Peter Fonda, the Big Bar and a prelude to making it through.
The Holidays will always bring us together and ignite the types of conversations survivors are overheard exploring.
We never have been to a war together but we’ve earned our own version of The Continental Hotel Terrace to reminisce about.
Thoughts on old love, the last few years of change, resilience, new love, and motion for the future. Same passion.
The work of obtaining a pilots license, turbo props to the Arctic circle in January, a country scattered with a few hundred thousand reindeer, home to the factory that made the triple deuce a 1960’s champion of accuracy, two hour winter solstice sunlight, a legend regarding the whipping post and a statue of my hero. Hardcore.
The frustration of scale focus, the Jedi powers available to even the most common first Assistant Camera operator, a life lived in operational perfection and the grossly understated forty millimeter sonnar.
All this before the last call and timely ejection back out into the grip of a sea level harbor breeze down an early morning Manhattan village street.