There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes.
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more...

-Lord Byron

24 June 2016

the cemetery of a ghost town

On the edge of the ghost town is a dirt trail that leads to a small hill. You can make out a dirty chain link fence through the overgrown weeds to the remains of headstones.

The grave markers of the ghosts of Bodie.
Small fenced in plots of the very old, the far too young, and every age in between. I run my fingers over the smooth marble and feel the presence of Death.

I find an old wooden cross half hidden in the sagebrush. I feel compelled to pick it up and walk among the graves with it raised before me, like a deranged preacher.
Yet I have no sermon, nor a congregation willing to listen.

14 June 2016

Pebbly Beach

Afternoon is rounding it's final turn before evening begins. Past the boat docks and throngs of tourists you can follow the sea wall a few clicks and find yourself at Pebbly beach.

The stones here will play a symphony of ocean sounds as the waves cascade over the smooth pebbles. People are snorkeling the clear waters, chasing the bright orange fish that can be seen from the shoreline.

The ocean spray snaps my conscience.
I watch a submarine cruise along the coastline, a child brave the waters as she holds her father's hand tightly. A young tattooed woman playfully shows me her tanned back as she re-positions her self and turns the page in her novel.

The sun feels good on my pale skin.

12 June 2016

through the looking glass of a Ghost Town...

"And now my comrades all are gone;
Naught remains to toast.
They have left me here in my misery,
Like some poor wandering ghost."

-Joaquin Miller
The heyday of Bodie was between 1877-1881. The California gold rush of 1849 had fizzled out, yet prospectors were still finding their fortune in these hills below the Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains.

But not for long. As the 20th century was born, Bodie started to die. Today you can walk the empty streets and peer through the dusty and scratched windows to glimpse into the past.
It's a fascinating insight of antiques preserved from this era; coffee tins and school desks, liquor bottles and bibles. I think about what I have collected and laying around my own home, and wonder, will someone one day wander through where I used to live and be just as curious by what I've left behind?

11 June 2016

the ghost town of Bodie

The sky was overcast in purple and gray tones, with only the slightest fleck of blue in the far off distance. The man in the gas mask kept on driving the empty road, knowing that eventually he would come to his old town, not knowing if anyone would be there to welcome him home.
With each mile traveled, the anger started to slowly escape his tortured mind. Too much smoke and whiskey had trapped his malignant and poisonous words on a flicked and venomous tongue.

He was tired of lashing out on the feeble and retarded and just wanted to sit on an empty porch swing to watch the sun set as his life slipped away into a more comfortable medium.
Bodie. The town was frozen in decay, arrested in time, abandoned to botched souls. He felt right at home, for the first time in years. Perhaps the gas mask could finally be removed and the man could breathe.
His feet slowly crunch the gravelly stone beneath as he steps toward the church. He tries to sense a higher presence, a state of fact or existing, yet with each empty pew he finds only more of the same.
That is to say, he feels nothing. Angel's bells softly play in the blowing wind, and he accepts his fate, and joins the ghosts that wander the town's darker corners.

05 June 2016

Highway 395

Running along the backbone of the California/Nevada border is highway that can transport you to a higher medium.

The road of never ending landscapes called Highway 395.
I start in Reno, Nevada, and soon find myself lost and dreaming. I see the majesty of Iran, Mongolia and Siberia in front of me. Places of solitude that will withstand the tests and stresses of the modern world.

Landscapes that will continue to form with the wind, crack under the expanding ice of Allah.
Out here one must rely on a higher power to guide you, lest you wither and die on the scrub oak and black sand. I follow the open road and trust in this philosophy.
I pass by empty brothels that stand as a reminder of man's weakness for flesh, yet the open road of Highway 395 opens to me a path that is greater than this momentary flash of fleeting satisfaction.

I yearn for the comfort of a greater significance.