5:16 pm - Sunday, Sept. 22, 2002
Song:
The Columbia River Gorge. National Geographic used the word majestic, and I don�t see it that way.
It�s one of my favorite places to go to in Oregon� but majestic? That�s held for China or Greece, or purple mountains. Never a place so close to home. That�s not majestic, it�s common, it�s usual.
There were rocks that resembled rocks so my camera and I had to climb them and perch on the flat, bumpy stone. I wasn�t looking for anything, and with black and white film, the brilliant greens would never be portrayed right, but I stared at everything through my single-lens reflux. I see so much more of the world that way, it seems.
I place the camera strap around my neck, and suddenly everything�s being seen by angles. My eyes catch each subject and take in its surroundings. Then if I finally decide it�s just right, click, and it�s with me.
This is what drew me to the gorge today. I have film in my camera. Film that can�t sit. Film that�s as eager as my leg, which currently bounces in unexplainable impatience.
I�m fused with a eager need to click away at anything. I love my camera. Willing to no end to prance down the aisle in white for it, though I doubt laws would allow.
Told my moms my plans today: I�ll go to college for dad. He cares. Then I want to switch towns as much as I please. It�s an almost flat out refusal to be held down any longer, yet I�m staying tethered all the same.
I want the freedom to go; yet I want to be directed. And so I�ll just stay along the lines till I force myself to fall.
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