Unphotographed Moments

They’re piling up.

The guy in the lobby of the subway stop has a shoppimg cart seemingly full of plastic bags. He has used empty bottles to mark the four directions and waves a feather as he shuffles the circle and chants.


At the corner of Martin Way and Sleater-Kinney Road in northeast Olympia, I often saw a homeless man sitting on the corner. He had gorgeous salt-and-pepper Michael-Landon style hair. He talked to himself with gusto. This week I see him again. His head is shaved, and he is banging on his invisible drums.

Millersylvania State Park. The woman living in her car gives me a summary of how she got there. I listen, say very little. She says, I heard you’ve been overseas. I have not told her this, and I see that perhaps this is how she has become disabled — getting information across what are for most of us impermeable boundaries.

A white haired woman walks briskly along the path circling Capitol Lake belting out a very good version of the Eagles’ song “Desperado.”


Just a traveler in a fast-changing world, trying to write enough to keep up

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