Image junkyard 4 week 3

A white paper bag of Haribo gummy candy. Every shape from worms to fried eggs.

Image junkyard 3 week 3

A basket of plums and nectarines ripen on the window sill. One nectarine is tye died with jug wine.

Image junkyard 2 week 3

Artificially antiqued wooden wardrobe. Austrian double headed eagle crest on the front. Three babies stacked on the right. Two on the left since the top has been removed.

Image junkyard 1 week 3

A young man in a converted truck cutting slices off a pig leg that was stuffed with sea salt and spices before being roasted on a spit. The skin sounds like mahogany being sawed.

Memory 1 week 2

My great nephew Wyatt had his third birthday party at American Pie Pizzeria in Thomaston, GA. I sat at the head of the third table my extensive family filled. To my right sat mother, across from her was my nephew with his son, the birthday boy, and down the table sat another nephew, a great nephew, two nieces, and my sister. After the many meat and cheese covered pizzas where finished a special treat for the great nephews was delivered. These where the Thomaston famous butter balls I had heard only stories of. A grotesque sight to me, they consisted of pizza dough fried in the shape of a ball then soaked and finally sauced in melted butter, the dozen was quickly divided between the three and ten year old. This division did not hold to any idea of fairness but was to prevent the fights known to happen if one child received fewer than the other. I then watched as the three year old hopefully smeared more butter on his face than went in his mouth. The child then quietly dozed on his father's shoulder, a towel quickly placed to avoid grease stains on his Quad Graphics work shirt, while I stealthily slipped notes to my mother condemning the act.

Reportage 2 week 2

Take metro line A from Rome Termini. Exit to the right at Ottaviano. Check that your Piccadilly journal hasn't been pick pocketed then check your day bag for holes. Up the stairs and left down Via Ottaviano. Pass seventeen tour guides who speak English and Italian. One will seem nice and give you a deal for being students. Her name is Sarah but don't trust her. The tickets cost eight Euro and the other twenty seven go in her pocket. Plus if you skip the line you won't meet the four Germans, two couples, who will worry about the wait with you. Next pass the many crippled, the one sitting on the skateboard with both feet clubbed, the one with no hands who sits on rug like he is performing the Salah and waves his stubs at you, the one who can barely lift his boiled face to you but taps his cane in patterns of four at the tourists, the many you can't count. Give seventy cents to one, a Euro to another and feel sorry for the rest. Pass through TSA grade security, your bag on the conveyor belt, and cover your shoulders. See The School of Athens, The Sistine Chapel, and enough rooms of art and antiques to feed the worlds hungry by selling a fifth.

Memory 2 week 2

After an alcohol free nine hour flight with only chicken parmesan, a deck of cards, and Fight Club to lift my spirits I arrived in Honolulu. My Dad, for the remainder of the trip Chief Ray, met me at the end of the off ramp with a lei of tea tree leaves and kukui nut shells. The ride to his barrack, a single room with adjoining bath and small fridge reached through a kitchen shared by two other Chiefs, made my eyes water from not wanting to blink and miss a cove integral to a story and my skin burn while it got used to the sun pouring into the convertible Chrysler Seabring. The most shocking sight was the bouquet of fresh lilies placed on the kitchen table with a single branch of torch ginger rising from the center the size of my forearm and looking like the head of a bloodied spear. This was a tradition, my father explained, that reminded him when he would be staying in a room long enough to unpack. Dinner was a simple meal of shoyu steak and fruit salad, the strawberry guava and mangos I would later learn to find on the mountains and carry back in canvas sacks tied to our packs, all tinged with the sweet smell of ginger.