The Rails. The industrial dragon of our time. Spotted with rustic cancer and color it chugs across our painted lands connecting us and our hearts towards new beginnings, towards new horizons. Yet, though the day be a dark gloom, light will come and unite us once again, riding the rails with difference yet kindred hearts through and through. Ye old glory with her blue, blood and stars, may be led to sleep but the flame of freedom will continue to whistle John Henry through and through.
West. Will war ever touch this land? Or will our empires battle across the great seas and into the East protect this vast western landscape? The end of the line. It can't get any more west until it hits east. The daily life of people on the coast of Oregon, the sweet, sweet smell of the salty air. The everyday of people living in the great American Frontier. Has the frontier vanished? Or will it remain and continue to be a place of beauty and desire? Cannon Beach, Oregon, 2012
November. The rains have set in. People are on the move and voices are wanting to be heard. The rain has set in. Cold wet tents collide against each other and a cry from deep within, "Will this fucking rain ever STOP?" Blue tarps hang low, soup pots lay uncleaned while figures in the night begin to chant. Is this our revolution? The rain sideways now. Chanting begins to climb. People yell, flags fly. A speech begins, yet it's too dark to even see faces. Was this our faceless revolution? The beginnings of a new era? Faces slow to see, where's the leader? Is there one? Colors flash, rain gets harder, people scurry from tent to tent, beers, the smell of pot rises. Is this our revolution?
