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Topanga Canyon



​The fog.

Watching the fog roll in from the pacific. The mountains cradle the plumes of fog, hold it, allow it to slowly crawl from crest to valley. A slow drift. That cleanses the air. Angel clouds slowly descending. Cleansing. Cleansing.

Found Material Collage






In the mountains of Topanga the rumors of spirits past, people past, a dream of peace in Los Angeles is embedded in its rock and soil. The canyon is a thick space of green and hearty yellow. Where roots find nutrition in the memory of music, of escape, of a sentient nature. People come to transcend the nastiness of the city. The soot and grime of city smog folds away in chunks, carried by the ocean mist that covers the mountain range at dusk and again at dawn. As if nature were hauling the muck on its back, cleansing the lungs, the skin, the bones.

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