559 - Alton Bay
It’s strange how the concept of houses has become more and more foreign to me over the years.
I drive by them everyday, visit family/friends in them, and see people in them in various forms of media. But the concept of actually living in one now feels like some sort of distant dream. I’ve been living in a car for almost four years now, and my mind feels completely enveloped in this world.
I can’t even imagine moving into a house. I feel like I’d lose my mind… These days I start to bored of a new town after a week or two. Show me the best parks, the tastiest restaurants, and maybe quirky a bar or two. Then I’m out.
And unless the town is truly extraordinary, I rarely feel the need to come back. After all, why would I? There’s endless places offering new, novel experiences.
Which leads me to an interesting question. What is the value in non-nomadic lifestyles? Truly. Why is it so sought after by 98% of the population?
Is it a social construct? A primal urge? A need for routine? All of the above?
Personally, I think the answer boils down to comfort. Because for me, it’s only during periods of darkness that I feel the desire for permanent housing emerge.
Today felt like one of those days.
My photography binge from the past couple days had officially hit the burnout phase. And like I said during my shoot at Tight Pond, I think this occasion was the worst it’s ever been.
Last night, all I remember is pulling into a random parking lot and staring into the woods in front of me. But I wasn’t looking at trees. I was gazing into a portal of another world. One with hot showers and private bathrooms, warm blankets and fire places, popcorn, flatscreens, and lemongrass tea.
Suddenly I awoke up in the back of my car. 10 hours had passed. I looked at my watch, drank a liter of water, then passed out for another 2 hours.
When I awoke this time, I felt like a new person. A half day off from the frantic madness of fall had done me wonders.
I went for a run, got a monster burrito in me, and before I knew it, that sweet, sweet photo juice was dripping back into my brain. Go time. Since I’d already spent a few days in the White Mountains, I figured I’d head south.
Lake Winnipesaukee was on my radar, and according to foliage reports, it was just starting to kick off. Today I decided I to make it my goal to get a photo of a house. Because, you know, metaphors.
And out here, I figured it’d hardly be a challenge. Practically every house in New England looked like something out of a Steven Spielberg movie. Every lot had its own curvy driveway, its own old rusty car, its own cheerful tree… And no two were remotely similar.
What I landed on was nothing short of cinematic:
“Little Boxes”
Taken with Sony a7rIV + Sony 24-105mm f/4 G
[ISO 50 ~ 51mm ~ f/18 ~ 1s]
(Want a Print? Get one here.)
One thing I’ll never understand is how all the water in New England is so still.
In the West, even if there’s a small pond, it’s guaranteed to have ripples throwing the vibe. Out here, unless the lake is absolutely massive, it’s always as still as ice. Wild.
Anyway. That’s my story about how I missed living in a house for a day.
Just when I thought it was gone from me entirely, I found it nestled deep in the catacombs of my subconscious. Strange how that happens. Things never seem to disappear entirely, do they?
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