maike

This was a week of movement and energy, occasionally feeling that portions were beneficially shot at 120 frames per second: infinite-loop images of cornfields and collieries drifting past the train window, taxi horns blending with many foreign voices in a crowded street-market illuminated by flashes of neon, a neat patch-work of farms snuggled against the North Atlantic on the west coast of Ireland viewed from 10000m. A three-continent, three-culture journey where I feel comfortable at each stop, almost. The wretched wound was the makeshift memorial at Kings Cross Station in London where a toddler struggles against the protective arms of his grandmother; his tears and cries cannot undo the detonation.

The week began at a misty steel mill outside a forlorn town in a remote area of central China. The photo could be just another abandoned mill awaiting its final use as background for a twisted espionage movie, but the appearance is deceptive. It is actually brand new and unfinished, and the owners have simply run out of money. This is why I traveled to the mill, to listen to their plea for funds, and to practice my least-favorite role: the killer of dreams. I felt bad because the people are so hopeful and gracious.



These are photos of my favorite sanctuary, a small Mediterranean-style garden in the middle of England. One of my best friends and his wife built this about 7 years ago, along with much renovation of their 450 year-old house, and this haven against the world has been the setting for roaring parties, long summer dinners in the twilight, and many quiet mornings. It is silent and peaceful, and at the end of the day I usually sit in this garden, in the faint glow of candles, to watch the stars and enjoy the world. I want these photos here, to remember. Next week the house will be sold and my friends will move, and we talk about a new garden next year in the Algarve region of Portugal or Languedoc in France. In some way I will miss this specific garden, but this place is more about my relationship with my friends rather than the setting, so the location doesn't matter; they are the type of people who will always create a sanctuary wherever they live.











The US has become just another place to visit, and today was another transit point, for a bit of solitude with the Atlantic lapping at my toes. I love the beach at twilight, when all the colors are briefly restored and the people of the sun drift away. I walked for miles on the wet sand, with no thoughts other than the sensations of a gentle northeast wind. This is a resort town, and I can see the flashing lights of the amusement rides on the boardwalk piers far in the distance. I stay on the beach to watch the last rays of the sun; the boardwalk will be crowded with people, and today is best used for reflection and study of the waves touching the sand, forever.