Colorado

Sloane Crosley (I know.) said it best in her recent compilation of essays, How Did You Get This Number:

"I took one hundred-thirty-two photographs in Alaska, one hundred of which were of icebergs. Sometimes you can see otters or fishing poles in the background. Sometimes you can see the ghost forest, betraying their vampire-like nature by showing up in pictures. Mostly it's a lot of ice. I blind people with iceberg photos. Here's a iceberg from far away. Here it is again, up close. Here's a chunk of it floating in the water. Here it is from the boat, from the shore, from the sides, give me cold, give me big, you're chiseled like an ice sculpture, you're a cube and the ocean is your glass. Brrr, baby, brrr. The pictures are frustrating.

What I want to say is this: Here is a country that is ours but not ours. A crazed landscape of death and marriage with bells to acknowledge both. Here is the longest breath of fresh air you will ever take, the bluest stream you will ever dip your hand in, the humane thing to do. Why does none of it show up on film? Maybe I need a better camera."