Carriacou is the largest island in the Grenadines, which are part of the Windward Islands chain. It's a beautiful, slow, real place where 4,500 people go about their business on their 13-square-mile piece of land.
A big part of their business is boat building. You see these wonderful wooden boats all over the island in various stages of construction. And of course, they're on the water too, painted exactly how all boats should be painted.
My aura. and/or Prince's bedroom in Purple Rain.
It was a peaceful experience, actually, considering I was sitting in an electrified chair just off Canal Street in Chinatown. Canal Street, of course, is where in-the-know New Yorkers turn for all their authentic luxury goods. When it comes to aura photography, I demand nothing but the best.
The studio is actually a small jewelry store, called Magic Jewelry. They have the aforementioned electrified chair/camera apparatus in the corner, next to several chakra charts which are taped to the wall. Although the display cases were filled with jewelry and crystals and such, based on our conversation with the clerk, it seems they're making most of their bank these days in the aura game.
Now, I've never had my aura photographed. I don't know chakras from shock absorbers. Related, perhaps: I also don't do horoscopes. I'm not religious. I've never had my fortune, my palm, nor my tea leaves read.
It wasn't always this way. As a kid, I was a believer. Specifically (and exclusively) I believed in the power of the Magic 8 Ball. There was simply no question it couldn't answer. But then one night, in a bedtime fit, I threw it at my babysitter. I don't know if it was the babysitter's head, or the fireplace behind him, that caused the Magic 8 Ball to crack open. But crack open it did. Inside I found a baby food jar full of blue water and that little floating polyhedron whatsit.
For years, I had trusted the Magic 8 Ball to guide me through life's toughest decisions. But then, just like that, I saw it for what it was: the crass invention of some marketing wonk at Mattel.
My mind reeled. Was it all complete bullshit? Signs point to yes.
Skeptics, I should note, aren't necessarily without a spiritual side. In my post-M8B years, I've come to root my spirituality in nature. It's an understanding grounded in the natural runnings of the world: in weather systems and seasons and all the living quivering machinery spinning around us. I'm a part of it, and you, et al.
Mine is still a belief in a master plan, I suppose, just sans the master planner. Rivers reroute themselves because that's what rivers do. And then beavers and bass and birch trees adjusting accordingly, because that's what they do too. And so on.
It's from these natural systems that I draw strength and solace. It proves helpful when I'm going through hard times in life or, say, visiting Orlando. Mine is definitely a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of spirituality.
Obviously, auras ain't that. You can't watch auras in action like you can the cycling of the sea. You don't see auras all around you like so many Starbucks. Your aura is not available to be photographed, run through a flattering hefe filter, and then posted for all your thirsty fans on Instagram.
I think that's what I was expecting as we entered the shop – a chance to take home the cosmic equivalent of a giant bear in the top row.
But in reality, the place was quiet. Serene even, given the clamor right outside the door. The man behind the counter couldn't have been nicer. During the course of our conversation, he shared with us that prior to working at Magic Jewelry he was a hardcore computer programmer. Eventually, he realized he wasn't on a healthy path and changed course accordingly. Rivers reroute themselves, that's what rivers do.
I was there with Katie, a co-worker and the discoverer of this shop. We had time to kill that evening before a photo shoot and so there we were. We each sat down in the chair and placed our hands on these hand-shaped chrome thingamabobs. There were wires all over. We stared into this giant box of a camera. The shutter flips open. Stare. 5 seconds pass. Maybe 10. The shutter flips shut. Aura captured.
This part of the process took less than a minute. On an excitement scale of 1 to 10, I'd rate it a "meh." But then, while we waited for the Polaroid-style film to process, our trusted photographer began explaining chakras. Regions and colors and the nature of energy. I have to say, it sounded pretty good!
Finally it was time for the big unveiling. Katie's image was peeled back first: a brilliant sunburst of a thing! In the center, there was Katie exuding all this color and light. By now I've probably made it clear that I don't know shit about chakras. But I'll be damned if that camera didn't capture Katie to a T.
Then came the best part which I don't think either of us was expecting: a solid 10-minute reading of her aura as revealed in the photo. Her incoming energy. Her outgoing energy. Her opportunities, ambitions, and regrets.
Could Katie's reading have applied to me (the way all horoscopes seem to hit the mark, regardless of your birth date)? Well, sure I suppose so. But it seemed to especially apply to her. It really did.
And then it was time for mine. He pulled back the paper to reveal... So Much Purple. It looked like Prince parking his purple motorcycle in his purple bedroom in Purple Rain. There was also a splash of blue (the waters of Lake Minnetonka, perhaps?). And some incoming green.
I'll paraphrase here, but based on what he saw, he told me that my prior week wasn't a great one. True! It was not an ass kicker! He told me that I was currently in a transitional week. Yup! He told me that I worry about whether I'm communicating clearly. For good reason! Have you read any of this convoluted gibberish? He also mentioned that I have magical qualities and that I might have some intestinal distress.
His analysis went deeper too, only some of which I recall now (regretfully). But I walked out of there feeling... good. Like, really good.
I'm still not ready to hitch my happiness to any electrified contraptions. Ditto any theological ones. But an opportunity to reflect on who I am? A chance to purposefully accept or reject an alternative understanding of what I am? A moment to think that maybe, just maybe, I haven't seen it all just yet? I'll take that any day.
Of course, ultimately, we hear what we want to hear. And so it goes with my aura photo experience. The two key takeaways that stuck with me since my reading are these:
They're useful points both. Uncanny even. Just next time? Tell me something I don't know buddy!
Presque Isle, Wisconsin, October 17th, 2015
28th Street, New York City, October 13th, 2015
As usual, I flew into Laguardia, the little airport that could. I prefer Laguardia mostly because it’s the quickest way to the Lower East Side, where I typically stay. But I also like its location right on the water. Flying into Laguardia is a good reminder that New York City is, indeed, an island.
Despite the rising popularity of tiki bars here, the Lower East Side won’t be showing up in many Buffett songs any time soon. But still, the city moves to its own rhythms, just like any upstanding island. Every day fresh fruit and fish and flowers make their early morning way from harbors to local markets. You can feel, or sometimes just sense, the subways underfoot; a rolling rumble much like big water against rocky shores. And thanks to a ridiculously warm October, the bars and cafés here remain wide open to the street, existing in that perfectly unfolded inside/outside state that feels exotic regardless of latitude.
I don’t know. My love for places south of the border, and south of 14th Street, have always seemed at odds. Straight-up conflicted even. But I do know that, in both places, when I’m there I’m entirely there – supremely focused and actively engaged with the world I’m within.
I know, too, that on every flight home I’m thinking “I’ve got to bring some of that attitude back with me.”
Rivington Street on a Monday afternoon.
Credits are at the end of the film, but a big Right On! goes to Marc Donahue and Roth Rind of PermaGrin Films.
Salt Lake City, Utah, I believe. Maybe 2009-ish.
Mike Olbinski drove 17,000 miles capturing this footage, shooting 105,000 frames worth of time-lapse in the process.
It was so well worth it.
I stumbled across a David Hockney book last night that pretty much blew the top of my head off. But I'll be honest, not in the same visceral way as the work of HULA (Sean Yoro).
Born in Hawaii and now living in New York, he paints these absolutely stunning murals from a standup paddleboard. I'm drawn to them in the same hard-to-explain way that I'm drawn to Easter Island statues and massive wind turbines on the horizon. With equal parts emotion and introspection and WTF.
I love street art (canal art in this case?). And I love fine art. Usually when those two worlds come together, there's an element of irony or cynicism or smart-assery to it. Not here. HULA's work is just powerful and resonant and beautiful. His studio portraiture work is wonderful too.
Yes, I realize I'm gushing. But there's nothing I love more than finding things worth gushing over.
Ryan Adams and I go back to his Whiskeytown days (meaning: I started listening to him in 1995, while Ryan, well, he doesn't know who I am). Since going solo in 2000, he's taken a careening run through 27* genres of music over the course of 323* albums (these are estimates, but Ryan's made a lot of music).
He also just released a song-by-song cover of Taylor Swift's entire 1989 album.
Although his albums Heartbreaker and Gold are damn near perfect as they sit, I've built a lot of Ryan Adams playlists over the years; reconfigured super albums based on whatever emotional/spiritual jag I happened to be on at the time. (I do the same thing with Prince, another prolific guy who I'm sure would also hate me for re-sequencing his work, but, alas, another guy who also doesn't know who I am.)
Ryan's a man of many moods. I might suggest this mellow sampler when you're sipping bourbon by a late fall fire, wistfully.
Majestic Citrus Grove, Madison, Wisconsin
As fortold, in my neck of the woods many of the docks have already been brought in. These early removals are primarily the work of busy-bodies, non-fisherman, and wakeboarders that don't own wetsuits. Eventually though, things get real. As October shifts into November, it takes a gambler's mettle to leave a dock out for one more day. Things can swing from 70° F to 35° F-ed, overnight. Still though, pulling the dock in early October? These are clearly not my people.
However. My citrus grove is another story entirely. (I should mention that my "citrus grove" is a lime tree (of course) and a lemon tree which are pruned so I can fit 'em into the house for the winter. Rounding out my cocktail farm is the mint which I leave in the ground to fend for itself.)
But yes. My citrus grove. As soon as nighttime forecasts approach the 40s, the trees have to come inside. This is a non-negotiable indicator of Fall. And this was that week.
Our wonderfully extended summer has come and gone.
Today is October 1st.
Around this time last year, my son and I were working on a northwoods fire pit. Building an ash and white oak bench to go alongside the random stump and stone seating our pit had accumulated over the years. It was the perfect bridge from summer into fall.
This is what fall is for. Fall is for firepits.
So why am I diving into another surfy post? Because this: Surfers make the best videos. That's just how it is. Or at least they make the most soulful ones.
Trust me, I've at least dabbled in pretty much every solo sport there is: winter, summer, action, silent, hook, bullet, esoteric-stuff-that-white-guys-with-dreadlocks do, you name it.
The point is, my interests tend to careen. And with each new obsession comes hours of youtube time. So it's with absolute certainty that I say no one draws the connections between who they are, and what they do, as well as surfers do.
The short film "Out of the Black and Into The Blue" is no exception. Of course, the surf footage is spectacular: Ridiculous sets – the likes of which I've never seen. And ridiculous rides – the likes of which I can only imagine in my wildest Spicoli dreams... right before me and Mick wing over to London to jam with the Stones.
But this is not a surf film.
You can watch it as a surf film, yes. I'm sure director Luke Pilbeam would appreciate it, since that's the film he made.
But once you've watched it, play it again with your eyes closed.
Just listen.
This is a life film.
Of course, that's the film Luke made too. Surfers just get that kind of thing.
"It's difficult to explain to those who haven't found their calling..."
Props to Luke Pilbeam (Director), Nick Tsang (Music), and Joey Brown (Words).
You can get his story here, and check out his excellent blog called A Restless Transplant.
But what you should really do is watch the short film below. It's a leisurely look at the year it took for him and his buds to build and settle into Cinder Cone. It's a very well put together piece, documenting a very well put together place.
The whole thing leaves me feeling a little jelly, of course. But what it really does is leaves me thinking about the no-sense-making shit I should get started on myself.
Put simply, Dr. Bronner's Almond Soap is the greatest smell in the world. (2nd–4th place ribbons go to orange peels, freshly split oak, and rain). I've used a lot of this soap over the years and I've paused every time to breathe in its deliciousness.
One thing I've never done though?
Read MoreIt seems more and more people are getting into high-falutin' infused liquors these days. Myself included. However, over the past year or so I've come to realize that I might actually prefer my infused liquors low-falutin'.
As such, I'm not removing the fruit after a week or two, quadruple-straining the liquor, and serving neat. Instead, I'm leaving everything in the jar indefinitely, including other ingredients (bitters, multiple liquors, whatever feels right), and serving sloppy. Straight from the jar around a campfire, fruit and all.
It's easy to do, gives me a compelling reason to go to farmers' markets, and increases the likelihood of getting invited to bonfires. Here's how, in handy video form:
If this video doesn't make you wanna get out there, I don't know what will. Just the sights, sounds and sweetness of camping with no extra filler added nor required.
It's from Hipcamp which is an Airbnb-style concept for finding and reserving campsites. Although I haven't used it yet, the site looks solid. And this video, to me anyway, is damn near perfect.
This evening I spent reading Edward Abbey. And now, for whatever reason, I decided it would be a good idea to share. I have a strong suspicion that "whatever reason" = "a splash or three of tequila." But so it goes.
Hat tip to mi amigo Señor West for originally steering me to this quote.
Bring Limes is dedicated to beaches, bonfires, vagabonds, and doing what you love.
