Standing on the banks of Flathead Lake in western Montana, a truly mystical expanse of water tucked between high peaks and rolling plains, you’ll find countless and colorful stones for skimming over a gentle set of evening waves. Each one a gem, eye-popping, smooth, unique. In bunches they are breathtaking, huddled below the surface and receding off towards the depths—which gives them a dark hue, a touch of green over a speckled swatch of colors; or up on the shore, dried off and indulging in the sunlight, captured in a brilliant pre-dusk ambiance.
The rocks of Flathead conspire to please the eye. Their very randomness of color goes against logic, or seems impossible at best: the pinks, the grays, purples and reds, whites, yellows, and blues. Your eye moves to the one that stands out a little more than the others. Your gaze locks on like a beacon to its singular beauty; your attention commandeered. And it pulls your body in for a closer look, luring your hand to pick it up, to examine its texture and tint, to judge it for skipping potential. To assess its shape and girth, and to scrutinize its burden on the shoulder. All for one glorious heave into the abyss.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
You always know that moment when you’ve asked a friend for too much. They act eager to help but their actions, or inaction, end up betraying whatever goodwill or genuine concern they lead you on with. It puts me in a strange place. Do I call them out on it? Do I guilt them into giving a shit? Or is it one of those occasions to take a hint: to get my own head around the fact that they just don’t care?