The street on which I walk is sparsely lit and I like it that way. I can hear the train whistle off in the distance and a cat scurry out from under a car as I walk on. I pass by houses where the front room is lit only by the blue glow of a television. It is so quiet now that I can hear the heel-to-toe rhythm of my own steps beneath me and I suddenly realize that I am thinking the same simple thoughts I did as a boy. I think I'll keep these.

It's a beautiful night.

I just thought I'd tell you.