I’d learned to live outside, in weather, under the changing sky, and so my dreams lived, too. –C.L. Rawlins


It had been a wonderful dream, but now all that lingered was the memory. …It is strange how when a dream is fulfilled there is little left but doubt. –Tom Hornbein

The landscape was there, and more than ever he felt he could not reach it. The rocks and the sky were everywhere, ready to absolve him, but as always he carried the obstacle within him. –Paul Bowles

We achieve certain things through consistency alone…

It seemed appropriate to offer a few words on this, the tenth anniversary of this website. Turns out I have little to say. Some things I said five years ago come to mind. But what’s new? I haven’t been tempted to delete this site recently, as I mentioned feeling in 2014. The tea cannery is so benign, so invisible… what would be the point?

The tea cannery. What is it? I struck on the name (originally, the title of a long poem), because canned tea is ridiculous to me. It is bottled ephemera thickened with sugars; a junk food in disguise. A perfect bastardization of the tea of ceremonies: leaves soaked into hot water, a ceramic mug cupped in the palms. Here I offer a collection of landscape photography. Everything that strikes at the ineffable has some of the taste of canned tea, and canned tea is what I have to offer. Come, slake your thirst.

If the message of this material is to point people toward the primacy of experience, this blog is not guilty of confusing the message with a medium for self-promotion. I get a couple visits a week; most of them, apparently mistaken clicks from Greece and the Faroe Islands. Might this be seen as my accomplishment?

What can one expect out of a blog? When I created this thing, it seemed like anything was possible. Now my feelings on publishing run more like this: success is more marketing that it is material. Anonymity is the default. If you can make peace with that, than peace is yours to have.

For this tenth anniversary celebration, I feel accomplished for being able to honestly say that I have no grounds for cynicism. I am not disappointed by this experiment in aesthetics. I am happy to create. I am much better at creating than I am at winning over an audience. I would just as soon keep it that way.

Through consistency alone, I offer ten years of visions of the places my mind inhabits. Here they are. I keep them around, because they have done me a world of good.

I believe the risks I take are justified by the sheer love of the life I lead. –Charles Lindbergh

Prayer 2, by Eva Saulitis

No one wants another paean to a rosy dawn,
so it’s good this one’s bluish, baby-shade
at the horizon, bleeding up into midnight like
a botched dye job.

And having enough of the old world—larks,
crakes, nightingales, storks—this space
is populated by one fly crabbing
across a notebook page. He seems, like me,

honey-slowed by winter’s shortest days, clumsy
and isolated. My love bought a black-and-white
photo once, close-up of a birch trunk,
fly crawling up

the curled paper bark, marring the purity
of the image. You don’t notice the fly
until you do, and then you can’t stop.
No one wants a fly in art,

but there it is, elegantly framed.
And we’re over the epic, so here, first thing
this morning, a pedestrian quarrel. Years ago, I flew
across a mountain range in black coat

and black boots to secretly meet him
in the city. How many dawns did it take to arrive
at this particular? At 9:30 the sky flares
not like flame—a paper fan

you buy in Chinatown for a dollar.
A sudden breeze sways the Tibetan flags strung along
the eaves. I never noticed how thin
the fabric. You can see right through the printed prayers

to the thermometer—
five degrees—and beyond, birches leaning
all to windward. Sun bleaches out
the last mysterious. Now we pray to the real.



We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us. –Yeats