day 1
in 2016 i moved off grid. i had a job that led to me returning for my sophomore year of college 2 weeks late. my school had a policy that was if you missed 3 classes you automatically fail the course, 2 classes you loose a letter grade, and one class you just gotta get your shit together. i had been in a predicament of instability and the off the grid job was the only way i could secure room and board with a steady income, which meant being late. I got by with most my teachers except one. questioning me on my priorities.
what’s more important
getting to this class you’re going into debt to to procure a degree that you will use to get yourself out of debt
knowing where i was going to sleep at night
i had arrived to my dorm room past midnight on a tuesday, even though i had reached out to my soon to be roommates to leave to door unlocked, it was locked, i was exhausted, and i had just with me a suitcase of smoke infused clothes and my sleeping bag which was actually my brothers sleeping bag however my identical one we had growing up was lost to the sands of time. there was also a good amount of sand between the layers of denim in the suitcase.
i had emailed my teachers during the summer to tell them of my late arrival and was able to get some of my assignments so that i wouldn’t be too far behind.
one class required a daily log.
so here i thought i may see how i may now respond to these forgotten pages.
i was once required for a grade to jot down something everyday
i wonder if i could do that now
and then repeat this experiment at a time when the new pages also become forgotten
but now show them with a new idea in mind
in a new headspace
a new life
with new eyes
just an idea
Day 1
August 23, 2016
Walking along the freeway makes me think of that one photographer and of course I forget his name now and can’t look him up on the internet. He traveled across america and there is one picture he took that he actually took twice because he went back to the scene on a later date to capture a better picture. It also reminds me of Bill Moyer traveling the continental states, although it has been a few weeks, Listening to America is still strongly in my head when I look around.
I had finally turned left at the end of the resort road the week previous and visited the, basically, abandoned campgrounds due to the severity of the drought in California and the campers finding water elsewhere. Oddly enough, most of my own photography is about desolation and lonesomeness for to me there is something beautiful and intricate to the scenes. I had brought both my cameras along with me and made my way around the shut campground Stoney Point. The road was blocked off and the bathrooms locked with water shut off. The litter from the pine trees covers the asphalt in a crunchy sheet, I feel like I am the first person to walk along the road in a while. Apparently because of campers not staying at the sites nearest us (at the resort) due to the lake being just a small river now, the restaurant has lost a lot of our business.
I walk around the camp and take a look in the pits to see the kind of things people would leave. A Starbucks Frappacino, Modelo cans, disintegrating cigarette cases, Sierra Nevada’s, nothing truly surprising or picture worthy, in my opinion.
I get enough service to send out a quick text, 3 months sans service is hard especially when I just need some female company, living with 5 boys is, for my loss of words, ugh.
So I had left the resort at like 5:30? And told my brother I would be back at 7 because once light starts going there is only so much time before it is pitch black.
However, me being me, I am exploring and what not and decide to make my way into the dried lake bed. There are all these large pieces of wood that had been submerged in water for years and in the past few years since the water dropped they have dried, and to me there is something out the way wood in that position looks compared to regular dead dry trees in the woods. The patterns are beautiful and natural and they are just so unique with a softness from the erosion over years. I’m working my way through the red dirt and picturing how less than a decade ago, in my position I would be standing far below a boat.
I find a small water hole pond thing, something out of a fairy movie I think. Across the stream is an old rusty sink top, no other trash. I stay in the lake bed and watch the sun go behind the mountains.
Told Sean I would be back by 7, left the lake bed around 8 and high tailed it to get back to the resort around 8:45 just in time to watch Bear call Bingo.
I remember why I left so late, my coworker’s mom had surgery and she asked me to cover her shift so that she may spend some time with her before she went for throat surgery. She was very grateful, but I feel like it is something that people should just do. Sad that they don’t. I remember the photos and videos my dad would show me. They would make an interesting photo series. Kind of like that MARS book I found in Aperture.
Texture
-tychs
testing, trying, tying different ways of viewing together
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