The Narrative Image

A deer not yet realizing it's dead pirouettes down the remaining length of  my flinching pickup Tires scribble outside the lines With all my might I will the truck to turn like league bowlers use body English to  curve their bowling balls after the release but travel a physics-determined path as a passenger along for the ride to its end while accusing an unlikely omniscient being You have got to be kidding me After the gravel lands After the silence and me still breathing After the curious stop to see - kind enough to help as they understandably revel in their luck That cop who has seen it all before Asks me questions I can understand and like some guardian angel guides me out of my paralysis and actually says Just doing my job The tow truck driver thinks city folk need to keep their eyes open and pay more attention but I think tow truck drivers own and operate deer farms...

I set out for The Dalles last Saturday to track down some more examples of native American rock art (I'd been given a few leads - thanks Mr. Colman), but driving east on I-84, I didn't fail to notice that the Columbia River was as smooth as glass all the way from Portland to Biggs Junction and probably beyond. This phenomenon was not entirely unexpected (witness the kayak strapped to my vehicle). The miraculous conditions persisted as I sped up the gorge. By the time I passed Celilo Village , my plans to correlate GPS coordinates with actual physical locations were mostly forgotten. The brilliant blue water was calling to me like early morning flat water calls to water-skiers.  Note to literalists: When I say the water was calling to me, I'm employing a metaphorical device and by no means am I suggesting that water can actually talk. Even my brother Fred would have a hard time managing to capsize in this. Some months ago, wildfire danced impulsively ...

Got a few days off... but the weather pointedly asked me just how much fun can you really have in a tent by yourself when it's raining? So I headed East into the Cascade range rain-shadow, searching for sunshine...all the while keeping my eyes open for 'thin places'. Two different metaphors presented themselves: * Interstate freeway system as circulatory system (with the health of various 'organs' dependent on circulation/traffic * The route from Portland into rural Oregon as time travel into the recent past I found the first metaphor rather pleasing as my trusty (said with heavy irony) corpuscle/vehicle coursed through various arteries and veins to the peculiar arrhythmias of commerce (once I factored in the Columbia River). But wind turbines and the price of gasoline were jarring reminders that small towns were definitely not  nostalgic oases in time. Still, I very much enjoy road trips, if for no other reason than to find the perfect heat-lamp b...

A sliver of impotent moon puttered so peripherally on a path near the southern horizon that normally shy stars blazed – emboldened - as they spun and twirled in their 14 billion year old cosmic dance - not even tired yet. A waxing crescent moon didn’t present much of an impediment to seeing the Milky Way stretching across the apparent dome of the sky. I affixed my camera to the tripod and set it up for a long exposure only to find that I hadn’t brought my remote shutter release. To get an exposure longer than 30 seconds, I’d either have to hold the shutter with my finger (which kind of defeats the purpose) or get creative with band aids and cardboard. I managed to get this four minute exposure before the band-aids unstuck themselves. * * * Like anecdotal stories of old time buffalo herds covering the plains, Winnebagos so numerous they can’t be counted inundate the Columbia Gorge – fleeing from smoke filled, sweaty cities. It is almost as if it were the last day to camp… ...