Channel

Some relationships never let you go.

In a past life (my first life), I was caught in such a spectrum of heartfelt emotions, much too soon to understand the significance of the thrall. It was heady at times, and frustrating, and in many ways abusive and dysfunctional.

I grew, I learned, I was humbled.

A musician understands the pain and the beauty of channeling a voice borne from wood and rosin. In the awkward stages of schooling, there is little but tears, anger, and questions of self-worth. But there is something so beautiful just out of reach, a token you try so hard to grasp. The reward that you experience in fleeting glimpses - that is worth the fight.

When it's right, it's so right. Music is more than vibrations in the air. It is a physical expression of one's soul. It is a strange sister to singing and to dance, and the attainment of uniting the inside and outside of one's perception is the most difficult aspiration.

I might never get that back, but I am the wiser for having known it.

The Irony

I found the following on one of many abandoned scratch pads:

I woke up afraid of death.

And through the course of the day I realized that age is a powerful thing. It can control you, defeat you, tempt you, and lead you astray. It is a commander and a charlatan all in one.

The dance of life is not knowing what lies through that door, and taking a journey that will, in many ways, never end.

When did I write it? What was I going for? Was I finished? Losing my vision of a piece of writing defeats the whole purpose of blogging.

1904

Before flight and before cars, when trains held the romance of luxury and style. Mustaches and proper skirts, hats and canes and buttons and boots.

To be born in such a time, and be a little girl with a family legacy spread across the rail stations of Germany. To be so young and think, Spangenberg! A paradise for children with a mountain of hair pins to play with.

She had a dozen siblings and four generations of family were safeguarded in her stories. Her ability to recall precious details defied her slowly failing memory, and even to me, an interloper, she clasped her hands and said "You must always remember the family."

Now that she is gone, who will tell us about Adalbert and Peter, get them mixed up (family names stay family names) and then offer us butter cookies and tea? Who will be our anchor to the old world, to bring common ground to the relatives that never left? (For "Tante Guste" means the same in both languages.)

There will always be German ladies who collect lace and ceramic birds, who hang photos of the rolling pastoral landscape in their cozy living rooms, but there was and will only ever be one Auguste Schilling.

The Longest Day

From east to west. Chase the sun, follow the sky.

I dreamed of a girl who loved so much, her own life could not contain her. Her fingers lingered on the door and she felt the old paint flake beneath her touch. She slipped into the dawn, unable to shape her goodbye into words.

The longest day passed in a wash of yellow grass, rolling hills and red mountains. She smiled. The prairie wind embraced her with a warm breath of dry, crackling air, pushing her ghosts away. And as the sun sighed its final breath and sunk slowly into night, lights emerged out of the ribbon of road. The dazzling crown of the city.



We followed the same path, but there was anticipation, uncertaity, tiredness, redundancy and impatience. The hours of whirring asphalt resets your sense of awareness and - suddenly! - we have a new way to measure time. Hours become minutes, minutes become days, and as we slink closer to the end, each hour blurs headlong into memory.

Corn. Cows. Transport. From the first moments of this journey we were shown with disturbing clarity (and regularity) how these things underpin our civilization. Ideas borne in books became reality. Truckers, farmers, drivers and every pit stop between them was the lifeblood of our economy.

I'd never known this man before, the John Smiths who toiled the land and believed - how he believed! - in meat and television and god. And as we stole farther from our home (their homes) he came with us, for we were partners along the beaten path. Always, evermore, and each day, we became the minnow among the big rig fish.

But this is not about me. This is not about us. This was once just a dream and our journey became it.

Massif

All my life I've been in love with mountains. As the trees surrender and the snow falls, my heart races just a little more.



I first saw the rainbow-footed mountains in southern Germany when I was 27, and my life changed forever.

Here, the mountains have a different face and a dangerous smile. As I breathe the frigid air, the world stretches for countless miles, completely silent. Nothing but the lonely click of a strange bird and the distant rush of the wind, mimicking interstate traffic. There are no lush green fields bursting with swathes of Alpine flowers, not here.







The juniper trees shred their skin, twisting slowly, futilely towards the sky. Their heartwood burns with luscious sweet smoke, reminding me of the American desert and red hills filled with sand.

Mountains call forth all that the skies have to offer. They reach for the clouds and pull forth mighty storms and shrouds of gray anger. On a blue day they sit lazily twirling their fingers in the petticoats of mist. I could watch them forever: powerful, dark, and strong. Older than bones. Older than dirt.

"Remember me to all"

Sunday afternoon. Gotta work, gotta run. But what's this here? Sort through the stack, find one name on three postcards. 1925! Five dollars apiece? You're kidding! Alright, here you go.

And there begins my fascination with Miss Eleanor Levons. A woman, who, somehow, was traveling through the roads through the early part of the last century. A woman who inspired me because of her beautiful handwriting, her simple language and all-too-human fallacies and grammatical errors. And her mystery.

4th day
Pittsburg , Pa.
7/23/25

Dear Edna,

Reached Pittsburgh yesterday after-noon. The people we are stopping with took us all over town and have treated us wonderful. We visited Heinz's this after-noon, we tasted 7 of the 57 varieties. We are leaving to-morrow morning for Cleveland. We expect to be in Chicago about Monday. We are stopping at some relatives of Billie's and expect to be there for a few days. If you should want to write to me the address is

℅ Ms C. Skwersky
1315 Avero Ave
Chicago, IL

Hope you have a nice vacation. I can't realize yet that I'm on the way.

Remember me to all the girls + your mother + sister.

With love,
Eleanor

How can one possibly discover the story of one woman, who made little name for herself, was just like you or me? I do not know if she is young or old, although her correspondent was implied to be of school-age. Perhaps she was, too, writing to a best friend separated by a move:

New Orleans, La
Oct. 5, 1925

Dear Edna,

Arrived in New Orleans yesterday after-noon (Sunday) and the first thing we did after getting settled at the "Y" was to go for a swim in Lake Pontchartran, it was more like taking a turkish bath than anything else as the water was so awfully warm, however, we got a little exercise anyway. You know the town is one foot below Sea Level and it is just roasting hot here. We both got up early this A.M. and rushed down to the P.O. It certainly was a pleasure to receive your letter. It took us over an hour to read all of our mail having accumulated for 3 weeks. You can imagine.

Have been all over town. Went down to the French Market where they have loads of fish and fruit. also visited the St. Louis Cathedral, which was very interesting. One of the courts were full of bullet holes where they use to shoot the prisoners Saw loads of French + Spanish building, which were quite a sight.

We are leaving town to-morrow. Have to cross on five ferries before we get to Mobile, Ala the first one is over 23 miles long. Hope you'll excuse this postal it is so hot that I haven't any ambition to sit down and write letters, guess you'll understand how it is.

We expect to go to see "Shore Leave" to-night Have been taking baths every chance we get to get cooled off. Hope you are well and everything yourself. Guess you are all signed up for school.

With loads of love,
Eleanor

P.S. Remember me to all.

P.S. Will be looking forward to hearing from you in Miami. Did you get my other postals? Hope you can make them out.

Postage was pre-printed one cent. Jefferson was the stamp. He was the relatively new guy.

I looked up Shore Leave, which debuted on September 6, 1925. Guess it was a real riot back in the day of flappers and bob cuts.

Tampa, Fla.
Oct. 10,1925

Dear Edna,

This sure is an idea spot to spend the winter. Was to St. Petersburg yesterday and had a dandy swim in the Gulf. It seems as though all New York is down here by the number of cars we have seen. Had a ride all the way from Mobile, Ala. to Tampa in a nice big Pierce Arrow. We are leaving here this A.M. for Miami hope will be able to get another good car that is going straight through. Wish you were along, anyway I hope you are enjoying yourself in the city. Remember me to all.

With loads of love
Eleanor

Her Chicago address bore no secrets in Google. Street View showed a stark, sun-battered suburban neighborhood, the next house shuttered with planks. I wondered, very briefly, if writing a letter to Ms Skwersky's current resident would be fruitful, or failure.

Edna. Perhaps Edna had the answer? No luck. Searching for her address (and a few other searches for architectural history) proved that New York Presbyterian Hospital built a new medical school on her block, with Cornell, two years after the postcards were sent.

Was Edna old enough to feel uprooted? Or perhaps she was a boarding-school girl with no connections at all to the circumstances that forced her aside?

History reveals nothing about them, and they have undoubtedly long since passed away. Their names are not unique, and neither are their stories. But I will always remember them, for Eleanor's words paint pictures in my mind. Her looping, methodical letters anticipate the beginnings of a modern change.

I will never know more than I already imagine about these girls, but I will always believe that throughout the years, we should laugh and love our friends near and far.

With loads of love,
S

Old, new, borrowed, blue (and ochre)

As our one-year anniversary of Manifest Destiny has come and gone, it's high time I dig into my archives and get moving with some older images.

I spent yesterday teaching myself a popular, trendy processing style. As a girl, I love it (though I always feel slightly guilty for admitting it.) But it can be overdone. Already the idea of doing more like this makes my stomach hurt a bit.







This warm, vintage style makes me think of beautiful treasures and bygone times, but it also flies in the face of everything I have been taught as a photographer. White balance, black point, curves and contrast... that all goes right out the window when you dupe that first layer and hit "Screen."

Which is OK, depending on where you stand on the field of argument.

But it's a good trick to know and file away in the toolkit. I'll abuse it a few more times, just for good measure. It's useful.