it has gotten colder
made this soup once a week this september

translation: "siblings"
my oma's adapted translation: "my people"

translation: friendship

late summer camping with "our people"

"I'll tell everything to you alone, because it's necessary, because you're necessary, because tomorrow I'll fall from the clouds, because tomorrow life will end and begin."

-F. Dostoevsky

"In the months that followed, the world and nature and weather did what they did regardless of human suffering or bewilderment or grief.  There was day and night and day and night and the light fell away earlier and the frost came and then an early blizzard blew in and the cattle in the pastures turned their rumps against the wind and snow."

-David Bergen (Leaving Tomorrow)

"Most areas in the world may be placed in latitude and longitude, described chemically in their earth, sky and water, rooted and fuzzed over with identified flora and peopled with known fauna and there's an end to it.  Then there are others where fable, myth, preconception, love, longing or prejudice step in and so distort a cool, clear appraisal that a kind of high-coloured magical confusion takes hold."

-John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley 

Somewhere in the middle of Oregon, end of July 2014
film:  ILFORD HP5 400

Yaak River campground, MT

mother and son,
Portland, OR.

From here to there and back (with lots of meandering and some getting lost): 6450 km.

Cape Lookout State Park, OR.

Mount Big Baldy Lookout
Montana, US

more here

 Photo by Hilary,
 Rushing River,  July 2014

How does the nursery rhyme go?  Little boys are made of snails?  I can imagine it.  The puppy dog tails wagging furiously within him.  

Thom names Ives after animals, recognizing traits.  It is the opposite of anthropomorphizing.  When Ives accepts water out of an open mouthed bottle he is a baby goat.  And because of his light tufts of hair he is a gosling.  His hair is more air than hair, still it can matt.  When he eats more than either of us, he is a brood parasite: a bird who's parents left an egg in another’s nest, our alien to nurture and rear.  He is a tiger cub in our bed in the morning, pawing us, biting our ears, climbing over the backs of us.  A jungle gym of legs.  With his blocks he is a beaver, building walls, tiring not.


He has a watermelon seed stuck to his cheek with juice.  A black tear.


His smell is the size of a place. 

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver

Montreal, April 2014

Hilary's apartment.

In the shadows is her cat Eloise, perched like an owl on the plywood closet.  There was a shower in the middle of the living room made of cedar slats.  It smelt like the woods.