FIELD NOTES : Jacob Perkins :: From the Cannery, Part 6 : Return of a Fast Food Drifter
On top of the Olympic Range I am skating over snowfields and looking through something I'd only impair to describe as 'fabric' at night. Deep nostalgic chest throbs: the mushroom chocolates were a good choice. There was supposed to be
FIELD NOTES: Jacob Perkins, From the Cannery : Pt 3 :: Exxon Oil Spill
Pushing off the dock in Kodiak with a solid three weeks of work behind us, the small cannery we called (temporary) home, Alitak, lies behind a hundred miles of fog and snowcovered peaks. We set off on a thirty hour run north, to an equally small town, Kenai, for the salmon season on the Cook Inlet. I'd like to tell you about jigging for cod over this time, on a small boat in high wind and waves, but I find myself interested in showers, and their locations, scarcity.
FIELD NOTES : JACOB PERKINS: From the Cannery, Pt 2
Straight from Kodiak -- our second installment from poet and artist, Jacob Perkins. Here's an excerpt from PT 1 - to contextualize the images and drawings below. More words are incoming... he's on a fishing boat in Alaska, after all! "Myself, I am Alaskan born. Summer is the season of the sockeye. For others it is re-shingling, re-siding, decking, painting, some kind of hometown gig you begrudge seasonally, out of that season. For me it is sockeye, and a gillnet, and a boat. Whether or not you’re leaving your medium; the palette, the sound equipment, the studio, the computer; or if you’re lucky enough to bring them along, one thing is clear: summer is time to get down to some hard work, psychologically, ideologically, literally." [caption id="attachment_1544" align="alignleft" width="612"] A 45 pound Lingcod we caught in Kodiak[/caption]
FIELDNOTES: Jacob Perkins : From the Cannery, pt 1
Field Notes: From the Inlet June 5th, 11 pm Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, NY For starters: Talk of caliopes. Caliopes. Stray cats mewling on stoopfronts and dumpsters, borne into alleys panting. The incoming exodus of pushcarts and their ices, spokes pumped with Mets cards, their winter quarters unknown. Hydrants relieved and their fittings revealed. New streams clearing out trashjams on the G line. Someone saying “someone painted something on some building and did you know?” Big talk about how soon and how bad and how long and how hot. Flat tops and tattoos and everything cut sharp for sweating. Piedmont creeping up from the south and backsweats drickling down. If you haven’t heard enough of this garbage, just wait. All sorts of things are said about summer in the city and frankly, I will not have it. Whatever intrigue maintained the attention of your Alaskas, your Seattles, your Portlands and Minnesotas has surely dried up by the time you hit June, and if you’re one of them, and you’re lucky, it’s time to hit the road for a few months. Myself, I am Alaskan born. Summer is the season of the sockeye. For others it is re-shingling, re-siding, decking, painting, some kind of hometown gig you begrudge seasonally, out of that season. For me it is sockeye, and a gillnet, and a boat.