Sunset Scouting

The old way west

No man is an island, nor any piece of land. It is with functions and externalities that we ponder lines across the map in our heads. You may ask where I am from: really you are asking what I believe. You are asking to see if mountains are reflected in my soul, before I can show you through speech or thought or movement. If you cannot tell through these ways, you are not the only one, for places are not so different as we think. We are drawn to what makes them different – we are obsessed with the striated and the smooth, with the structure, the intention, the origin – we take a big lens that makes smaller what is large and we hoist a big sun in the sky and we look at your practices in the realm where you exist, like the proverbial occupant of the glass house, we pick up the rocks you've thrown and touch them to our nose. We run a wrinkled hand through a widow's peak. We seek to make what is obvious invisible, and what is losing triumphant, for it is the subject of destruction that speaks most clearly to the heart of the created. We walk, but we do not know to where.

"A river the stature of Missoula's Clark Fork is far more than just water running. But what is it? Is it the sum total of a hundred things? Thats what I went walking to see." Kim Williams, 1982