garrison beau scott

it seems sometimes everything exists so i can go out walking with my camera.

the idea, albeit it a very abstract one, of knowing where you’re going, yet having never been there, excites me to no end. call it foreshadowing, deja vu, transcendental tourism, or just good ol’ fashioned out of body experience. whatever it is, sign me up.

of course, for the ticket to be punched in the first place, an insane amount of freedom is required. i only use the qualifier insane, as most people would label it as such, having never been able to experience the kind of freedom i am talking about. for shame.

but that brings up another matter completely. why society as a whole seems to be complacent to just see the one option when it is plain for others to see, that there are an infinite amount of directions for us to travel. is it freedom, the fear of such, or is it the opposite of freedom? are we free? are we able to fully choose left, right, or straight ahead?

of course those choices come with repercussions, some of which remain hidden until it’s too late and accountability becomes as interwoven into the experience as the joy of the moment itself, but that’s just part of the freedom, and the reason for any of it to begin with. and even the idea of giving up freedom, is in a way, a freedom in and of itself.

the ultimate in freedom, i feel, manifests itself in the eternal wanderer. gypsy, bedouin, or homeless. there’s just a lot less romanticism in being hungry and cold. why do i bring any of this up? maybe it’s because today i choose to go left. which could be interpreted as the opposite of right. as in the direction or the moral choice. you dear reader, are free to choose.

As I come through the death of my father, I see the other side is still as beautiful as it ever was. Nothing’s changed except for the fact that he’s no longer part of my day to day life. No phone calls, no card on my birthday, no more handshakes with the man who taught why men shake hands.

But people still laugh, still wake in the morning and begin the day, finding what they need.

I am thrilled to be alive. Thrilled to be where I am, who I am. A wise friend once reminded me of all the energy in this world. All the blades of grass growing, spilling oxygen into the air. I think of all the blades of grass in my life, all the oxygen they so freely pass on to me, life in my lungs. I think of how lucky I am, how blessed. At night after my children have faded into sleep, I think of the joy of their blankets, the soft pillows they drool on as they slumber and dream of their momma’s chocolate chip cookies.

I think of my friends who look past my faults and love me and let me make them laugh. I think about our differences and why those don’t matter, thrilled in the knowledge I’ll always have a couch when I travel, and the knowledge my photographs hang with pride in their homes. I am thrilled to be a part of their stories, to play the part I do. To be that one tiny force that helps cause the ever so slight creases in their face when smiling over the re-telling of those stories. My life will become a line in their face. Indelible as the smile their presence brings to mine.

I think of the people I have never met. The guy who packaged up the iPod my children gave me on father’s day. The one stocked with music from people I have never met. The beautiful girls who walk by conversing with each other, words of inane brilliance that are so important to them, and so they become important to me. I think of the headstones in the cemetery, names forgotten and those freshly mourned. What of their lives, what ways have they touched mine? I see people in their cars, smiling and pounding the steering wheel, and I want to sing along.

Yeah, I want to sing along.

I think of my mom. And what she did just over 39 years ago. I think about what my wife did 5 years ago, and again 2 years ago. I think of Beethoven and what he did 212 years ago, and my grandfather and the men he stood alongside and what they did 67 years ago.

When I lie down on the ground and look up into the clouds I see you, I see your life as I wish it to be. Sometimes I fear it isn’t, other times I hope I can’t even begin to imagine, how wonderful it is. There is a wind we are all apart of, a swell that moves through us all, and I think about how lucky I am that this is true.

And what does that mean for pictures, supposedly worthy of a thousand of them?

We’re at the corner. The question is, will we turn it? Why are there so many people in this country, this world, who are afraid of the answer?