The only real map we had was an old photograph showing the Outerbridge Crossing, a marina that may or not still exist, and Perth Amboy refineries across the Arthur Kill.
Certain American dishes are best made for a crowd. Take, for instance, Brunswick stew and booya. They’re brewed most often in the fall, with a traditional base built on whatever a hunter brings home.
As we head into the next two bloody months, we could use some semblance of faith we’ll pull through together in one piece.
I don’t have time to write and cook today because I’m half way down I 95. Instead, I pulled from the archive a post about politicians campaigning at state fairs.
We all agreed that the hollow below would make a perfect place to live if ever the world descends into dystopian reality.
Maybe it’s that we’ve learned how to accept life now. Maybe, in some manner, we’re figuring out how to patch together a shade of what was once our daily routines. Or maybe it’s this, from the philosopher Jeff Goldblum. Whatever has happened, small moments of grace have surfaced–some of wonder and others of blessed normalcy.
Tom lives to photograph. I’m nothing if I can’t untangle lives that went before us. I think for us both, Dead Horse Beach is a portrait of brutal carelessness, giving up its ghosts with each low tide. That it draws so many to it–Tom and me, for instance–in wonder of its past and what it teaches us today is a reason to celebrate all the ugliness strewn across the sand.
What I love about these particular set of drone photographs is that they show the beauty of the living landscape.
Tom texted, “you want to see the strangest cemetery in Brooklyn?” And, of course, I picked him right up.
I meant to post a piece today about Tom and me going out on another droning expedition. The plan release would coincide with your roll out of bed and commencing of your daily scroll.The reason this didn’t happen is because of my two persistent pitfalls in getting this blog thing exploding happily along.