Photography

This photo has super special significance.

I quit my job this June with no safety net, so to speak. My first unemployed day was wide open. Something told me to go for a photo walk. So I grabbed my camera and set off for Brooklyn’s Domino Park, no phone allowed.

I took fun photos, yadda yadda. It was pretty meditative, actually. And super joyful.

When I arrived to the park, these girls were running through the fountains. It was full of unrestrained joy. I, being a 30-ish guy by himself, felt super creepy taking photos of them, so I restrained.

I felt a little dejected. Did I self-censor? Did I miss a big opportunity? I had to go to the bathroom. The man told me there was one around the building.

As I turned the corner, I saw this: a street worker spraying the same girls as they jumped for joy. This of course warrants photo-taking.

But it also ushered in a completely new chapter for me: I’d only take on things that brought me JOY. And hence the title. Joy.

My Mom and I took a trip to Maine this summer. It was magical. I rented this tiny cabin for us, it sat right here on a lake. There was no lock, no real walls actually. And no shower.

Well, there was an outdoor shower (we weren’t too exposed).

My Mom gets cold easily, so at first she avoided the shower, saying she’ll just go home dirty (we were there a week). Our first night I took one and by God: sitting under the stars, with endless hot water, crickets echoing around, it was revitalizing in every way. After that, she and I each took 2 showers per day.

This was the view. And those two chairs I felt represent she and I quite fittingly.

This was the first good photo I ever took.

I was in Porto and for whatever reason, I was drawn to the fishermen. I surmise I might’ve been a fisherman in a past life.

I heard this port is where they gather in the morning. I tried go to one morning and the place was walled off with special access, like a military base. The guys said I could go only if I gained access through the port authority.

So I emailed them and they got back to me that very day, saying I could go back the next day.

Once in, these guys were unloading their boats, and they were ever-so-gracious with letting me photograph them.

Alt title: As-STORE-ia

Another random photo day. I felt the urge to go to Astoria and photograph. As I arrived it was a very rare 70-ish degree day in August. A man on the street approached me. I assumed he was going to scold me or say something snarky about taking photos of the neighborhood. “You picked a good one,” he said, “it’s a miracle of a day.”

That’s how I knew it was going to be a great day.

Man. When I’m feeling tired, I think of this guy.

This is Silvio. He’s in his 70s. He lives on a tiny Sicilian island in the middle of the sea. I can’t say which one because I don’t think he wants a million more people coming. Not that this would lead to that but, you know.

This island doesn’t really have restaurants, but they do get tourists. So people on the island instead open their homes and cook from their kitchens. I went to Silvio’s one night and ate one of the most delicious meals, plus got drunk off my rocker.

The next day he allowed me to go fishing with him. We left before sunrise. He had to pick up his nets. I asked if I could try. After seven tugs, I was gassed. My back was about to give and I was out of breath. That dude got that net up in minutes, along with a dozen other ones.

So if he fishes all morning and feeds people all night, the question remains: Cuando Silvio dorme?

I don’t have a real story behind this. I was visiting my uncle in South Florida, and I love my uncle. And I’m from Florida. I have a slightly conflicted feeling toward Florida, but it’s where I’m from, and so it makes me warm to look at this picture.

Some places just carry mystical power. This adirondack chair sitting against this ever-peaceful bay was just that. Here I’d sit and all my problems would fall in order: conflicts resolved, the right words found, ideas emerge, all of it. And this is the view.

I hope you have one of these places in your life.

I truly thought I was all alone in this vintage shop until a voice called out to me: “You are in a house of feminism,” it said. “Did you know that?”

This voice belonged to Lin. She was an Art Director at Cosmopolitan Magazine back in the day. Now she runs this store in Copenhagen.

Lin and I talked for hours. To her, everything, and I mean everything, has been decided in advance. And the best news? It’s all for us to be happy. “We can’t change the world if we aren’t happy,” she said. “And so why have regret? It wasn’t yours in the first place.”

Man, this guy. Bless this guy. I walked into his store one day when I was strolling Portland, Maine. I was drawn to his landscapes of Italy, as I’d be traveling there soon. We got to talking, and I shared I’m a writer, to which he bequeathed upon me: “Don’t worry about being the best,” he said. “As long as you find your way, you don’t have to be better or more talented than anyone else.”

Edit: His name is RN Cohen.

I met Russ in Yelapa, Mexico. There’s a whole blog post about him in my “People” section there. To save you the trip: Russ was a money-making man living on the clock. One night, on a full moon, he prayed to let go of his past. Days later, a wildfire burned down his house. All of it. Uncannily, it forged this clear path, going around his garage and storage area and right for his house, a direct, heat-seeking missile. He showed up to a friends after, everyone was consoling him, but he was so light, beaming. “They probably thought I had a stroke,” he said. “But you know the hardest part? Everyone wanted me to be so much sadder than I actually was.”

This is Donaldo, one of the happiest men I’ve ever met. He, too, I met in Yelapa. He’s been all over the world, tried all the plants, he even wrote a book about shamans. A mystical man, Donaldo. But the thing he said that stuck was: “I retired at 55, best decision I ever made in my life. All my friends retired at 65. They waited until then to live their lives. All of them were dead within eight years.”