Big rocks, bigger sky, and not a soul in sight

I wandered around my house tonight, not sure what to do with myself. I pittered at the piano for a few minutes, and then picked up a giant book of Ansel Adams photography. I wanted company, so I made my way to the kitchen, sat down at the table across from my mom, and opened the book, rather listlessly.

I read a bit of the introduction, and learned that Ansel Adams documented the world with his photos longer ago than I thought. He first visited Yellowstone when he was fourteen, and I remember a date from the 1930s - early on in his career?

"Is Ansel Adams dead?" I asked my mom, bluntly.
She replied that she wasn't sure, but probably, yes.

Tired of reading, I flipped through the book, which is divided into sections: sky, water, plant, rock, and others. Any one of the photos are breathtaking. I'd like to see some of his color photos, I thought to myself, my eyes scanning black-and-white landscape after black-and-white landscape.

What I thought most interesting from the introduction was this: Adams' own description of his work. He saw it as divided into two sections: "within" and "without", "without" being his hired jobs (more color photos), and "within" being his own creative productions. Very cogent, Mr. Adams. Almost anything could be categorized as such, because all inspiration comes from one of two places: without one's self, or within one's self.

Sitting there, at the kitchen table, I reminded myself of my grandfather, whom we visited in France just a few weeks ago. In the evenings, when it would be just a few of us over at his house, he would sit there, at the dining room table, and read articles chosen at random from the World Book Encyclopedia.

The thought of it makes me a little sad, because I think he is lonely. I was a little lonely tonight, so I flipped through Ansel Adams' work with no particular direction or investment. To behave such likely means one of two things: one either possess some amount of free time and nothing better to do, or one is a little lonely. I suppose they are not mutually exclusive, and perhaps not necessarily bad. But I always hated saying goodnight to my grandfather, leaving him alone in that great big house.