A monument stands in the center of Slate Rock Park making the place where the rock once was. The rock was blown up accidentally in the making of the memorial.  The memorial was constructed in the hope to fix the collective memory upon a particular point in space and time. A moment where the rock met the river and the greeting was echoed perhaps by another. As the legend goes it was here that the future founder of the state halted in his river journey and set into motion the series of events which would include (among many others) the relocation of the river and the destruction by dynamite of the rock he then tread upon.

The river, now some 500 yards east forms the long side of a ragged triangle. To the north, an abandoned railway line, to the south a tangle of ramps below a highway, the monument in the park the apogee. These pictures derive from a series of walks within this triangle, across ballfields, through patches of use and disuse, and into pockets of wildness where what we call nature seems to persist. Each walk drifting in measure toward the riverbank, built from the ruin of roadways and the low tide meniscus of oil slicks and oysterbeds, in turn pausing, forgetting, remembering.

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