Pemaquid Point, Maine.
At the end of Bristol Road is a finger of land, with a lighthouse and watcher's residence perched on the last soil before bedrock. The shelf slopes down into the Atlantic, sedimented layers flipped and folded and shot through with igneous white intrusions. It was down on this ramp that I scrambled with an eye towards capture, the ocean still quiet under a gathering sky. On the polished and deceiving rock, I fell with no warning, smashing a polarizer and embarrassing myself in my stupidity. I chided myself for going down yet another dead end, hoping for something better than the forecast I could see when I set out. I have been down so many of these cul-de-sacs, you would think I would know better, chasing things in the name of love, or for the love of discovery. The lines mix I gues, the objectives if there are any, are not thought through. This is what I get, I think, for not trusting my inner voice, for following my heart. I dust myself off, resolving not to let promise lead to more impasses, knowing another level down that I probably won't change. In the distance, I am mocked by a break in the clouds.