Bay Area Drift

I did leave my heart in San Francisco. I finally know what Tony Bennett meant. I left it all over the bay area and even further north. A nephew was getting married which was why we were there. We stayed in a Walnut Creek hotel with other family members, for a few days, and on one of those days, my wife, daughter and I drove into San Francisco. We went down the crookedest street in the world, we glimpsed the Painted Ladies in the distance, walked on the Golden Gate Bridge, wandered through Chinatown and hiked the hilly streets of downtown. We walked to the base of the Transamerica building too. I had to see it up close. However much of an architectural novelty it is, it’s iconic and I’ve been transfixed with it since I was a teenager. My interest was reinforced when the Doobie Brothers used an image of it on their album cover, Livin’ on the Fault Line.

After a couple of hours, we got hungry, so my wife researched options for lunch. We were flexible, as long as it was tasty, nearby, and Chinese. The one she identified was House of Nanking. It had great reviews, off-street parking and served what we craved. After inhaling our meals, we relaxed with tea and fortune cookies. Afterwards, we drove north across the Golden Gate Bridge and parked near the end of it, then walked back onto the bridge to the halfway point with a lot of other people. I forgot the bridge was orange because its color is suddenly secondary to the overwhelming view in every direction. The force of the wind was significant and a bit unsettling at first, so I picked our daughter up in my arms. She had a better view too and when I did, the wind hit her face, so she squinted into it. The sea air seemed to soothe her. After half an hour, we walked back to the car and drove up the west side of the bay, across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, and south into Berkeley for sushi.

Two days later we drove north with other family members to Point Reyes and to the houses we rented in the woods. We had two that were next to each other, a hand built hot tub with a rustic changing area between them, and a few wind shaped Cypress trees that formed a natural room. The bigger house looked like one from the Handmade Houses: A Guide to the Woodbutcher's Art book. I imagined it being built by a young couple who’d escaped the city in the late 1960’s. The other house was smaller, simple and modest, like it had been built decades later to accommodate the overflow during family gatherings. While we were there, we spent time on a beach along Drakes Bay, visited the Tule Elk herds on Tomales Point, and roamed a few small towns for food and souvenirs. One mythic town we didn’t have time to visit was Bolinas. I often imagine because my wife has been there before with friends, Richard Brautigan lived there, and Anne Lamott writes about it. Our trip was like a lot of other trips we’ve taken. It’s dreamlike, a little hazy, and even surreal because at some point we suddenly jet out of it which doesn’t allow for a gentle transition. When the glow begins to fade weeks later, months if I’m lucky, I try hard to hold on and hope some of it will remain.

“You know what? I know what he means. It’s like a childhood memory thing.” From Don’t Look Up

Songs :: Stride of the Mind by Patti Smith, Sands of Time by Fleetwood Mac, I Left My Heart in San Francisco by Tony Bennett, and You’re Made That Way by The Doobie Brothers

© C. Davidson

Hot and Flat :: [Supplemental]

Rail and Pennies — NE Minneapolis

Train — NE Minneapolis

Songs :: Copperline by James Taylor, Runaway by Bonnie Raitt, Sweet Emotion by Aerosmith, Roam by The B52’s, Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, and Long Train Runnin’ by The Doobie Brothers

© C. Davidson

Dunkin' Donuts

Bear Trap Canyon Route – 1983 :: Image-Google Earth

Downtown Providence :: Image-Google Earth

Super Target – 2021

Once I crossed the canal that’s fed by Narragansett Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, I sped into the narrow streets of downtown on my black one-speed, with electric blue rims, and pierced the canyons like a blade, just like I did in Bear Trap Canyon with friends eight months earlier. It was usually gray, rainy, or just after dusk when I rode this brief route, the opposite direction from campus and everything connected to it. It was impossible to completely escape though, because there were ghosts everywhere. I brought a few with me from Montana, some were new and mumbled near the window outside my first studio apartment on Congdon Street. Others had been roaming the city for centuries.

When I finally arrived at Dunkin’ Donuts, I did a serpentine skid to a stop, swung my leg over and locked the bike to the nearest street sign all in one motion. I went inside and waited near the bright display case and scanned the doughnut options. A well-dressed elderly man sat alone at the far side of the u-shaped counter partially blurred by steam from his coffee. He stared straight out to Union Street while three other customers were being helped by an employee speaking softly to them at the end of the counter. Everyone felt like regulars while I was ecstatically anonymous. I purchased four doughnuts and a small cup of coffee, exited, leaned against the glass windows, ate a cake one with chocolate frosting and sprinkles, and finished the hideously weak coffee. I kept the other three doughnuts in the waxy bag and slipped them into my day pack. Those were for the wee hours in the studio and photo lab. Riding solo to this corner, in this part of town, and then meandering slowly back to campus was a huge distraction from the studio chaos I’d left an hour before.

Recently, I found myself at Super Target in Saint Paul looking for the best deals on packaged ground coffee. I’ve noticed the bright colors of the Dunkin’ Donuts bags positioned off to the side for years, pushed out by elegant brands, bigger brands, and local roasters. I assumed that the coffee they sold in these bags would be just as weak and disappointing as it was in downtown Providence decades ago. On this day though, they were placed in the center of the coffee shelves and on sale, two for one, so I reluctantly grabbed two of the darkest grinds they had. I stood there holding the slick bags and flashed on moments from those rides and the significance of everything that was shed and gathered in both canyons almost forty years ago — remembering just how fluid everything still is.

— — — — — — —

“Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.” Norman McClean – A River Runs Through It

— — — — — — —

Songs :: Burnin’ Streets by Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros, Several Styles of Blonde Girls Dancing by Martha & The Muffins, Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat, Times Like These by Foo Fighters, Take Me To The River by Talking Heads

© C. Davidson

Send A Boat :: 12–17–1925 (Supplemental)

Flathead Lake, Montana :: 1960’s

Songs :: Pictures of You by The Cure, Up From A Dream by HAIM, Landslide by Fleetwood Mac and The Smashing Pumpkins

© C. Davidson

Discovery

Mercury Monarch

Missouri River Bluffs at Night

Music influenced most of my experiences during junior high and high school—Thursday night Key Club meetings, Friday night football games, choir festivals, and hiking in the woods. Music accompanied the view over the Missouri River gorge towards the Rocky Mountain Front and Canada too — exactly where my friend and I were parked. It was dark and the moon had set, so it felt endless through the car windows, with just enough ambient light to define the dim edges of things. Earlier that week while I was sitting in my history class waiting for it to begin, J. walked over to my desk, squatted next to me, and quietly asked if I’d like to go out sometime. My jaw must have dropped. I assumed she was messing with me because it was so random, but as I looked at her she seemed serious. “Um… sure” I said. “How about Saturday night. Are you free?” she asked. “Yeh. I think so… sure… I think… I’ll have to… yeh… Yes.” I said. “Great! Maybe let’s talk on Friday and figure something out”. “OK” I said. She smiled and went back to her desk. I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me, but we had mutual friends and some common interests, so we might have things to talk about. I’d noticed her in this class, in the hall by our lockers because they were near each other, and sometimes in the lobby of the performing arts building.

The following Friday we figured out the plan and eventually found ourselves parked in my parent’s brown, four-door, Mercury Monarch way outside of town after we’d seen a 9:30pm movie. I don’t recall what the movie was, but I remember sitting next to her in the theater. After the movie let out two hours later, we drove awhile and eventually found a good spot high above the coulees facing the falls on the Missouri River. We had all the windows open, so the smell of damp sage outside the car from an earlier rain, drifted inside. We sat in the front seat for hours, listening to the radio, smoking, drinking, laughing, and talking about everything for the very first time. We connected easily and became friends quickly, before we sank into the beige vinyl seats. I took a lot of risks driving my parent’s cars into places like this, rugged river bluffs and two-track mountain roads were all best suited for four-wheel drives, not the family sedan, but I didn’t own a four-wheel drive, or a car of my own at the time.

Besides our energy, that spot was embedded with lots of historic energy, because in June 1805, the Corps of Discovery spent a lot of time in this area. They had to portage four giant boats and all of their gear around the ‘falls’ on this part of the Missouri River. Ours was the same dimly lit horizon that the Lewis and Clark expedition saw at night. All of them may have hiked through this exact location looking for firewood, foraging for edible plants, hunting, and keeping a watchful eye on their new, unpredictable surroundings. They’d been trespassing into occupied territory during their entire journey, including this place. Every tribe from the Midwest to the northwest knew they were there. Fortunately for them, the indigenous people were mostly helpful and tolerant. Sacajawea was an integral part of the Corps too and was frequently responsible for their survival. Some have even written that she had saved their lives on more than one occasion. She may have stood where we were parked too, hauling her baby and her gear across the wild prairie. It felt a little wild that night with my friend too. It wasn’t 1805 wild, but It was a Saturday night in 1977 wild.

— — — — — — —

“Fly me high through the starry skies
Maybe to an astral plane
Cross the highways of fantasy
Help me to forget today's pain” Gary Wright

— — — — — — —

June 13, 1805 – Lewis and Clark Expedition Journal

Anxious to prove he’s right, Lewis scouts ahead of the rest of the ‘Corps’ and is overjoyed (at first) to find the Great Falls, describing them as a “truly magnificent and sublimely grand object, which has from the commencement of time been concealed from the view of ‘civilized man’*.

But it soon becomes clear that the portage (carrying canoes over land) around the Great Falls is going to be far more difficult and will require more than the one day he planned. To help with the challenge, the men fashion crude wagons from felled trees and drag the canoes and equipment across miles of unforgiving, cactus-strewn terrain.

“It takes them almost a month and a half to take all of their gear 18 miles,” says Buckley. “It’s probably one of the slowest parts of the whole trip.”

*Unsettling view of a white man.

— — — — — — —

Songs :: Dream Weaver and Love Is Alive by Gary Wright, I’m Not in Love by 10cc, Hello It’s Me by Todd Rundgren, Wishing You Were Here by Chicago, Baby Come Back by Player, Dust In the Wind by Kansas, Venus and Mars by Paul McCartney, and Lowdown by Boz Scaggs

© C. Davidson

In Goldenrod :: [Supplemental]

In Goldenrod :: 28th Anniversary – Franconia

Songs :: In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel and I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers

© C. Davidson

He's On The Terrace

Bryan Ferry :: Photographer Unknown

American Icons Program Poster – Front Cover

30 August 1988

It was a typical Tuesday until I received an afternoon phone call from my friend in the Performing Arts Department. “Hey, Craig. What are you doing right now? Are you busy?” “I’m working, but I can talk.” “Are you sitting down?” she asked. “No, I’m standing. Why?” “Bryan Ferry is in the building.” “What? ” I said. “Brian Ferry is sitting on the terrace outside the restaurant as we speak” “Bryan Ferry is in the building?! I repeated. “Yeh, he’s on the terrace,” she repeated. “Wow. I’ll call you back!”

I hung up the phone and walked across the hall to the conference room, climbed up on the white built-in, waist-high cabinet that lined the entire side of the room below the windows, and looked down to see if I could spot him. I couldn’t see anybody no matter how hard I scanned and pressed my face against the glass. I walked back to my desk and called her. “I looked out the windows. I don’t see anybody on the terrace. Are you messing with me?” “No! Can you see the whole terrace?” she asked, “Not really.” “I’m telling you he’s sitting down there. My friend who’s working in the restaurant right now told me.” “I can’t believe it! Why do you think he’s here?” “He has a concert downtown tonight. You didn’t know?” she said. “No. How would I know that?” “Because you’re a fan! You should go down there and get his autograph.” “Good point. I can’t go down there though. It’ll be embarrassing. He’ll think I’m an idiot.” ”I doubt it. If you don’t go, you’ll regret it.” “Yeh… you’re probably right… OK. Thanks for letting me know!” “Call me when you get back,” she said. I stood there nervously for a few minutes. I was full of adrenaline. I told one of my co-workers what was happening, and she agreed that I needed to go. Another five minutes went by and my phone rang again. “Are you already back?” “No, I haven’t left.” Why are you still there? He could leave.” “OK.” I said.

I nervously grabbed a couple of printed samples, a pen, and headed down to the restaurant. They were closed until the dinner hour, so it was empty except for a few employees milling about. I walked through the bright space to the huge solid wall of glass and the enormous glass doors that led outside to the terrace. It was sunny, hot, humid, and I still didn’t see him. The terrace wraps around the building so I couldn’t see all of it even from there. I slowly walked to the end of the terrace that overlooked the sculpture garden. I stood there with my heart thumping for a minute, turned slightly, and saw someone leaning back against the towering brick wall on the rear legs of their chair. I took a deep breath and slowly walked towards them. As I got within a few feet, I blurted out, “excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering… are you, Bryan Ferry?” He leaned forward until all four chair legs were on the ground and said, “Yes.” “I’m sorry to be bothering you. I’m a big fan.” “Oh. Thanks” “I was wondering if I could get your autograph?” “Sure.” I stepped closer and handed him a folded brochure/poster from the American Icon lecture series, and an issue of Design Quarterly I designed, and the pen. He signed them both and handed it all back to me. “Thanks a lot.” “You’re welcome.”

“Are you going to the show tonight?” he asked. The one I only knew about because my friend told me fifteen minutes earlier. “No, I can’t go.” “Oh…, that’s too bad. Are you sure? I’d be glad to set aside a couple of tickets at will call.” I was stunned. “Really?” “They’ll even allow you backstage too.” “Wow! That’s amazing. I wish I could, but I have to work tonight.” “I understand. I know how that goes.” “Thanks so much for the offer though. I’m sure it’ll be great. Thanks again for the autographs.” “You’re welcome.” We shook hands. He leaned back against the brick wall on the rear two legs of his chair, and I headed back inside.

I was ridiculous — autographs, a brief conversation, free tickets, and I could have joined other groupies backstage. Why did I say no? I regretted my decision more with every step. I’d already said no so I couldn’t walk back to him and say I've changed my mind. When I returned to my desk, I called my friend, told her I got his autograph, and thanked her for letting me know. She was excited for me. I didn’t tell her about his offers though.

Songs :: The entire Flesh and Blood and Avalon albums by Roxy Music, and his entire Boys and Girls album

© C. Davidson

Terry Badlands :: [Supplemental]

Terry Badlands :: North of Terry, Montana

Area Map :: Image–All Trails

Songs :: Hong Kong Breeze by Larry Coryell, Lies by Manassas and I’ve Got a Feeling by the Beatles

© C. Davidson

Fallingwater

Announcement

A Fallingwater Entrance :: Photographer Unknown

Interior – Postcard :: Photographer Unknown

Exterior :: 2007

I have a suite of recurring dreams that occasionally show up together and the feeling they leave behind sometimes lasts the entire morning and if I’m lucky, lingers for an entire day. They uncover powerful fragments and hazy touchstones from my grade school and junior high years that merge with the smell of my dad’s architecture office, the landscapes surrounding my hometown, sage, the Missouri River and one of the last big hugs I shared with him. Those dreams and residual feelings are based in real history, but they’re filtered, reshaped and reconfigured into abstract versions of themselves as I grow older.

Occasionally I spent parts of some Saturdays at my dad’s first office. There were three main rooms with exceptionally high ceilings. The drafting studio had big, heavy, wood drafting tables lining one side of the room under large east facing windows, worn, noisy wooden floors like in a saloon from a western movie, and classic, minimal nineteen fifties and sixties office furniture in the understated reception area and conference room, and a couple of small storage spaces. The public bathrooms were out the front office door and down an expansive, dimly lit hall. It was a magical world where I spent hours looking through sets of technical drawings, blueprints, and original ink renderings on Mylar that I pulled from the endless banks of flat files. I leafed through the architecture magazines at the long wood conference table where I first learned about Richard Neutra, Oscar Niemeyer, Louis Khan and Frank Lloyd Wright. Back in the drafting room, sometimes Phil K., Bill K., or my dad, would ask me what I was looking at, we might talk about it if I had a question and then one of them would often wave me over to show me what was on their board. Eventually I’d settle in next to my dad’s drafting table and watch him work for as long as he could tolerate me.

Four decades later during a quiet Easter weekend with my folks, we talked about the idea of visiting Fallingwater someday. We’d originally discussed it a few years prior when my dad was healthier. We knew it wasn’t possible anymore. We’d missed our window, but we talked about it anyway. We’d had quite a few spontaneous architectural adventures together over the years, like visiting the University of Lethbridge that bridged a coulee by Arthur Erickson, the Kresge Auditorium and Chapel by Eero Saarinen and the Baker House by Alvar Aalto in Boston, the Portland Museum of Art by Henry Nicoles Cobb in Maine, the Chapel of St. Ignatius by Steven Holl in Seattle, and several buildings in Minnesota, including Saint John’s Abbey by Marcel Breuer. Most of these visits were spontaneous sidebars to trips already in progress.

Similarly, I found myself at Fallingwater the following summer after that weekend in April. It was a last-minute decision to visit once I realized how close I was while passing through Pennsylvania on my way back to Minnesota from Providence. I couldn’t miss the opportunity after years of talking about it, even if my folks weren’t with me. My first overnight stop was in a small town near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. I made a reservation to tour the house for the next afternoon and I was lucky because usually it takes weeks ahead of time to schedule a tour. After a late breakfast, my drive took me through the deep green countryside and the rolling farmland of the Appalachians, interwoven with oak forest, immaculate Dutch barns, cattle and hidden limestone ravines. Eventually I found myself in a medium sized parking lot surrounded by woods. After I parked, I didn’t see the house from the lot, you kind of sneak up on it and before I knew it, I was standing in front of a secondary door carved out of stone and glass, almost like it was a private entrance to a cave. Once in, the ceilings were surprisingly low, and the compression I felt was slowly released as the height grew slightly in the main living space. The ceiling heights don’t change radically anywhere though, they’re all low and horizontal and the spaces seemed to pull me sideways just like I imagined they might.

I paid for the basic guided tour which provides some history and allows you to explore independently afterwards. They also provide fancier tours that end with wine and dinner at sunset. After roaming through the interior for a while where I touched as many custom components as I could, like window hardware and built-in cabinetry, I stood in front of the fireplace for a long time, stunned at how part of the stone floor surrounding it was an actual rock formation from below that protrudes into the space. Eventually, I exited through some doors to one of the floating porches and sat on the perfectly designed rail that accommodates everyone’s height and everyone’s body type. It was wide enough to sit on and textured just enough to provide traction and confidence as you looked down over Bear Run and the green ravine below — feeling how this place steps down the slope which echoes what the falls do, and on its descending journey from miles upstream was visceral.

Afterwards, I walked the short trail to the overlook to experience the same view I’d first seen in my dad’s office decades earlier. After some other admirers and I took each other’s picture, I called my folks from that spot to let them know I’d finally made it for the three of us.

— — — — — — —
"There in a beautiful forest was a solid, high rock ledge rising beside a waterfall, and the natural thing seemed to be to cantilever the house from that rock bank over the falling water..." Frank Lloyd Wright interview with Hugh Downs, 1954​

— — — — — — —

Songs :: The Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isakov, July by Amy Petty, On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter, I Contain Multitudes by Bob Dylan, Darn That Dream by Dexter Gordon, Another World by Joe Jackson, Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, Heroes by David Bowie and Sand by Phish

© C. Davidson

Iowa Vernacular :: [Supplemental]

When I saw this image pass through my feed, I thought it was a new Frank Gehry building. So, I clicked on it to find out more and discovered they are storm-damaged grain bins at the Heartland Co-Op in Luther, Iowa – August 2020. Image :: Associated Press

Songs :: Why Can’t I Touch It by Buzzcocks, Hometown by Bruce Springsteen and Starting Over by The Crystal Method

© C. Davidson

Four Giant Firemen

Our Daughter

I don’t think I noticed how alarmed my daughter was at the time. She only told me many years later when we were telling the story to someone. She revealed the fear she’d felt that afternoon when I told her what was happening. I probably used too many words and explained the situation in too many different ways at the time, all with varying scenarios and radically different outcomes, thinking the more information I provided her the better, while simultaneously projecting all my anxiety straight onto her. She seemed fine, and discreetly disappeared to her room upstairs and began to collect her most prized stuffed animals and a few other possessions in case the house burned to the ground, leaving only ash and melted artifacts.

We’d been out of town and the evening we arrived home, we opened the front door and noticed a faint smell of smoke. Something was burning, but there was no visible cause. I spent that night periodically searching the house for the source without any luck. The following morning we started to see a haze of layered smoke in the air. It was slowly getting worse. We walked through every part of the house countless times again that morning and still couldn’t identify the source.

That afternoon I called the health care office where my wife’s appointment was and asked the receptionist if she was done and able to come to the phone. Coincidentally, she’d just finished and was standing at the receptionist’s desk. “Hello? What’s wrong?” she asked. “I think I figured out where the smoke and the smell are coming from.” “Where?” “From above the ceiling in the bathroom.” “Why do you think that?” “Because I noticed that the paint is discolored in a weird pattern and the surface is really hot to the touch. I’m calling because I’m hesitating to call 911. I think I can manage it.” “Really? How?” “I’m not sure yet”, I said. “Don’t you think you should call them just to be safe.” “No… I don’t think so… well…. maybe… yeah, probably. You’re right… yeah, I should call them.” I needed her to gently nudge my ego so I didn’t have to. After I hung up, I called 911 and told the operator what was going on. She said she’d dispatch the fire department. “Ok! Could you do me a favor?” “What’s that sir?” “Ask them not to run their sirens” There was a brief silence. “I’ll let them know,” she said. Our neighborhood fire station isn’t far away and within five minutes, I began to hear distant sirens. They got closer and louder, until they were parked and screaming in front of our house. I guess she forgot to tell them. Seeley was sitting at attention on the couch with her full backpack when the front doorbell rang, followed by numerous loud knocks.

Are all fire-fighters required to be enormous? Because they usually are, like the ones at our door were. I wonder if there’s a minimum height requirement. Some commonly accepted six foot minimum like in other parts of society, usually pointed out by men and women who are only that height wearing boots, or think about that type of thing frequently. I hope there isn’t a height minimum and that it’s just a coincidence, because I feel like if I was 35 years old again, in good shape, still short, but with my high tolerance for heat, I could have been a fire-fighter. I’m certain there are fire-fighters that are my height. There must be. These four weren’t though. When I opened the front door I was staring at their chests. I scanned them from there to the top of their head-lamped helmets. Their rubber suits, other protective gear and pickaxes made them feel even bigger. They were giant first responders.

After investigating the situation, they confirmed that they’d need to punch through the ceiling in the bathroom. So, one of them took his pickax and did just that. He broke through and as soon as he did, smoldering sheet rock and burning wood embers dropped out and landed in the bathtub. It was shocking because there was a significant amount of material burning and smoldering in front of us. Seeley and I sat together in the living room while they stabilized the situation. They left soon after and then an investigator arrived to determine the exact cause and had us shut the power off to the bathroom. It was an electrical fire caused by some incompetent DIY exhaust fan work completed years before we even bought the house. The fact that it caught fire at this time was completely random which made it even more unsettling. I asked the investigator a few questions and he said that by late that evening we would’ve had a full blown fire.

That same night, the electrician we called arrived to repair the wiring, replace the exhaust fan vent tube and sign-off on turning the power back on. The next day he returned to repair the sheet rock in the ceiling. We were lucky. We were safe. Our cat was safe and the stuffed animals were back where they belonged.

Songs :: The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields and Peter Gabriel, Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson and My City Was Gone by The Pretenders

© C. Davidson

Oregon Euphorics :: [Supplemental]

Exposure – Self Portrait on the 101

Songs :: Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, React and What’s Golden by Jurassic 5, Keep On Doin’ It by Tom Scott and The L.A. Express, Rockin’ Down the Highway by The Doobie Brothers, and Kashmir by Led Zeppelin

© C. Davidson

Reasons to Drive Through Iowa City

It was hot and humid during the two and a half days I drove south to Chicago and west through Iowa, Nebraska, and Wyoming to Montana, my final destination. I drove to Chicago to visit friends before heading west. My first major stop after leaving Chicago was Iowa City. Visiting Iowa City has been on my road list for a few reasons.

One :: I designed book covers and a complete book for the University of Iowa Press years ago. I’d never met anyone from the Press because I worked with them remotely, so I only knew their voices, their phone numbers, and random professional stuff. I’d been curious to see their campus because I like having an image in my head of where people are when I’m on the phone with them. Whether they’re sitting on an open porch, in a tall office building somewhere, or in a space with clear sight lines to the campus quad. Sometimes if I know someone well enough, I’ll ask what kind of room they’re in and what’s around them. I didn’t have that conversation with anyone at the Press, but now I can imagine what their day might have felt like on that campus.

Two :: Steven Holl designed the fine arts complex on campus and I planned to see the building while I was there. I’ve only visited two other buildings of his in person, the addition to the School of Architecture building at the University of Minnesota, and a chapel in Seattle. When I arrived, the buildings were locked, but I could walk around the outside and take pictures. I tried to remember what the inside was like because I’d seen interior photographs in an architecture magazine. Afterwards, I googled co-ops where I could grab dinner and other supplies for the nighttime leg of my drive through the rest of Iowa and Nebraska. I found one near the university, drove there and spent thirty minutes wandering the aisles making my selections and absorbing the sweet smell of herbs and teas.

Three :: I had a professor in undergraduate school who taught painting and drawing and later moved to Iowa City to teach. I took a two-hundred level painting class from him and a year later he advised a friend and myself in a video and performance art independent study. Occasionally, he called me ‘birdman’ and compared me to Buster Keaton. I was confused by both things and it felt oddly intimate since we didn’t know each other very well. At some point during the quarter he said, "your paintings look like they’re painted by a right-hander.” I was defensive at first. As the days passed, I realized they did look like they’d been painted by a right-hander. I had a lot of diagonal strokes from upper right to lower left. I began to question how I was physically painting and how my brush strokes influenced the images. I always appreciated his observation. I don’t remember anything else he said about my work during that class, and just that feels like a lot.

Songs :: (Cross the) Heartland by Pat Metheny, Sunshine in Chicago by Sun Kil Moon, Secret Journey and Voices Inside My Head by The Police, The Blue, Wide Open by The Crystal Method, and Summer Madness by Kool and the Gang

© C. Davidson

Idaho :: [Supplemental]

Idaho

Songs :: Private Idaho by The B-52’s and Feel Alright by Steve Earle

© C. Davidson

Lavender and Lilac

Tuesday 24 November 2020 :: I was working late and listening to Rickie Lee Jones and Shawn Colvin and hoped my wife was having good dreams in Florida. I thought about my daughter in the Powderhorn and hoped she was happy, safe, and that we could spend the holiday together. I thought about our overseas Christmas together a few years ago too, and began to look through my photos from the trip. I was completely absorbed in my screen like I was there, when a floral scent slowly filled my corner of the room, and lingered, then vanished as quickly as it appeared — like maybe it didn’t happen, that maybe I’d imagined it. I got up from my chair and searched around my worktable and eventually wandered through the entire house trying to identify the source. I couldn’t find anything. The smell of lavendar isn’t an everyday scent. Maybe during the summer when I’m on the deck near the potted lavender, but it was late November, the plants were frozen, and I was inside.

Soon after we moved into this house, we noticed a lavender scent would appear and linger for a minute or two and then completely disappear. It happened a hand full of times during our first year. We usually experienced it together and eventually thought the same thing. Someone, or something, was in the room with us. It was random but it felt specific and intentional. Eventually we decided that if it was someone, maybe it was the original owner of our house, the grandmother of the person we bought the house from. Maybe she was checking to investigate who we were, if we were worthy the house she and her husband had built in 1920. When that happens, so obviously out of place and time, yet crisp and real, it means something else is happening. When both of us are experiencing the same thing simultaneously, it’s real.

Eventually it stopped happening. Then this night I thought she might be back, but it smelled more like lilac, not lavender. It was different and made me think about my mom, her favorite color, and the lilac bushes she and my dad had planted between our house and the neighbor’s house. They provided a tall, green fence eight months of the year. When they bloomed their perfume was trapped in that in between space just like that night, where I could just linger in a white and purple cloud.

Songs :: Into Dust by Mazy Star, Send Somebody by Colin Hay, It’s For You by Lyle Mays and Pat Metheny, and Into the Mystic by Van Morrison

© C. Davidson

Laundry Index :: [Supplemental]

I tried to sell these empty laundry soap containers on eBay years ago. No one bought them and eventually my post expired, my account was dormant and then completely disappeared. I’ve often thought that if the two caps that don’t match, had matched, I may have had a bidding war on my hands.

Song :: I Don’t Know by Beastie Boys

© C. Davidson 

Bootlegger Trail

It was Friday night and everyone was in a good mood. We chatted outside our cars for awhile and confirmed the location of the party, including any landmarks, or the nearest mile marker in case someone became separated. After we left our rendezvous point, I flipped through my friends cassettes and finally landed on the newest Boston album. We drove on the west side of town towards the river, past the fairgrounds then left past my brother-in-law’s Dads gas station and garage while More Than a Feeling and Peace of Mind played. We passed the refinery and turned north on Highway 87 at dusk. We were behind Matt and two of his friends in his pristine black truck, and six or seven vehicles behind us, from trucks to Volkswagen Beetles.

The third song on that album is Foreplay/Long Time and it was perfect because as soon as we approached the top of the hill and began to exit the highway, the faint transition began. We slowed down to make the gentle turn onto Bootlegger Trail and then the song exploded into the best part. As soon as every car in the convoy centered themselves in the lane, we all accelerated in sync like our cars were linked. We were in my friends red and white four-door sedan, with white leather upholstery, brand new tires, and an expensive sound system. We couldn’t hear each other speak and we didn’t really want to because who talks when that song is playing. I wasn’t interested in the rest of the album, so I searched for the next one to keep the momentum going — songs by The Outlaws, Ozark Mountain Daredevils, or Pure Prairie League were always good candidates, but I landed on the Tres Hombres album by ZZ Top. I was surprised because we were both aware of each other’s music collection and I didn’t know he had that one. I fast forwarded through the first seven songs to La Grange which was perfect for our convoy speeding north.

Eventually Matt signaled his turn onto a two-track dirt road on the south end of a classmates family ranch. The people in our convoy would only be a portion that would arrive that night because word spreads quickly on Friday nights. It was late October and chilly, even with a big fire on the edge of the coulee, and a hill on one side to help break the wind. After hours of milling about and talking with everyone next to the heat of the bonfire, and in nearby cars, we said our goodbyes. Then we connected with two friends who’d asked for a ride home. As we left the orange glow, dark silhouettes, and sparks streaming up, I flipped though his tapes again. We turned south from the dirt road onto pavement and accelerated. I leaned forward, turned the volume up and we all settled into Night Moves and drove back to the hazy light of town.

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Community :: A group of living things with something in common like beliefs, customs, or identity. Communities might share a sense of place in a geographic area, or a virtual space.

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For S. S.

Songs :: Foreplay/Long Time by Boston, Green Grass and High Tides by The Outlaws, Sure Feels Good by Elvin Bishop, La Grange by ZZ Top, and Night Moves by Bob Seger

© C. Davidson

Pandemic Distraction – Institute of Nomadic Architecture YouTube Channel :: [Supplemental]

Song :: Heart Sutra Song – Gone Beyond by Laurie Anderson, Tenzin Choegyal & Jesse Paris Smith

C. Davidson 

Safeway

Most Friday and Saturday nights during college were predictable. I was either at a friend’s place, my place making stuff, at the art building making something, or an occasional bar like Roses where Kostas and his band often played. One particular night, a friend and I spent the evening at his house on South Fifth. He shared it with a roommate who I rarely saw when I was there. At some point, we spontaneously ate mushrooms and spent the entire evening drawing and listening to albums and the university radio station. The living room was warmly lit by a few incandescent floor lamps and a cluster of burning candles on the coffee table. After an hour or so, everything surrounding us began to bloom.

Eventually we realized our supply of cigarettes was dwindling, so, we discussed the necessary strategy required for us to physically leave our cocoon and interact with the outside world. We pondered it, discussed it, over thought it, laughed about it, and finally gathered ourselves and hopped on our bikes. The store wasn’t far, maybe a half-mile or so, but it was far enough that we felt exposed, while simultaneously relishing the speed and curb jumping. A block away from Safeway, we exited the darkness of the neighborhood and were spit out from Eighth Avenue past the Lewis and Clark Motel and onto West Main Street where the bright lights were shocking. There wasn’t much traffic at that hour, even for a Saturday night, so we maintained our speed and crossed the four lanes quickly. We rode through the large parking lot, locked our rear brakes and made large serpentine skids, before dismounting in front of the store where the bike racks were. It was even brighter there, standing in front of a solid wall of glass, and florescent light like an x-ray. We headed for the entrance and the huge glass doors that opened automatically like they sensed we were there. We looked at each other, and I noticed how big his eyes were. Mine must have been too because we exploded in laughter next to the shopping carts.

Eventually we remembered the strategy outlined at the house and quickly realized we needed to separate to be effective. After five minutes or so, which seemed like fifteen, we met back up, each with cigarettes, a beverage and a snack. We made eye contact and without a word, walked towards the front of the store and the only functioning check-out lane. Out of the corner of my eye I was surprised to see someone in an aisle. I didn’t think anyone else was in the store besides the cashier, but a man was standing with his face just inches from a shelf contemplating something. He was motionless and so close that the front brim of his large felt hat must have been touching it. I slowed almost to a stop, focused even harder and realized it was Richard Brautigan. Even though I’d never seen him in person before, I’d seen pictures of him — his lanky frame dressed exactly the same way. He was unmistakable. I nudged my friend to look too and then whispered who it was. We continued walking to the check-out lane, working hard to maintain our composure because the cashier seemed to look straight through us, the lights sizzled, and a celebrity was present. When we finally made it back to our bikes, my friend asked, “do you really think that was Richard Brautigan. Trout Fishing in America Brautigan?” “Yeh, I’m positive.” “Wow!”he said. We got back on our bikes and quickly rode like we were being chased and disappeared back into the dark streets towards home, while the stars and the breeze streamed straight through us.

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In addition to the universal acclaim and recognition Richard Brautigan received for his writing, he was mythic in the area. He had a home in Paradise Valley near Livingston, and he frequented Bozeman because he was a writer in residence and taught a class at the University in the spring of 1982. My friend Julie told me that he even had an honorary reserved seat at the Haufbrau, his bar of choice. She said she never saw him there, or knew anyone who’d ever seen him there.

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“All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds.” Richard Brautigan

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Songs :: Sugar Mountain by Neil Young, Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, Lost In the Supermarket by the Clash, and Have You Seen the Stars Tonite by Jefferson Starship

© C. Davidson

Don't Know–Not Sure :: [Supplemental]

Don’t Know–Not Sure :: Diptych – 20” x 32’ x 2” – Latex on Canvas

Songs :: Too Much by Drake, Into Dust by Mazzy Star and You’re Right (I’m Wrong) by Colvin and Earle

© C. Davidson