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

Definition of Walkabout :

a short period of wandering as an occasional interruption of regular work
Showing posts with label end of the world. Show all posts
Showing posts with label end of the world. Show all posts

20 February 2017

the last of the Badlands

Ancient spirits float on the howling wind, stealing your breath away in the badlands. You are powerless to fight it.
If ever a place felt it was not for man, it was here. The call of the wild is strong on the great prairie, the landscape cuts deep into the soul of man, ripping him wide open to expose his hypocrisy and lies. The layers unveil a million years of truth, creationists be damned.
Indians of the Great Plains hunt for weak prey. I must either face the truth, or run and hide with the grazing sheep.
My Arrival time has come.

I know who I am,

and what I must do.

06 May 2015


He shuts the door and grabs a chair to talk to me, teary eyed and pathetic.

"It's the end....I just want to thank you for all you have done for us..."

I'm too old for pathetic sympathy. I jump on a plane to find new direction in the endless rows of grapevines known as the Napa Valley.

The lack of rain in California leaves the rivers almost dry. One can't even commit a proper suicide here. The aqueducts have a calming symmetry though. I'll take what I can get.
Row after row of newly forming grapes sparkle in the springtime, a funny contrast to the crosses that start their foundation for life.

The rolling hills call for me to hike the trails. I find a small cemetery with a few headstones. It appears to be a family plot. The weather beaten fence surrounding them can't stop the weeds from taking over.

There seems to be a deeper meaning in there somewhere, I just need to let go of the anger and frustration myself, as no matter what I do, the weeds will eventually win.
Let's follow a new path, and see where it leads.

15 January 2014

the murders of Holcomb

"The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas. A lonesome area that other Kansans call  "out there"...
Until one morning in mid-November, 1959, few Americans, in fact few Kansans, had ever heard of Holcomb. Exceptional happenings never stopped there...."

-Truman Capote. In Cold Blood.
I awake early, hours before the sun will rise. I silently sip my coffee, thinking about the day ahead. It's not often one goes to visit a place of such gruesome and senseless murder.

It's midday when I pull into the tiny town of Holcomb. Situated off highway 54, you could blink and miss it during the summer when the crops are high. In the dead of winter the fields lay dormant like the Clutter's of fifty years ago.
November the 14th, 1959. Two men hear a rumor that $10,000 in cash is in a safe at the Clutter home. They kill, with a shotgun at point blank range, Mr. and Mrs. Clutter and their two children.

They leave with between $40 and $50 dollars. A community wonders do I.
Some say that everyone has equal parts good and evil in them, we must decide which urges to follow. It can be one bad decision, a snap of a synapse that causes you to forever be doomed down a dark path.

The citizens here know this better than most. As I walk the streets, I feel wary eyes on me.

An intruder, an outsider.

Will it happen again?

The passing of time has not, and will not heal the hearts and minds of the wholesome community. Sadness covers the town like the insecticide of a crop duster.
The pain is palpable, I feel the empty. I pray that the next generation will heal more quickly than those currently living here.

But I feel the story of  the Clutter's will be passed down from generation to generation.

Trying to protect, but only keeping fear alive.

20 April 2013

living in the Propaganda camp of Terezin

Sylvie wanted to show us the typical living conditions of Jewish families in Terezin caught in the promotional propaganda Nazi campaign. A campaign where the Jewish people showed that Terezin would be a suitable living space for Germans once the Jewish population was eradicated.

Up the staircase we climb, and duck our heads as we enter the tiny entrance. Inside, I still see my breath in the air. Sylvie mentions that the cold of today is nothing to the winters of the past, and none of the Jewish housings had heat. The small living space housed people wall to wall, people slept on every empty space, covering the bare floor. Pictures of the past haunt your mind, articles are all that remain from those that stayed here.

You run your fingers along the sacred words painted on the walls and feel their meaning, the prays to God that for many were unanswered. Lonely images stay with me, keys forever hanging on a hook, an empty chair, tattered blankets, a child's shoe.....

Constant reminders of the past, never to be forgotten.

17 February 2013

the lost communes of Bombay

The map had them labeled as beach campgrounds, tied to little seaside towns. As the car tires slowly turned, grinding the bones of the dead before me, I found only communes of the bungled and botched.

The bright morning sun illuminated the remains of the previous nights activities ; scattered and broken bottles of booze, weathered beach chairs around the blackened stones of last nights fire, the sign for a drum circle to chant to the heavens above, or hell below.

The trailers have sullen eyes that watch the newcomer trespass on their land. I receive no waves of reception, no welcoming smile, only the empty curiosity of the damned wondering why I am here.....

Down by the dike that protects the commune from the rising tide is an old woman in her electric wheelchair navigating the bumpy and sandy trail, her granddaughter walking by her side.

Pure sexuality in the younger one's walk, the grim reaper hovering like a dark ominous cloud over the elder.

I respect the peace the inhabitants seek here, go to the waters edge, and drown in the blue nothingness....

of the Bombay communes at Salton.

02 February 2013

Everything must end

The sign was barely visible through the thick morning fog...Salton City Beach. I gripped the steering wheel and turned sharply to the left, and lumbered down the sandy road into the barren wasteland.

Salton City's inhabitants peer out of dirty windows at the newcomer. I feel a creeper's eyes on my skin as I walk among the ruins of this place.

The closer to the water I get, the city's deterioration becomes ever so overwhelming. Prepared to have monsters lurch out of the chaos, I slowly explore with morbid fascination.

The shoreline has more dead tilapia. Abandoned chairs rot with each incoming wave. I see the remnants of ghost fisherman sitting in these chairs, hoping to catch a meal, start a fire, and sit and enjoy a small comfort.

The lyrics of Jimi Hendrix waft into my consciousness....

"everything falls into the sea, eventually"

Salton City beach from William on Vimeo.

14 July 2012


With this being my fourth consecutive year traveling to Kenya, I'd thought I'd seen it all.
Then Dandora slapped me across my face, and I once again re-evaluated everything.

As we started to drive into the industrial slum area, the initial fear inside our van was palpable. The contrast of the factories behind large concrete walls intermingled with people rummaging through the endless piles of trash will be forever burned into memory.

I pull out my camera, but our driver immediately tells me to hide it from sight. In an area like this, anything of value is seen as a way to get money for food, for survival.
I hid it under a shirt, but try to capture images, as I want the world to see the people that are forgotten by society at large.

We get to an area of Dandora called Rubenkwanjega. It is from here that we must exit the van and walk to the school we need to visit. I can't imagine there can even be a school amidst what I am seeing. We lock the van, take a deep breath, and walk the dirt path to our destination, praying for safety.

At what seems to be the end of the world, we find the Jovial Community School Centre. It is next to a black river and a cinder block bridge with a smoky scar. We ask about the river and the scar on the bridge. The headmaster of the school tells us that the factories dump their toxic waste into the river that the people in the area use to drink, bathe, wash their clothes....
A few months ago, the water caught on fire from the toxins. The whole area burned, several people burned alive. The government did nothing.

The children are so grateful for our visit. The power that comes from showing that you care for people you don't know is indeed a powerful emotion...

and a testament of the work Build.Create.Kenya will do.
**Some pictures on this post are the property of BCK.

16 January 2010

The soul quencheth art

I've been mentally depleted lately. No imagination or inspiration, no purpose. Some people need to shop, get a hobby, find religious or spiritual guidance, have sex, or some other outlet for them to feel refreshed, renewed, alive. I need an artistic expression. And I've been hard up getting what I need. But today I had that itch filled with the movie, Up in the Air.
For me, certain movies seem to be made just for me, and where I am in life. Rare, but when it does happen, they are powerful artistic works that speak to myself in a deep and powerful way. Past instances would be films such as The Royal Tenenbaums, Munich, and There Will Be Blood. I'm not a film critic, so I won't review the movie. If you are interested, check it out for yourself. I loved it. A good way to start 2010, I suppose. With overcast weather here in the SLC, the rest of the first day of the year was spent processing the movie I saw, and what it meant to me. Later, I decided to watch 9, a fascinating little computer animated, dark tale about survival after the end of the world.
After a day of enjoying these, I thought I would create my own little form of art, thru combining music (this time by Great Lake Swimmers) and photography ( as I like to do)....