image border bottom

Lake Sammamish

December 03, 2008  Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft   3 Comments

Today, as I was driving by the lake on the way to work, the rising sun was peeking out of the clouds over the evergreen laden mountains and hitting the water, illuminating the mist rising from the surface.

Such a pretty little sight, one that tugged at me, a serene landscape as there ever was—such is a drive to work in the Pacific Northwest.

I used to keep a camera in the car, to take a picture of such things, because taking pictures is what I used to do. Last year I took it out.

Why?

That is a good question and for awhile I did not know. I came to realize my energy as an artist was limited and I choose to direct it towards writing.

My relationship with readers is so important to me—it is my lifeblood. When you read the first paragraph in this post, what did you picture in your mind?

Was it what I saw, or was it something better?

There is something about a well-composed photograph that captures a moment or is akin to a painting without paint. I do not belittle these works of art.

But I am greedy. I want more. I want the imagination, your experiences.

Perhaps you like crime fiction. There in the lake floats a body, picked at by the crows. Far from wearing Pacific Northwest attire for the outdoors, this corpse was wearing an expensive Italian suit. A sheriff boat is approaching the man, a tired deputy who wanted to go home earlier but had to gas up the skiff. Hauling the body in, his life will never be the same, for he recognizes the man, even in his bloated form.

Or, maybe you like science fiction. The lake is bereft of houses, development. The people who lived here long ago are all gone. Indeed, the area is almost empty—except for the helmsman.  She landed nearby in her small, whisper ship. The lake looked pretty, the planet seemingly undeveloped. A nice place to die, she thinks, as she walks along the edge of the lake. But she realizes that the trail she is walking on is no game trail, rather the remnants of some road. She has to sit and catch her breath. Who lived here, she wonders. A nice little quest before the radiation finally kills her.

Could you be an incurable romantic? A woman sits on the deck of her lake house, watching the lights of the other houses come on one-by-one. Far from being riddled with angst, her life is clear, her husband she adores, her days filled with meaning and purpose. She breathes in the fresh air from the lake, a blend of water and fallen leaves from the token deciduous trees that line the shore. She treasures little mornings like this. Soon, she thinks, she and her husband will be ready to have a baby. But her phone rings. It is the first man she ever made love to, a boy really, when she saw him last. He is hurting. His wife died, while he was away at war. He is beyond distraught; he is on the verge of non-existence. He is in town. Could he come to visit?

Opportunity is why I stopped taking photos. When I see, what I hear, smell, touch, and taste—it ignites my mind surely as if I was on fire. The camera is a wink of a moment, but your imagination is forever.

Today, as I was driving by the lake on the way to work, the rising sun was peeking out of the clouds over the evergreen laden mountains and hitting the water, illuminating the mist rising from the surface.

3 comments on: Lake Sammamish

  1. J.C December 3, 2008 at 12:08 pm

    Posts like this make me feel like I want to read your writing.
    And I think photographs are nice, but sometimes they just fail to capture the sensation you’re feeling at the time, and as you’ve so beautifully pointed out, take away from the possibilities of what you see.

  2. Alex Moore December 3, 2008 at 8:40 pm

    great post, anthony. enjoyed much.

  3. Anthony December 4, 2008 at 7:16 am

    Thank you for your kind words!

%d bloggers like this: