I snapped a picture of some houses on Paradise Island. These are not just any houses, but I’m no name-dropper, so I’ll leave it at that.
It’s always fun to look at these fancy houses. But honestly, if I lived in one and tour boats motored by every day, it might lose some of its allure. Nevertheless, it’s not a problem I expect to have soon.
Paradise Island in Nassau is where The Atlantis resort is. Except for a few houses, it’s mostly resorts, timeshares, and a golf course. It’s a fun place to visit, and having a home here is just for that, to visit once in a while.
Everything that has ever happened is in the past; we only have the present.
Smarter people than I have put a lot of thought into this, the prevailing wisdom is that time is not real; it’s just something we made up to record or coordinate. I agree with this intellectually, but when I’m waiting, time seems genuine, if not slow.
Attention is like a sail. When focusing on something, we move through time quickly. Maybe that’s why time seems to move faster as we get older. The more our attention is focused, the more time seems faster. If now is all we really have, it stands to reason that awareness at the moment is more precious than we think.
When I was here, I went a little snap-happy and took way too many shots of the sky. But that’s a known hazard of watching the sunset in San Fran.
As I look at this, I think if not for the photos, I would’ve forgotten all about it. These are not the kinds of things that stick in my memory very well. However, the picture brings back many details of that night, now nearly five years later.
It may sound conceded, but I like looking at my own photos. In part, that’s because they bring back memories of the experience. Maybe it’s a sense of nostalgia because often the memory exceeds reality. I think we reconstruct memories to build a better story. I’m not sure that makes sense, but those are my thoughts.
If you’ve ever had a drink of orange juice, chances are it crossed these tracks. The Tropicana train crosses this river.
I live within earshot, so I hear the horn in the morning and at night. It’s part of the soundscape of my hometown. The idea of a town having a soundscape is new to me, but if I were blind, I’d know it very well.
If you look closely at the patterns on the water, you can see the direction of flow. The eddies caused by the supports are on the downstream side. But as this river flows into the ocean, the direction changes with the tide. As the tide changes, the flow is non-existent. But that’s another shot for another day.
The weather can be a metaphor for emotions. It can be bright and sunny one day, gloomy the next.
I can imagine wind as a metaphor for thoughts, blowing through the mind, never-ceasing. We draw on the forces of nature to represent our inner experiences. Maybe our internal environment follows some of the same laws of physics; like fluid dynamics.
I would post this photo along with some original words. But it seemed a little too cliché.
When I look at a simple thing, my mind wanders. That’s a life long habit I’ve acquired. It’s too easy to get distracted with the first thought that comes to mind. Maybe it sounds silly, but it’s a measure of how life is when we cannot focus on something uncomplicated.
When we were children, before our brains developed, we could be easily delighted. Some scientist suspect that the ability to be fascinated with simple things diminishes with the development of the default mode network in the brain. Whether that’s the case or not, it does make me wonder what our developed brains cause us to overlook.
One of the reasons I do seascape photography is that it reminds me of things bigger than myself. It’s easy to forget that we are part of a much larger universe.
When we are children, everything is new, and we are often in a state of awe at the world around us. Then we develop thought patterns and an ego. We get through life by constructing a story of who and what we are. But that inward-looking drive comes at a cost: we forget the awe.
When I create images with a minimal theme, the open space is a reminder to myself, and anyone else, that we are part of something beyond the daily grind. Once in a while, I like to remind my self of that.
This was taken about three years ago in Alaska. It was around eleven o’clock at night as the sun slowly inched down. Then, just a few hours later it would creep back up.
I took the picture from a ship as we sailed north. This scene was repeated in an endless succession of mountains and untouched wilderness. I was blown away at the vastness of natural landscape here. Until you experience it yourself, it’s hard to imagine. And it’s equally hard for me to convey in writing.
At the tip of Longboat Key is a beach strewn with the remnants of past storms. It creates a surreal scene, and it’s a nice place to hang out.
The beach is only accessible by hike so, it becomes a bohemian camp of sorts. You feel very much away from it all here. Each time I come, there are groups of people in temporary camps with hammocks hanging from the trees. Sometimes they are playing music or singing, like gypsy gatherings in a Patrick Rothfuss novel.