OK. . here is something canned, that I have written, with a photo from the same trip that at least gives the mood, of not the content.:

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It is difficult for a visitor in any country not their own is to gain a
clear understanding of what is really going on. It is hard enough to
have that understanding about your home town, or even in your house
sometimes. However, the highland area around San Cristobal de las Casas
remains vivid and inscrutable in my mind, even after 8 years absence.

The memory most clearly imbedded got there, as is quite usual, during a trip
on one of the ubiquitous second-class busses by which most people, native
and visitor, must go in order to get around Chiapas.

I was on my way back to San Cristobal from Palenque, in the hot, misty
lowland jungle that becomes the Yucatan Peninsula if you continue on that
road. This is all part of the "Gringo Trail," from which I have never
strayed too far. Going back up to the highlands, you travel through
several distinct zones of climate, geology, and vegetation as you gain
elevation. There is some breathtaking scenery, if you can overlook the
garbage that is along all roads in Mexico.

Sitting next to me on this trip was a young woman probably in her
mid-teens. She was simply and immaculately dressed in what seemed like a
school uniform, white blouse and blue skirt. Scrupulously clean with
nary a black hair out of place. I could only imagine her displeasure of
sharing a seat on a long trip with a large, sweaty, dusty American man.

As the bus slowed to go through the town of Oxchuc, a crowd, which took
up the right half of the road, loomed ahead. It was mostly men yelling
at each other in this knot of people, and then I noticed that off to the
side was a woman, lying face-down in the road, with a stream of blood
flowing downhill from her head into the dirt of the road.

It went by so fast. I remember her single long grey braid, her
embroidered multicolored huipil, and the blood, still red and flowing.
Presumably, she was dead, and the men of the town were working an
assigning the responsibility, and not arriving at any quick consensus.
The body of this old woman seemed an afterthought there at the side of
this group of quarrelsome men.

Was this woman run over by a vehicle? Was she killed by human hands? I
still wonder about this.

The young woman beside me and I shared a quick glance of commiseration, our
only communication on the 5-hour trip, as the bus gained speed to climb the
next hill which waited on the other end of town.

Another canned offering here:

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There are some places we have never visited whereof, nevertheless, we have in mind preconceived images, captured from movies, books, or conversations. Before I came to Sweden, my preconceptions of it were sketchy at best: the only piece of fiction set in this country that I can recall having read was a single, typically odd story by Robert Aickman, entitled ‘Into the Wood.’ The story’s protagonist, Margaret Sawyer, accompanies her husband Henry to Sovastad, a lakeside town in central Sweden, where he has been contracted to work in a project to build a ‘big, wide, dangerous, costly road […] across the mountains into Norway.’

One Sunday, on a drive from the town up into the nearby mountains, Margaret catches sight of an isolated building, and, upon enquiring of it, is told by her Swedish hosts that it is a Kurhus or Sanatorium, albeit one ‘not only for the sick:’ a place for ‘rest cures.’ When Henry is called away to Stockholm for a series of meetings, Margaret, intrigued by its appealingly elegant façade, opts to stay at the Kurhus rather than at one of the town’s hotels. Rising from an uncharacteristic daytime nap after her arrival, she emerges into an all-but deserted building. and wanders it a little lost until, from its terrace, she sees a fellow-guest approaching from the surrounding forest: this happens to be another Englishwoman, who tells Margaret a good deal more about the Kurhus and its residents.

The Jamblichus Kurhus (named after the first of the ‘seven sleepers of Ephesus’ to rise) is an establishment for chronic insomniacs, some of whom are so severely afflicted that they never sleep at all. Such extraordinary sleeplessness makes its sufferers ill-suited to life in the wider world, and, as ‘sleepers cannot live for long with an insomniac … it is like living with something supernatural,’ many of them eventually resort to such specialist sanatoria. It is explained that the Kurhus is set in a special wood, through which run innumerable paths, which have been trodden by the sleepless for centuries. After resting through the afternoon, the insomniacs rise before dinner, and spend most of the night following these paths through the wood.

Margaret tries following one of these paths for herself, and, as she haphazardly pursues a criss-crossing way between the trees, she is struck by an epiphany of sorts: a simultaneous rejection of the things her roadbuilding husband and suburban neighbours stand for, along with a vaguely-felt yearning for transcendence, symbolized by the ‘empty but labyrinthine’ forest. To cut a short story shorter, Margaret returns to Sovastad (which, translated, literally means ‘Sleeptown’), to find herself feeling altogether out of place, and, inexplicably, quite unable to sleep. When the time comes for them to leave Sweden, Margaret persuades Henry to let her return to stay at the Kurhus indefinitely…

This story came back to my mind during our vacation [in 2006], as the house where we stayed adjoined a very beautiful expanse of woodland: just one inlet, in effect, of what amounts to an all-surrounding sea of trees in that part of the country. Unlike the woods around Aickman’s Kurhus, these were clearly seldom traversed, being crossed here and there by old, low stone walls, by felled, mossy trunks, or blocked with thickets. Even so, it wasn’t hard for me to feel a faint something of that transcendence he hints at, as I stopped to admire a sunlit clearing after squeezing through mushroomy, spiderwebbed undergrowth.

Same story--I wrote most of this before, but it fits:

Out at Cape Henlopen State Park, the ocean floor drops off sharply, so the dolphins come quite close to the shore. Only part of the beach is life guarded, which means any crazy fool who wants to swim out 100 yards or so to mingle with 400 pound wild carnivores can do so at his own risk.

The first time I was on the beach early, at Cape Henlopen State Park,. The dolphins were just off shore, about 20 of them (I found a good video of a similar occurrence, but it's not mine). I got really excited and started swimming out to them, but it was too cold. They kept getting closer and closer, and I waded out again. Nope, still too cold.

Finally, after about an hour, I couldn't stand it any more, and plunged out. I wasn't really thinking about how far out I was going (hell, boats were passing between me and the shore), that I had contact lenses that could wash out, or that these were really big wild animals. They started checking me out. Three were swimming toward me, then went under, about 20 feet away. They came up about 6 feet away, with a big “whoosh” from their blow holes. I gave a startled “WHOAH,” but kept treading water slowly.

I could smell their breath--that was the coolest thing, this really nasty fishy breath. Truth is, I was scared shitless when one came up so close, and I saw his teeth and his skin and eyes and blow-hole so close--I vividly remember seeing the folds and contours of the blowhole, the movement of the skin as he breathed. I really wanted one to touch me, but I probably would've fainted. I never got the chance, though. I was trying to talk to them in soothing sounds, but I probably wasn't the first swimmer they had ever seen, and they could probably sense my nervousness, too.

After a few close passes, they went on about their business. It took me 10 minutes of fairly hard swimming to get back to shore, against a wicked cross-current. I ended up about a half-mile down the beach from where I started. My ex (well, she wasn't my ex then, but she is now) was a bit mad that I had endangered myself, but fully understanding of why I did it.

I've been back a few times since then, and have never gotten quite so close, but it's always a thrill. This picture was taken from shore, and it's grainy from the enlargement. Note that you can see oil slicks from passing boats in front and in back of me:

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This picture was taken a few minutes after:

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Cool, mrmoonpie. . .that water musta been on the cold side, huh?

Oh, yes, it was cold! Even in the middle of the summer, the water is quite chilly, which adds to the fatigue. Worth it, though.

Oh, and I was about 100 miles away from you, in Guatemala, also 8 years ago. I have a lovely huipil hanging on a wall at home.

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It was a hard day at the bloodfields of Pigtown, where the little fuckers were jumping for coins like all of middle management at that day's meeting.
Jumpy pigs and dripping blood, it was Easter, alright, and people were going to have time off for the holidays and longer: lay off time.
It sucks to play the butcher in Pigtown, but how to get out of there clean in a white outfit. Hell, i can't be anywhere near ketchup in a white shirt, how badly were sudden despair and pink slips going to stain?
The cheap jumpy kids were getting tiny raises while the fatted old timers were headed off "to pasture," put down in the sunniest field on the nicest farm before the knife slipped in: buying them lunch just seemed like a last meal, what a shitty policy idea.

In four hours, I could go back to my fuzzy bunnies and dancing bears, put wings on my head and fly back to the eye candy world of bubbles and snowflakes in all it's animated and pixelated glory.
God, i need to do something new to my hair.
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i'll try to do better later

This is not a great photo, but there is a story to it:
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We were camping in an RV campground, down in West Point, GA, near West Point Lake. (A campground run by the Army Corps of Engineers.) Per our usual routine, we were having steak on the last night of our camping trip. Also per our routine, we had loads of "adult beverages" before dinnertime... and therefore dinnertime was going to be sometime after sunset.

It was August, so it was too hot to sit right by the fire... our chairs were about fifteen feet from the fire ring. A. (my partner, and the cook) left the steaks to go inside and get a refill or hit the bathroom or something... I'm not sure what. I was sitting about 3 yards from the fire pit, looking at the lake, smelling the steaks, generally loving life. A. comes back out, goes to the fire pit, and says, "One of the steaks is gone!!"

And it was. To this day I have no idea what took it, but I know it was quiet- I was sitting less than 15 feet away. It was also hemmed in between our campsite and the water, so I don't think it was anything big like a bear... more like a fox or a coyote. I'm still shocked it reached in over the fire and snatched it, though.

We cooked up a pot of mac and cheese and then split the remaining steak between us, feeling lucky we had at least SOME dinner left.

awesome posts.

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This picture reminds me of the two times that I ran away from home. The first was when I was 15 or 16, and the second was a year or two after that, I'm not sure.

It was a Friday though, because my mother had told me to go and get ready for Friday Prayers, and so, after being pestered for awhile--I put on my slippers and slipped out the door wearing nothing more than a flimsy T-shirt and a white pyjama. My mother didn't even notice me, but if she had she would've surely questioned the sort of attire I was wearing that day.

But then I wasn't planning on going to the mosque; unlike last time, when I had planned my escape and made a few preparations (which was the aforementioned duffel bag with all of my T-shirts and Jeans in it--I don't know what in the hell I was going to do with all of those T-shirts--sell 'em???), I thought this time it would be better if I didn't bother with the formalities and just winged it; I was just too depressed to do even that much.

So there I am, it's 12 o'clock in the afternoon, the sun's overhead, and I'm walking and walking and walking. I walk a good ten or so kilometers before I stop, at the foot of this small hill, in the middle of a desolate area. There are a few houses in the vicinity, but nothing too close by. I begin climbing, and after having reached the summit, I lie there in a shady area and wait to die. I figure if I don't eat every day for a few days I'll probably be dead pretty soon. But, then I start feeling sorry for myself, and I wonder if this is really the end for me... I wonder if I'm ever going to get married, or have children, or do any of that other stuff I've always dreamed of doing.

I also ask myself, if I'm ever going to have sex...? Well, that thought just about does it, and I figure--if I'm not going to have sex, then I should at least masturbate one last time before I go on the run and probably never ever get the chance to do it again, because I may not have the privacy to do it in. I look around--there isn't a soul in sight. I'm wary of the houses, but heck--they're too far away, and they wouldn't even know what I'm doing unless they had binoculars or a telescope. (I'm assuming the chances of that ever happening at the very same time that I decided to put my hand down my pj's and have a go at it were slim to none.) So, there I am, lying on this big fat rock, and I look up, and wonder if god is watching me. I wonder if he's thinking--what the hell is this guy doing??? Is this one of my creations?? That makes me even more depressed and I can't even remember now if I could come or not, but I do remember trying. After staying on the rock for a couple of hours, I decided to go for a walk, a long walk, and just see what would happen.

So I get down and start walking, through empty plots and open fields, and finally pick a road that will take me through Banjara Hills (sort of like the Beverly Hills of Hyderabad). I go at a steady pace, afraid that my mom or dad will show up suddenly and take me back home (which is what I want anyway; who wants to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere), and wonder what's going to happen to me. I keep walking until it starts to get dark and I finally decide to sit down somewhere, on the footpath, and I can feel people staring at me, wondering what I'm doing. He doesn't "look like a homeless person" so why is he dressed like that anyway... I sit there for awhile, and then decide to go back the way I had come. By this time I must've traveled a good twenty twenty five kilometers because I'm starting to get a bit tired.

As I'm walking back, I suddenly notice this guy on a scooter come to a halt on the road right in front of me, turn around, and kind of smile in a half-assed way, and ask me--where're you going: Lift Chaihiye Kya (would you like a lift). It seems eerie, like one of those lines the villain uses on the heroine in the movies. I tell him no; I can almost see the saliva salivating from his mouth, an exaggeration no doubt, but that's how it feels. I can sense him start to follow me now, as I turn around and start to walk in the opposite direction. I don't want to seem startled but after reading the recent spate of abductions of runaways being sold into prostitution, this guy really creeps me out. And the weirdest thing is--he looks nothing like the sort of person who you'd assume to be in that kind of a business... big, strong, muscle bound with a mustache or something. I don't know--I figured they'd be kind of rougher than this. This guy was small, and quite thin. I figured I could hit him if it ever came to that and run away, but I was still rattled.

So I ducked into one of the many alleyways in an adjoining colony and lost him, thankfully. I decided to go back home then, and reached the phone booth right outside my house, gave my number a ring, and waited to see if anyone had noticed that I had disappeared. My dad answered, and you could tell he was barely able to hold it together. "Son", he said, "Your mother's been looking for you since noon" with his voice quavering. I couldn't bear to hear it, so hung up. I just couldn't go back there again, even though it was just two minutes away, and so decided to go back where I'd started from--the hill.

I must've reached half way there when the chill started to set in on me, it was the middle of December, and the night temperature was hovering somewhere between 10 and 12 degree centigrade, or at least it would be in a couple of hours. It was maybe 9 PM then, and I was feeling really cold. There was this pile of leaves in one corner of the street that had been brushed together and set alight, and it had almost burned itself out, leaving a small round--warm--circle that I thought would be perfect for me to sit in. It was. I felt warm all of a sudden, and it felt nice. A couple of minutes later, a Police Jeep passed me by, and unbelievably didn't even notice me. This is a pretty high end area and they don't let bums usually hang around here, so I didn't want to get into any more trouble.

I decided to make my way to a mosque that I thought I'd take refuge in, and an hour or so later, I was there. The mosque was empty, as I'd hoped, and the caretaker could be seen inside the main structure, sleeping on the other side of the grill doorway. I snuck in and hid myself in one of the hollows of the small stump like minarets on the ground. I stayed there for as long as I could (the mosquitoes were having a field day with my head and my feet and my arms), and tried to constantly cover my head with my T-shirt so it wouldn't be so god damn cold. My feet were aching unbearably by now, and I didn't think I could last another night like this.

I don't know how my parents found me that night (whether it was my mom who was out being driven around in the car from god knows where to where, or whether it was my dad). But what I do remember is him coming over to the mosque to pick me up. (There were no telephone booths that I can recall nearby that would've been open that time of night, and cell phones weren't even out in a big way, so I still can't for the life of me figure out how we did get reunited.) But my dad was standing there in front of me, and all he could do was take me in his arms and give me a hug (a sort of a defeated hug--as if this is what I deserve after having done so much for you)--and he asks me--why, why son. I don't know what to tell him, except that the answer lay in the fact that it took my running away from home twice for him to even get the courage to hug me.

PS. You did say a thousand words, right?:)