older image of a window in Campeche, Mexico. It’s a bit lo-rez because it’s been scanned from a slide, but I love the softly worn colors.
older image of a window in Campeche, Mexico. It’s a bit lo-rez because it’s been scanned from a slide, but I love the softly worn colors.
I’m sure everyone has heard this by now, but I am still shell-shocked to see the damage that is ongoing in Puerto Rico. I’ve been to the island many times – I was fortunate enough to go every year for a good stretch of time – and often considered making a second home there, or retiring in that region.
As of now, those plans are on indefinite hold. I have no idea if Puerto Rico, and the towns of Isabella and Playa Jobos where I spent most of my time there, will ever be the places I knew again. Right now all I can see and hear are the terrible stories of suffering and uncertainty from good people who shared their island home with me.
Is the Los Morillos Lighthouse still there? Are the Rangers who maintained the surrounding park safe? Did the nameless family that helped me when I got lost down a dead-end street in Isabella lose their home? Is Junior’s Pizza, always our first stop in Playa Jobos, even standing? People are telling stories of the long, winding route down 66, which used to wend through a dense tunnel of jungle foliage, now looking like a moonscape, with all the vegetation stripped away. Of El Yunque, the only rainforest that is part of the United States, scrubbed to bare rock.
I know everyone has compassion fatigue. There are so many horrible things right now. Houston. Miami. The Island of Barbuda completely uninhabitable. Earthquakes in Mexico. Volcanos in Indonesia. It feels like the earth is trying to shake humanity off, like a dog with a bad case of fleas. You feel – I feel – utterly helpless.
But please. If you have any ability, consider donating to one of these organizations to help the people of Puerto Rico, who so desperately need it.
OneAmericaAppeal.org – led by five former presidents of the US
Unidos – run by the Hispanic Federation
GoFundMe – crowdsourced donations from individual groups. There is no good way to say this – the US government has fumbled this situation terribly and is causing active delays in aid. Small groups of concerned citizens – many with personal links on the island – are stepping into that space to try to make up for it.
I’ve written before about the sickening feeling of watching a loved place descend into chaos, the gut wrenching knowledge that things will never be the same again. I also wrote about my immense relief when it turned out that I was wrong, and that people and places are more resilient than I had ever dared hope. I want so badly to be proven wrong again.
Be safe, and hold on to what you can.
Had some fun with the random lobby art in some hotel while traveling this winter. I keep randomly turning on the slo-mo on my phone but it seems to work…
Short video teaser for my webseries At the Edge of the Sea, from Episode One, where we spent a day with JB, one of the last independent shrimpers on Tybee Island. Working on getting the full episode out soon.
Detail from a portion of At The Edge Of The Sea, which I’m currently back working on. We had so much good footage and interesting stories that we decided to make it a four-part series, instead of a short film, and put it out that way. So watch this space for updates!
Older image from when I still did figure studies, instead of travel and landscape work. I found this while searching my files for another picture and decided to bring it out, even though it doesn’t quite match the other work here. Shot on film, no less!
Doing a large amount of writing is both the most exciting and the most boring thing imaginable.
Right now it is a slow time for the commercial production I do, which means I’m taking the opportunity to work on some longer-format projects that I have been meaning to do for a while, and occasionally deep-cleaning a closet just for the sake of variety. Because writing, as I’ve said, is not always exciting stuff. I love the research, the excuse to read and reference and take notes for hours – I feel like I’m in the research montage of every heist movie ever at that point – but the actual chained-to-the-desk writing part can be a bit tedious, especially if the weather’s nice and you hit a segment of writer’s block.
Fortunately I have some fairly exciting things that I’m writing about, which I thought I’d catch everyone up on today. You can picture me surrounded by maps and charts and cups of coffee and my favorite pens and endless notebooks as you read. My cat should probably be trying to sprawl across my laptop at the same time. Life’s tough for a writer.
You could also picture me swearing under my breath as I peruse the online thesaurus for yet another synonym for “amazing” and trying to re-find a tab I just closed and mopping up the coffee my cat spilled, which is probably more realistic. But it’s your mental picture so you get to choose.
My biggest upcoming project is a combination webseries/podcast called The Haunted Seas, about ghost stories, legends, and hauntings involving the ocean. We’re aiming for 2 pocasts and one webisode a month right now, and I’ve just finished writing the first podcast, about the Ghost Ship of the Northumberland Strait, a fiery phantom that plies the channel between Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. We record it tomorrow, and it should be live in time for next week’s blog update. Then late next week I go to St. Simon’s Island in South Georgia to shoot our first webisode, about the haunting of the St. Simon’s Lighthouse.
In between writing sessions for these, I’m working on two e-books: one is a guide to spiritual and meditation retreats in the Southeastern US, and one is a guide to Georgia golf courses. If I can find a spiritual retreat in Georgia that involved silent meditation AND golfing, I will have hit the mother lode. There’s some sort of joke to be made about the crowds at a golf tournament being practically a silent meditation anyway, but I just… can’t… find it.
When I absolutely cannot take the desk anymore, and the cat’s spilled all the coffee, I get to go outside (assuming it’s not raining) and train for my other upcoming project, which is a 240 mile combination kayak/bicycle trip through the Florida Keys, which I’m attempting – probably solo, as none of my friends are sufficiently insane to go – in April or possibly May. Starting in Key Largo, I’ll paddle to Key West, and then ride my bike back to the starting point. I’m calling it “The Turtle Traverse”, because “There and Back Again” is already taken, and because I’m planning to make a donation to The Turtle Hospital in Marathon at the end of the trip.
So that’s it for projects! Stay tuned for updates on these and any other Constant Holiday crazy I can come up with. And don’t forget to follow me on Instagram, where I try to post at least one photo or video daily.
Now I need more coffee.
I have to preface this post by pointing out that I don’t live in New Orleans, I’ve never lived in New Orleans, and I have the same romanticized view of New Orleans that everyone who’s grown up on a diet of Anne Rice and only been to stay in the French Quarter two or three times has, and also that this wasn’t supposed to be the post for today. But watching the Saints play the Falcons last night (and beating them soundly I might add) brought back some memories that I felt like sharing, especially with this fall being the 10th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.
I have extremely vivid memories of those few days – I wasn’t in the city at the time, but two close friends were, people I had gone to New Orleans with the year before, and I was getting phone call updates from them, hearing that they were okay, and then not so okay, and then cutting short their trip and running to the airport, where they quite literally got on the last plane that took off before they closed the airport down. My mother was in the hospital with a health scare, and I remember watching helplessly on CNN as the storm bore down on the city, in part because it took my mind off why I was sitting for hours in the antiseptic smell of a hospital waiting room, watching as the frightening initial story turned even more terrifying as the levees broke and the entire city seemed to descend into a scene of chaos and fear that made my mom’s surgery look like a manicure and a hair set. And I thought, this is the end of that place. I will never see that beautiful, romantic city again.
Exactly one year later, I was back.
I got taken onto a commercial project that was shooting in New Orleans, and while that was normally out of my geographic range, a close friend was working on it and asked me to come down, she wanted the company and a lot of crew was coming from Atlanta and would I wrangle possibly hundreds of real people talent? I don’t think I even let her finish the pitch before I said yes and started looking for flights.
I got to spend a week or so back in the Quarter, in a little mom & pop hotel that was, I think, a converted carriage house, and because it was an easy walk 10 blocks or so to the production office I got to stroll every morning and evening through various neighborhoods, soaking in the clean, clear sunshine and admiring all the neatly restored houses. The Quarter was largely spared the storm damage, but most people hadn’t come back yet (and in fact many still haven’t returned) so all the restaurants were hopelessly understaffed and the hotels put apologetic notes on your pillow explaining that they could only service the rooms every third day, because they just didn’t have enough employees, but as I wandered and poked and ate crawfish with beer, I didn’t care. It was enough to see the town come back to life and see the bright flowers and paint, and eat beignets and smell the good smells of Creole food wafting out thru all the windows.
Something else was wafting out the windows, too – broadcasts of Saints football games. It seemed wherever I walked, whenever I sat down to eat, someone had a TV or stereo or crappy AM receiver tuned to the Saints – the games, the replays, the analysis and commentary. It had become the background hum of the city. The Saints used to be a joke in the NFL, a team so bad that people said that the Superdome must have been built on a Native American burial ground, and fans would go to the games in disguise, saying they didn’t want people to know they were supporting the worst team in football. And then came Katrina, and the Superdome itself became a symbol of terror and death, with some of those same fans stranded there for days with no communications, no food, no way to let their families know that they were safe or find the loved ones that were missing.
And yet the next year, cleaned and renovated, it reopened. And the people who had been thru so much welcomed back their horrible team with open arms. They had this crazy new kid, Drew Brees, who had come to the team after a horrible injury in another town, and the team seemed to catch fire and damned if they weren’t making it work. Everywhere I went, people hung on those scratchy broadcasts like a lifeline, until if finally penetrated my thick skull that that was exactly what it was. As they cleaned and repaired and struggled, there was an almost subconcious psychic hum: The Saints are making it. The Saints are home. They are holding on for one more day. I am home. And I can hold on for one more day too.
I may be reading too much into the connection, but I can still feel that intensity, that feeling of joy as people watched and celebrated and hung on as their team went on to have their (up to that point) winningest season ever, a season in which they actually went to the second round of playoffs, a concept that would have ranked up there with, I don’t know, pigs flying or hell freezing over or cats and dogs living together. And I think – though I am probably wrong about this, too, I’m wrong all the time – that the team’s success fed as much off that energy as off their new coach and hot young quarterback. It was a mutual admiration society. You are our team. You are our city. Take my hand. We will not let go.
This is the end of that place, I thought. I will never see that beautiful, romantic city again.
Thank god I am wrong all the time.
(The project, in case anyone is interested, was this campaign, which involved interviewing real people about emotional experiences, and to this day is I think the finest commercial campaign I have been involved with, because it came out so beautifully, and not as horribly cheesy as I’d feared. New Orleans was chosen as a site for obvious reasons.
Also, if anyone is interested, there is a documentary called The Man Who Ate New Orleans – which was, full disclosure, produced and directed by a cousin of a close friend – and it follows a pastor who moves to New Orleans after Katrina and his experiences there. You can get it on Amazon, and possibly also on Netflix. I liked it a lot.)
Continuing the edit for my film At the Edge of The Sea this week. I am so close to being done I can… well, maybe not taste it, but catch of whiff of it here and there. We have so much spectactular footage I want the film to be nine hours long so I can show it all off.
One of our huge helpers, interviewees, and all around awesome people in the film is Shane, from North Island Surf & Kayak. If you’re in the Tybee/Savannah area you should totally check them out! Kayak and SUP rentals, tours, and all kinds of crunchy outdoor goodness.
“My Dad always told me there are two types of people as pertains to the ocean – there are those who can take it or leave it, or those that can never leave it.” – Shane
Heavily, heavily into editing my short film At the Edge of the Sea this week – my rough cut is due to my editor early next week – and my brain, it explodes. I can’t wait to make all this random footage tell an amazing story.
This is a still pulled from some shots on Wilmington Island, one of the barrier islands between Savannah and Tybee Island, where I usually stay when I go to Tybee. The sun is setting and the marsh is at it’s most beautiful at that time of day…