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This is the Rebellion against overproduced images often in the digital world. These are images made from my film cameras. Each image I shot myself. The subjects are often friends, and acquaintances in their world.

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In Transition The tunnels from the terminal to the ground transpo at LAX are these nice inner chambers that I view as these airlocks where they help you adjust to atmosphere, as if you were on a mission to Skylab or something.  But in these tunnels, these, sterile, hallow, quiet tunnels, people collect their thoughts.  They wipe the sugar peanut mess on their lap off.  They wipe away at their liquid stain from the ginger ale, diet coke, cranberry juice.   They roll their overhead bin luggage with either that bad handle or that bad wheel, thumping away in melodic beat.  Even groups seem to speak in hush muted tones, like you would at library, as you pass through the tunnel.  You leave behind the tight seat, in a cramped plane,  the back muscles straining to extend.  And your body adjusts to being upright again.  Your eyes look forward towards the Police Officer who stands next to the “NO RE-ENTRY” sign.  Beyond those electronic glass doors is your fate.   Perhaps its something innocuous, a buddy pissed you called him to pick you up knowing you’re going to smooth it over with dinner or get off easy with a Red Bull.  Perhaps its a funeral, a wedding, a marriage.  Maybe someone is sick, maybe its been a long time since you’ve been back.  Maybe its a city you don’t want to be in because there is someone there you want to avoid.  Maybe its work, maybe its a job, or maybe its a career, they are not all the same you know.  If you are lucky, maybe its a vacation, or a lover, a great friend.  Maybe its your mom, or your son, or your dad, or your spouse. But maybe its what you left behind a few hours ago.  Maybe you said, “Just get me out of here.”  Or maybe you said, “I wish I didn’t have to leave.”  But the fact of the matter is you did.  And you are here now, quickly approaching the halfway point of this long tunnel. You can see the people behind the glass.  The taxis buzzing by behind them, the red zone and its lack of cars because of the meter maids enforcing their power.  People moving and craning like storks to see around you, to catch glimpses of some face familiar, a swatch of clothing that is recognizable, a hair color and style that is all its own. I look down at my feet, because I know there is no one to greet me, its usually too damn hard to do that these days.  Parking is expensive.  And there are cell phone lots.  And the kids, taking out of the seats, to walk over just to put them back in again. That’s just too inconvenient.  These are the things you tell yourself to smooth it over in your mind.  To take an Eore route to expectation.   And unless its someone that really loves you, it doesn’t happen very much.  Not much except for all these people tonight,  since the passengers on my flight as a group are approaching the windows, and one by one these passengers are being swallowed up by groups of welcoming people.  Its like an inverse Normandy Beach, but instead of bullets its Love.  Burps, shouts, bleeps for joy build in rapid succession.  Kids run circles around their dad.  Kisses are exchanged.  And a billion dollars worth of laptops, info, and equipment in carryon luggage are all dropped to the terrazzo floor and no longer hold any value at this point in time.  All given up for the sheltering, upright embrace that you cannot do in the red zone with Homeland Security watching, in the car seat, or across the transmission column.  No, these are great embraces if you are lovers, jock hugs if you are guys, and quick hugs followed quickly by punches to each others ball sacks if you are brothers. “You flinched Douchebag.  Stop flinching.” I quickly walk past them to the curb of other people who have realized like myself, that we are all sharing the same, “I don’t know what’s going to happen next fate.”  The buzz of automobiles of police whistles, of congestion, that mix of smog and ocean air punches you in the face.  Internationals chattering away on neverbefore seen cellphones and then there’s me, hands in my pockets, my left engulfing my own phone, waiting.  A call rings in on my vibrating phone.  I answer, see my buddy, we have a quick hug as he tosses my bag in the car and we are off.   “How was your trip?” “Good.  Well, it was expected.” “That’s bad then.” “Yeah.  Bad….a little.  Could have been better.” “Well,” he hands me an energy drink, “good news is we have lots work ahead of us.” “Hooray,” I say nursing the energy drink. The car takes the ramp at Olympic onto the 405 and the view of LA at night can be seen, as we merge with the other 405ers headed North.   “Its good to be back.” “Its good to have you.” LAX Rolleiflex 2.8E 80mm Schniender-Krueznach Portra 160NC

In Transition

The tunnels from the terminal to the ground transpo at LAX are these nice inner chambers that I view as these airlocks where they help you adjust to atmosphere, as if you were on a mission to Skylab or something.  But in these tunnels, these, sterile, hallow, quiet tunnels, people collect their thoughts.  They wipe the sugar peanut mess on their lap off.  They wipe away at their liquid stain from the ginger ale, diet coke, cranberry juice.   They roll their overhead bin luggage with either that bad handle or that bad wheel, thumping away in melodic beat.  Even groups seem to speak in hush muted tones, like you would at library, as you pass through the tunnel.  You leave behind the tight seat, in a cramped plane,  the back muscles straining to extend.  And your body adjusts to being upright again.  Your eyes look forward towards the Police Officer who stands next to the “NO RE-ENTRY” sign.  Beyond those electronic glass doors is your fate.  

Perhaps its something innocuous, a buddy pissed you called him to pick you up knowing you’re going to smooth it over with dinner or get off easy with a Red Bull.  Perhaps its a funeral, a wedding, a marriage.  Maybe someone is sick, maybe its been a long time since you’ve been back.  Maybe its a city you don’t want to be in because there is someone there you want to avoid.  Maybe its work, maybe its a job, or maybe its a career, they are not all the same you know.  If you are lucky, maybe its a vacation, or a lover, a great friend.  Maybe its your mom, or your son, or your dad, or your spouse.

But maybe its what you left behind a few hours ago.  Maybe you said, “Just get me out of here.”  Or maybe you said, “I wish I didn’t have to leave.”  But the fact of the matter is you did.  And you are here now, quickly approaching the halfway point of this long tunnel.

You can see the people behind the glass.  The taxis buzzing by behind them, the red zone and its lack of cars because of the meter maids enforcing their power.  People moving and craning like storks to see around you, to catch glimpses of some face familiar, a swatch of clothing that is recognizable, a hair color and style that is all its own.

I look down at my feet, because I know there is no one to greet me, its usually too damn hard to do that these days.  Parking is expensive.  And there are cell phone lots.  And the kids, taking out of the seats, to walk over just to put them back in again. That’s just too inconvenient.  These are the things you tell yourself to smooth it over in your mind.  To take an Eore route to expectation.   And unless its someone that really loves you, it doesn’t happen very much.  Not much except for all these people tonight,  since the passengers on my flight as a group are approaching the windows, and one by one these passengers are being swallowed up by groups of welcoming people.  Its like an inverse Normandy Beach, but instead of bullets its Love.  Burps, shouts, bleeps for joy build in rapid succession.  Kids run circles around their dad.  Kisses are exchanged.  And a billion dollars worth of laptops, info, and equipment in carryon luggage are all dropped to the terrazzo floor and no longer hold any value at this point in time.  All given up for the sheltering, upright embrace that you cannot do in the red zone with Homeland Security watching, in the car seat, or across the transmission column.  No, these are great embraces if you are lovers, jock hugs if you are guys, and quick hugs followed quickly by punches to each others ball sacks if you are brothers.

“You flinched Douchebag.  Stop flinching.”

I quickly walk past them to the curb of other people who have realized like myself, that we are all sharing the same, “I don’t know what’s going to happen next fate.”  The buzz of automobiles of police whistles, of congestion, that mix of smog and ocean air punches you in the face.  Internationals chattering away on neverbefore seen cellphones and then there’s me, hands in my pockets, my left engulfing my own phone, waiting.  A call rings in on my vibrating phone.  I answer, see my buddy, we have a quick hug as he tosses my bag in the car and we are off.  

“How was your trip?”

“Good.  Well, it was expected.”

“That’s bad then.”

“Yeah.  Bad….a little.  Could have been better.”

“Well,” he hands me an energy drink, “good news is we have lots work ahead of us.”

“Hooray,” I say nursing the energy drink.

The car takes the ramp at Olympic onto the 405 and the view of LA at night can be seen, as we merge with the other 405ers headed North.  

“Its good to be back.”

“Its good to have you.”

LAX

Rolleiflex 2.8E 80mm Schniender-Krueznach Portra 160NC

Notes