Deeper Listening is a monthly sequence of walking videos made in Ithaca, New York. Each entry pairs local observation with the public language of environmental policy and climate reporting. The slowed videos invite sustained attention.
The faster VidCats preserve the monthly source footage as chronological catalogs. Together, they form a record of walking, weather, water, season, archive, and public reckoning.
July begins with things changing form: fireworks become rain, a great tree disappears from Washington Park, and small lives continue around what remains. As smoke crosses borders and heat travels beyond where it begins, the walk becomes a way of paying attention—and attention itself becomes a demand for a vibrant, healthful world.
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What brings me joy is gathered in signs and wonders.
The slower video lets me study the vines on a wooden fence transforming into a flower head. Flies alight like fireflies by the stream. The flowers of summer open around me, and even the red painted fire hydrant appears to belong in a garden.
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Some things I found because they were signs. Some were flowers, raindrops, animals, clouds, painted lines, arrows, a cat sleeping in sunlight, a dead bird, an empty discarded drawer, a painting of birds, and the sky opening again and again. Sometimes I had time to stop down and frame the shot. Sometimes I reached for the camera as fast as I could.
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In recent months, I’ve been spending more time walking through Ithaca. Most days, I leave from North Plain Street, cross Buffalo Street, past the Children’s Garden, and follow the inlet trail toward Treman Marina and Cayuga Lake before circling back home.
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I combine naturalism, history, diary, always in motion.
March may be my key piece. It is the longest video, and it feels iconic to me — the right time and place. This month seems to contain the full grammar: weather, politics, friends, music, gallery light, water, mud, protest, spring, death, food, thunder, and the body walking through it all.
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The realtime source follows February as a sequence of winter fragments: snow, bridge, art window, ice, warning, screen, moon, water. In the slowed version, the fragments dissolve into one another until danger and play begin to share the same surface.
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A gloved hand traces the curve of an icy orb, snow and ice held in suspension. It reminds me of a control bar for the frozen land. What looks frozen is not motionless. January holds movement inside the pause.
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December gathers snow, moon, gas globe, holidays, animals, and lights into one field of attention. What is civic and what is domestic begin to trade places. The gas globe becomes snowmen. Steam becomes the moon. A patch panel becomes birds by the lake. Holiday lights, brass light, snow light, and household light all begin speaking to one another.
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October is made from texture, wind, insects, water, shadow, protest, and sound. The walk stays close to the ground, then opens suddenly into public language: an Earth flag, no kings, no crowns for clowns, a national anthem played through drum roll and pennywhistle. My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness!
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Walking through Ithaca, I watch streets torn open and repaired, trees pruned, workers tending the ordinary machinery of a city. This is not a war zone. Neither are other American cities made into battlefields because the government describes them as dangerous or proposes using them as military “training grounds.” September asks what happens when the language of climate, dissent, and public life is changed to obscure what is plainly before us. Reality does not yield to the words used against it.
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