I tried to figure this out but kept coming up short. The material items, the day to day, the future, none of it’s important. The only thing that matters are the moments. The naturally ephemeral moments that you wish would become eternal, but of course never will.
Like screaming through the woods on a two wheeled steed. Hitting that perfect harmony of body, mind, and machine. Coming together to keep you on the knifes edge, constantly on the brink of catastrophe. When you’re moving so fast there are no thoughts. Just a feel, a reaction, and muscle memory taking over.
Like the moment when she lays her head on your chest, and like the Titan Atlas, her entire world is trusted with you in that one instant. When you realize you’re providing another with comfort, warmth, and safety. A space where nothing else matters, and nothing else exists. The moments are what are important. A brief period of time where you’re doing the only thing you want to do.
Nothing is forever, but in the time between now and then, the moments matter

The most beautiful things you can give another person are time and love. In this world, time is one of the most limited of our resources. It cannot be harvested, mined or created, it’s just there, until one day when it’s not. These moments are so few, these moments are so kind. There’s no measure on how much we have left, only estimates. What a person chooses to do with their time, is a true testament to what they prioritize in life. Personally, I’ve never been good at managing my time. In fact to most, my time spent would largely be considered unproductive. That being said, I’ve come across a select few humans that were capable of owning my time. I guess what I mean is, they were the type of person that would cause me to set time aside for them, no matter when it was, or what we were doing. The type of person who gives you a sense of purpose. I’ve always been a believer that a sense of purpose will alleviate almost any and all anxiety. It makes you forget about your problems and worries. It makes you operate out of want and desire, rather than necessity. When you find someone like this, you realize just how rare it actually is. People like this cause you to forget about time and responsibilities. They may not share the same sentiment as you, and to be honest, most likely they wont. But if they evoke any of those feelings into you, they’re more than worth it. Everyone deserves to receive some type of love, even if they don’t feel enough for you to reciprocate it, you just hope they appreciate it. When you do find people like this, make sure they know they have your time. Show them through actions, show them through verbalization, just do what it takes to show them. These people are so few, these people are so kind.

I love the dead of silence. It’s beautifully personal. All I can hear is myself, my breath and my thoughts. My mind is free to tangent as it pleases. My thoughts are limited to my own devices, hidden from the rest of the world. I can hear them, I can organize and I can reorganize them. I can build them up and break them down. I ask myself, and I answer myself. Silence is the thinking mans drug. It’s something I look forward to, something I search for, something I crave. Silence is when the world stops, but I keep going. It will hone your thoughts, sharper than a razors edge. But in that silence, in that vacuum of nothingness, it gets to be deafeningly loud. The ringing in your ears, the weight on your mind. The thoughts build upon one another, compounding into something larger than what you were ready for. Solitude sets in and you begin to search for the distraction. The sounds that will make you think something other than what you were. The sounds, the sights, the stimulation that will remove you from your own world and place you back into their world. The world where yours doesn’t matter, and things continue moving at a hasty clip. A place where you fill your role, but no one really knows if it makes a difference. I think people like this distraction. No, I think people need this distraction in their life, to hide from themselves, to occupy their minds. But silence, like any good drug, will keep the addicts returning for more. That’s what I am, an addict. While the normal world lies dormant, in preparation for another day, I return to my drug. Sleep deprived but properly medicated is how i’ll live my life.

The area named the Mgheiti field of Dahr el Baidar has an approximate altitude of 6,000 ft, and is considered a strategic military point because of its view over most of Lebanon and its location in reference to the Beirut-Damascus highway. It was controlled by the Syrians for many years; housing bases, air defense units, and a radar capable of detecting incoming traffic from areas such as Israel. In April of 2001, four Israeli planes fired a total of six missiles at the Syrian radar, completely destroying it and killing three soldiers. In 2004 and 2005, Lebanese protesters helped to persuade talks of an evacuation of the area of Dahr el Baidar, leaving the area to the Lebanese government. It is now used for military training and the detonation of ammunition by the Lebanese army.

We’re walking up the steep hill to the stone built church, sitting atop Mount Lebanon. It’s the first day of the year and we are heading to the evening Catholic mass. This time of year the mountain is scarcely populated, but the families that do remain make their way up the hill to pray with the rest. Just below the entrance sits a military Humvee seating 5 to 6 uniformed soldiers, all carrying semi-automatic weapons. I am told that the government orders the soldiers to act as security outside of all places of prayer and for all religions. At the top of the hill the adults enter the church to find seats while the young ones congregate in the courtyard to make small talk. My cousin looks at me and smiles, “we will wait here and ring the bell” he says to me. I get excited at the thought and wait willingly. The kids laugh and joke around, discussing their activities from the night before. As the priest enters the church, Patrick and I make our way over to the church bell tower. We gripped the thick worn out rope, letting it support all of our combined weight. Eventually the rope pulls back and we jump, letting the bell swing freely. It begins to pick up great momentum and as hard as I try to stay grounded, they begin to lift me off the surface of the stone courtyard. “Clang, Clang, Clang” the rumble of the large bell roars throughout the mountain ridges. We stand there, gasping to catch our breath in the brisk evening air, listening to the echo as the sound seeps through the valleys nooks. The church and surrounding buildings are cut from stone. Each block is different from the next; each made by hand. The inside is small and cold, and the prayer echoes loudly off the thick uninsulated walls. The church pews are made from solid wood, loud and creaky, visibly older than I can put a date to. After mass we walk back down the hill for dinner, I look over and see the armed soldiers preparing to leave. All ends well on this night.

The evening city skyline is peppered with cranes and construction, indicating the amount of real estate and industry currently being developed. For every new building on the rise there is an old one that soon must fall. The round building sitting atop the steel frame in the lower left portion, is what the locals call “The Egg”. Construction started in 1965 with plans of making it the largest multi-use center in the Middle East. The Egg itself was designed as a 1,000 person cinema, with a shopping center built below it. Beaten and battered, the structure still stands today. Surviving years of civil war and abuse, the outer shell is a living memory of the hardship this beautiful city and its people have endured over the last 45 years. Today, The Egg and its future are often debated. Those in support of industry impatiently wait to demolish it and replace it with something tall, expensive, and functional. Those in support of the nation’s history petition to keep it standing, a painful reminder of their identity. The Egg’s demolition was imminent, but the war of July 2006 halted the workers. For now, The Egg will live another day.

During the ride back from the airport on our first night, we were stopped at a security checkpoint. Surrounded by cement barriers and beaming flashlights, two men in dark colored camouflage approached the vehicle, carrying M16s. My cousin Patrick panicked and told us to put on our seat belts. There is no seat belt law in Lebanon but he said they can use any reason to give us a hard time. They asked for my cousins identification and why were driving into the city at 3 AM. My cousin explained to them we were returning from the airport and that I was from America. One of the men then asked for my passport, he gave it an extended look. I doubt he had seen many American passports before, but the pictures matched up so he gave it back. Before letting us leave the soldier had to get in a quick jab. He stuck his hand in the car and pointed to the cross Patrick had hanging from his mirror, “Your cross is too big,” he said while snickering to himself. A reminder of how real the religious differences are here.

Almost every abandoned building shoot has a stalk that goes along with it, this one is no different. The building is a 1975 Holiday Inn that was open for less than a year. It now serves as a strategic pawn in the Lebanese civil war. I originally noticed the building while driving through the city. As it broke the plane of the skyline, I knew it was something I had to explore. I started the stalk the best way I know how, researching the location. Learning the lay of the land, what the building looks like, any possible ingresses and where to hide the transportation. Two nights, my cousins and I were walking through the city, I saw the top of the building break through the skyline once again. There it was in all its glory, this time I was more prepared. I grabbed a flashlight from my backpack and made my way towards what I thought was the best possible route. With my cousins following me I tried to keep a good distance ahead of them, not knowing what to expect I didn’t want to involve them in my antics. I came to the wall and told them to wait there while I hopped the barrier and proceeded toward the building. In the main courtyard I saw a shadowy vehicle parked, but didn’t think too much of it. I found a unlocked service door from the side of the building and began my journey up the stairs. Once I made it up several flights I opened a door to a floor and took a look around. It was dark and cold, stripped of almost all of its contents. I had seen enough for now. I headed back, feeling great I had discovered a viable entrance. At the bottom I rejoined my cousins and suggested we check out the rest of the perimeter. Now, my cousins are older than I, but they were very supportive of my childlike curiosity. We walked to the front entrance of the courtyard, there to greet us were two soldiers of the Lebanese army, toting M16s. Apparently, the hotel and it’s grounds were still being occupied. Parked in the courtyard were several armored personnel carriers and a few more men. My cousin Elias decides to ask permission for a visit later in the week, a technique I’m usually unfamiliar with. As expected they politely deny us, saying we could put in a request but it would likely get denied. Defeat is a terrible feeling, one in which I rarely accept. However in this situation, in a foreign country, my options were very limited. The next day I receive a text message from Elias. Currently finishing medical school, he has a large span of connections. He writes to me, “my friends father is the general, we will visit the hotel.” At this moment I am filled with excitement, and to be honest a large amount of doubt. His next day off was very rainy and dreary. We returned to the hotel and spoke with the guards at the entrance once again. Remembering who we were, they let us through and escorted us towards the makeshift office they had set up on the ground floor. Elias begins speaking with the officer in charge. Now, my Arabic is very limited, but I can read body language very well, and I can tell this isn’t going as he or I had hoped. I can hear the conversation get louder and louder until eventually my cousin walks out, and back into the courtyard where it’s still drizzling rain. I stand there with the soldiers, not knowing if I should follow him. They look at me, I look at them, we both look at my cousin pacing back and forth. The awkwardness, magnified by the language barrier and my hiking pack, stuffed with camera gear. I light a cigarette and look over to see them follow, common ground was found. I look over and see Elias still on his phone, five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes. He finally returns to the office, phone still in hand, he gives it to the man he was previously arguing with. Elias turns around to me and says “we will enter now.” The soldier puts the phone up to his ear, “hello?” The conversation was short, very short.

Twenty-six stories up, we sit at the Holiday Inn, abandoned for years. Opened in 1975 and closed in 1975, it had less than a full year of operation. Soon after opening, the Holiday Inn served as one of the first fronts for the Lebanese civil war. A several month conflict between different militant groups, all occupying local hotels, was nicknamed the Battle of the Hotels. The Holiday Inn first housed a group of Christian soldiers trying to counterattack soldiers from an independent militia. Upon entering the hotel, many of its guests were still present and became trapped in their rooms due to gunfire. Five days later, both sides agreed to a short cease fire, allowing the building to be evacuated of its guests, but gunfire resumed soon after. For months the fighting continued between a variety of military and political parties making the Holiday Inn a battle ground.
The view from the top was absolutely stunning and showed how strategic this building was during the battle. Walking through the hotel had an eerie feel to it, just knowing the violence that had taken place and the lives that were lost at our very feet. Bullet holes peppered the walls and floors while RPG holes left the building porous like a sponge. In this shot you can see the kind of opening an RPG will put in a solid cement wall. Under the hole, there is a steel door that was probably used afterwards to act as a semi barrier, blockading the now gaping wound in the wall. Bloody hand prints on the walls and spray painted quotes from the soldiers gave each floor an almost museum like feel. Each sign of life inspiring a different mental image of the faces and events that happened. The building is a war veteran, beaten and battered, a living record.