More specifically concerning: zigzag
22 August 2003, around 19.27.
William J. Faubion House Zigzag, OR (built ca. 1908) [June 2002]
23 August 2003, around 15.44.
It is a long story and a sad story, not yet complete and not entirely knowable – mainly about the past and how to deal with it. For lack of evidence, I’ll skip the beginning, though the middle is hearsay and the end has not yet arrived. Starting, then, in media res: the old man […]
30 August 2003, around 4.18.
William J. Faubion House Zigzag, OR (built ca. 1908) [August 2003]
30 August 2003, around 21.15.
Game was plentiful and at times a drove of elk could be seen on Hunchback mountain which at that time was bare of timber. Food consisted of fresh meat they could kill, beans, bacon, potatoes and dried fruit. Together they cut all trees in the valley, mostly alder. One year late in August, they set […]
22 September 2003, around 14.13.
30 August 2006, around 12.07.
Zigzag, OR, 26 August 2006.
27 November 2014, around 15.30.
Evidence of a brief excursion outdoors. There’s a fire in the fireplace. There are books on the table. It’s misting outside in the true Oregon manner.
a mere habit
24 December 2014, around 11.56.
It is snowing outside and there is nothing to do save sit in front of the fire and read. Indeed, there is nothing one would rather be doing. Did she distrust all figurative language because she was sharply aware of the aptitude of the most languid figurative expressions for persisting as a mere habit of […]
A view (46)
26 December 2016, around 11.06.
12 August 2017, around 12.00.
out for a walk
23 December 2017, around 10.40.
29 December 2019, around 11.06.
Looking for new paths to familiar places.
A view (48)
15 January 2020, around 15.27.
trees and snow.
6 April 2020, around 14.27.
Reading odd bits of books in the evening as consolation for not being able to manage a satisfactory photo of any of the nurse stumps on the short walk through the woods I love the wind even if, exactly, my imagination tends to give it ferocious shapes and colors. Battered by the wind, I go […]
a singular philosophy
13 November 2020, around 7.00.
The view from the ridge, circa late summer 2017. The path that I like to walk (and have for some years) is the beginning of a nine-mile trail that goes up to a Forest Service lookout (which I have not yet reached, and probably never will, by that route). The trail climbs a series of […]
A view (51)
26 November 2020, around 9.46.
Autumn afternoon, Zigzag.
A view (52)
30 December 2020, around 8.49.
the forest path
23 March 2021, around 5.38.
Sometime near the end of last November or beginning of December I managed to hurt my left heel. For the first two weeks or so I didn’t allow myself to think too much about it and kept my daily routine of walking (usually some three to five miles, depending on the weather and my inclinations), […]
22 September 2021, around 10.47.
They have started to appear along the forest path. First there was one, and the precarity was amusing; between one walk and the next the stack usually would have toppled, either gravity or other passers-by objecting. Now they line the path, darkling signposts, and the sight unnerves me – one such is charming, but seven or […]
up the road
25 October 2021, around 9.22.
24 November 2021, around 9.47.
Knowledge of values, in fact, is a matter of direct insight, like seeing that the sky is blue, the grass green. It does not consist of pieces of information that can be handed from one mind to another. In the last resort, every individual must see and judge for himself what it is good for […]
1 December 2021, around 8.44.
Looking up on the morning walk.
5 December 2021, around 14.06.
Another benefite of the village is this, that he shall haue tyme enough to al thinges that he will do, so that the time be well spent, tyme enough to studie, time to visite his frendes, tyme to go a huntyng, and layser when he list to eate his meat: the which layser courtiers commonly […]
28 December 2021, around 8.37.
About two feet of snow have fallen since then, and the highway is slickly plowed, a layer of graveled white on which cars tend to go too fast, with little thought of lane boundaries or chance, but secure in the hope of their destination. Then one returns to the fireplace and the books, where comfort […]